Better than what it usually smells like.

For one brief moment, even before I opened my eyes, I thought I was at the beach. Sure, it was 6am in muggy, slightly overcast Chicago- but the air had that heavy beach quality.

Nora clearly felt it, too. That's why, when she joined me in bed, she fell back to sleep. The sea air does that.

All morning long, even as I looked into my backyard and peeked around to Kedzie (most definitely not the bastion of seaside quietude), I could not be convinced that it wasn't a "beach day." I could even smell the salt.

Perhaps something has happened to the Morton salt factory downtown and that is certainly something to look into- but for now I'll just pretend that I am a coastal being. And not a landlocked Midwesterner tendin' the Back 40. Don't get me wrong- I really dig our lake. And I never knew how hard I'd fall for a small, Wisconsin town and kayaking in its picturesque waters. (Also- apropos of nothing water related- I really and rather inexplicably adore Indiana. That was surprising as well.)

But nothing compares to a body of water comprised of salt. Maybe I just like to be buoyant.

And speaking of the Back 40, we've [P.J. has] spent a ton of time priming the yard on Troy Street. He's seriously so good. Of course, he'll tell our friends and family that we work out back and we've figured out where to place such unruly beasts as the Hosta plant (seriously, they're a bit intimidating)- but he's just being a good sharer. As I've told him many times, the garden is his. But the yard is mine.

It's like that part in Dirty Dancing: "Our Baby is going to change the world." "And what's Lisa going to do?" "Oh, Lisa's going to decorate it."

I'm the Lisa to his Baby.

And baby, can he garden! So far, he's managed to keep alive the following: lilacs, roses, hosta, lilies, tulips, azaleas, holly, clematis, peonies, strawberries, raspberries, tomatoes, peppers, grapevine ivy, lavender, geraniums, petunias, impatiens, a pear tree, a birch, a maple, a slew of decorative grasses, and a jade plant. But the jury's still out on that last one. It looks like it went a few rounds with a Hosta.

And me? Oh, I pretend to garden. I am excellent at pretending to garden. Gimme some gardening gloves and potting soil and I will poke, water, and stomp around the backyard like a true [five year-old] professional. I have no green thumb. I have a black thumb. Really, a black stump of a hand. (Which sounds terrible.)

I over-love. I'm taking copious notes on my gardening style, because these are traits I fear will transfer over to my parenting skills. Really. I just can't leave the darned plants alone. If Peej asks me to water them (which he has sorta ceased doing, lately), I'll waterwaterwater them like it's my sole mission on Earth. Or- I'll forget about them. For weeks. (Which I can't imagine reflecting on my parenting style, overmuch.) Or I'll prod them. And move them. And smother them (with love.)

P.J. is kind. He tells me that I'm a GREAT gardener, that I'm doing JUST FINE. He gave me the job of potting some flowers in the backyard...and now the yard is covered with more potting soil than could ever be in a planter. And potting soil is NOT cheap. (Nor are any of the materials that I squander with my over-loving.) But I needed extra soil to get the darned plants to stand straight! They kept giving up and flopping to the side like wilty little children having tantrums. I showed them! (Some lost their heads. This was unavoidable.)

I swear I am good with kids.

I was, however, clutch at placing backyard-y type furniture. That black, wrought-iron glider between the trees? That was all me. The big, stripey hammock (thanks, Nat!) swaying by the back brick wall of  the house? Yep. As was the fabulous patio set with green paisley umbrella that may be in the mail as we speak. (Thanks for nothing, Home Depot. I don't mean that. I love you.)

And just wait for the fairy lights. And the Tiki torches. And the miniature Enchanted Forest's worth of garden creatures: the bunnies, the frog prince, the helpful gnome, the decapitated turtle (always a big hit. P.J. has promised to "see what he can do" about that one.)

After all of this "gardening," I was fully covered in potting soil, poorly applied sunscreen and a few other questionable substances. So I took a shower with the windows open and lights off. I pretended that it was the outdoor shower in Cape Cod- the one we'd look forward to all day, to rinse off the salt and sunshine and stickiness, the one that was a private oasis of cool water, ocean breezes, heavy scents of roses and food being placed out on the deck. The shower in which you were rarely alone- swimsuits on, of course, this IS a family blog- and would have to fight one's sisters for the Dove shampoo and the single towel not covered in tree bark. It was so pleasant an experience that sometimes we'd finish a shower, jump back into the ocean and then barge into someone else's shower moments later.

My shower at home was good. Not as good as the one in Onset, MA. (But very few nouns are as good here as they are in Onset, MA.)

I'm grateful to be going in August. And I'm thankful for the lovely home we're creating here in Chicago. And I'm indebted to those who protect all of these special places...

...And allow me to live the kinda lifestyle where I get to blog about the difficulty of potting soil.

Which is seriously still everywhere.

The issues seriously do not stop coming.

Bananaversaries are wonderful. And, for the uninitiated- i.e., anyone I'm not directly related to and/or folks that don't have to endure my lax take on the English language- I once gave my sister and bro in-law a card with two dancing bananas. Okay, they may not have been dancing. But they were celebrating an anniversary. Hence, bananaversary.

And that is the only acceptable word for which to describe a milestone in Chez Schoeny. (And Flynn. And Grant.)

So, the bananaverse was lovely. We spent a great, extended weekend in Cincy with Peej's fam; coffee with Dorrie, her pal Bridget and their boys (born the same week as Nora!), an exquisite jaunt to the Gap/Banana Republic/Old Navy clearance outlet in Kentucky (we actually caused a register to sit the next one out), a walk to the farmer's market in Hyde Park Square (where, inexplicably, a woman handed my daughter a hat- from Old Navy, no less), and a positively revelatory Martin Sexton concert, whereupon he played four of my top eight [silently] requested songs. And the day itself? Although not too much like our wedding day; a seven hour trip through the Midwest, lunch at a roadside burger joint in Indiana, a miniature person sporadically screaming her displeasure directly into my nostril...it also wasn't entirely not like our wedding day. Bed by 9pm was a new addition, as were smashed peas in my hair.

Miss N.J. was spoiled beyond recognition by the morning we left for home. Seriously. I think she's bored with just me, as opposed to a household of people exclaiming how perfect she is. She's too polite to ever say so...but still. It's totally the White Elephant in the room.

And now: The Issues.

In Advertising.

First up, we have Captain Morgan. We saw a few billboards on Route 65 for the new "Lime Bite." At first we thought it was just another malt beverage- and, side note: Why are the commercials for these drinks always featuring guys at a bar or a loft party? If you were on a date, say, with a non-heterosexual, fully aged male and he asked for a Zima, or a Smirnoff Ice, or something of that ilk, wouldn't you question his tastes?

I did- er, would.

Sure, they're tasty. And pure sugar. But perhaps revealing that sort of preference should be reserved for a second or third date? In the comfort- and privacy- of one's home? With no other fully aged males around?

But back to the Captain. Lime spiked rum? Really? How hard is it to, you know, spike your rum with lime? There's only one ingredient. (And, if you drank "real" drinks, you'd already have one on hand.) So, for whom are they making this easier? One word: teenagers. Or, two words: tween girls. Leading us to believe that, for all his bravado, Captain Morgan is no better than Tony the Tiger.

Second up: Lanacane Anti-Chafing Gel. Oh...where to start. Here's the copy from the circular:
LANACANE Anti-Chafing Gel
Soothes and Prevents CHAFING (Soreness from skin rubbing on skin and skin on clothing)
ANTI-FRICTION FORMULA (Dries On Contact)
FEELS SILKY (Long-Lasting Comfort)
NON-GREASY (Non-staining, Moisture-Proof)

The ad features a slightly larger than average middle-aged woman. Dancing. Happily. Lifting her skirt, even. To twirl? To show off her non-raw thighs? Who knows.
Directly behind her is a girl, jogging, elbows asunder, gleefully living the chafe-free lifestyle. Or she could be running towards the dancing woman.
Which is clearly what the slightly larger than average middle-aged man next to Jogging Girl is doing. Or dancing. Poorly. But chafe-free as well. He could be looking for a new dance partner. Or he could simply be drawn towards the woman's loose morals and/or chafe-free thighs which are on display for the entire Greater Chicagoland area to see.
Maybe Jogging Girl is their daughter.
Perhaps they have bigger familial issues than whether or not one's thighs are rubbed raw in the day to day lascivious lifestyle this woman is clearly leading.
And maybe if she's so concerned about receiving an entire day's worth of relief from a body part touching another body part (and unless she's competing in a dance marathon), she should just sit down.

And finally, speaking of advertising, shameless self-promotion, and websites (clearly, you enjoy a good website or two): might I ask that you take a gander towards the Top Mommy Blogs button on my sidebar? It takes two clicks: one on the button, one to vote for me. No email addy required, no spam, nothin' but good, ol' fashioned appreciation in anonymously bloggy form.

It's actually pretty misleading. One doesn't have to be a Mommy Blogger to be featured on that site. Or even "Tops." But I do have the goal of making it to the top five humor blogs on their page (I dream so, so big.)

You can click once a day, if you'd like. Twice a day (or more!) from separate computers or various handheld-y objects. But actually, if you have all this extra cash to throw around on multiple means of communication, I'm not above receiving monetary appreciation, either.

Totally your call.

Or you can say it with ponies.

Two whole years.

Sadly, this'll be a quickie blog, as I'm traveling through all points Midwest on an extended anniversary weekend.

Happily- I'm traveling through all points Midwest on an extended anniversary weekend!

So. To Peej, the Jack Of All Trades, Man Of My Dreams, and Horse Of A Different Color (I'm not really sure what I mean by that last one, either):

Thank you for introducing me to music that was recorded past 1989.

Thanks for Nora Jane. Couldn't have done it without ya.

Thanks for riding bikes around town with me like a couple of 8 year olds- even that one time when you had to stop short and I flew over my handlebars. 'Cause you totally yelled at the guy who caused the whole thing. And that was fun to watch.

On that note, thanks for giving my best friends an amazing story behind the phrase- "Get in the house."

Thanks for not getting beat up by that gang of frat boys on that samesuch occasion.

Thanks for obliterating that rat. And for catching me on your back during another [outdoor] rat experience.

Thanks for meeting Scott Bakula and seeing Boston in concert with me.  I know you didn't really want to. Not for real real.

Thanks for making me walk across Rome on foot- which I didn't really want to do- because when the storm clouds parted and we ended up in that piazza...that was pretty spiffy.

Thanks for harrassing our poor landlord into leasing us the apartment of our dreams- three months before we could move in. I told you I couldn't live without that miniature office and you totally believed me.

I woulda died without that strawberry patch, too.

Thanks for knowing which line of dialogue, part of harmony and side of the couch is yours.

That time I threw a plate at your head, thanks for ducking.

And finally, thanks for being the kind of kid with whom I would've played Flashlight Tag, the kind of boyfriend with whom I have danced on tables, and the kind of husband with whom I can't wait to retire in a smallish, tastefully decorated Italian villa.

I love you.

Even if you won't stop to lemme pee.

Again.

I was Nana's favorite.

It's funny.

One can travel to far flung locales, dye one's hair questionable shades of red, and pretend to speak Italian...but when it comes right down to it, what makes you [me] happiest is when five lilac trees are planted in the backyard. The same kind that used to be in your [my] childhood home's backyard.

After living in a major metropolitan area for going on eight years (!), it's sweet to think that I can let Nora experience the same kind of lovely fragrance wafting through her bedroom windows- the same scent that woke me on Spring mornings in a small, western Massachusetts town.

Also- she can play Stables once the trees are fully grown. (I can totally see my little sisters wincing at this- whatever. If you had applied yourselves, you totally could have been promoted to exercising the A-list imaginary ponies. I don't make these rules. I just enforce them.)

And now on to The Issues. First up, Out and About:

During yesterday morning's commute, I spied a really special license plate. For the sake of privacy, let's just say the vanity plate was owned by MARCI. Now, apparently MARCI owns a Doberman, for her plate guard read: My Doberman Can Lick Your Honor Student.

However.

The placement of these words was rather questionable. Above her name read: "My Doberman." And beneath? "Can Lick Your Honor Student." So at 7am, if there's an early morning glare, a commuter might be surprised to read: "MARCI Can Lick Your Honor Student."

Which may very well be true. But that it hardly the correct forum for such a bold statement.

Also- the advent of construction season has me a tad more worried than usual. Driving south down California to Irving Park the other day, I was stopped by a worker carrying orange cones. He proceeded to line three extremely narrow paths for cars, all the while waving me forward. Without looking at me. Or the car driving north, whom he was also apparently waving forward. When neither of us made a move (except to shrug, confused, at each other) he waved us on even harder. So I slowly pulled through, knocking over a couple of cones along the way. (I felt like Marcia Brady in the episode where she learns to drive.) Suddenly, the large truck for whom he was apparently lining the road busted out and cut perpendicularly across the road. Between the cars going north and south. All the while we were being WAVED ONWARDS. (This was an eye contact-free event, I cannot stress that enough.) Eventually, through a series of complicated hand gestures between the north-driving fellow and myself, we maneuvered our ways through the mess on our own.

That worker may still be there, waving willy-nilly and lining narrow orange cones with Rain Man-like precision. I'll check later.

Also on the roads: my older sister had the pleasure- and confusion- of seeing this banner in her town the other day: Congrats, Seniors, for a Deficiency-Free Survey!

So many things. Firstly, what is this about? I know these words, but I cannot make them make sense. I'm going to go ahead and assume these were high school seniors. Congrats- I get that part, too. Survey...survey...like the Census? Popularity of New Coke? (Unless they meant the SATs...but in my day we called that a "test.") Deficiency-free...what could go wrong, warranting a "deficiency" in a survey? (What the heck happened last time?) And is it wholly necessary to broadcast this? This is akin to someone posting a banner on my front door proclaiming: Excellent Work Not Dropping Nora Today!

(Thank you!)

And in the world of IknewitIknewitItoldyou'causethisalwayshappenstomyshows News:

Demetri Martin is gone. I don't know where he went, but his show Important Things With Demetri Martin is now missing. After being bumped to 12:30am on Thursdays, it disappeared altogether. It's no longer featured OnDemand content. His website is no help.


And P.J. is not accepting my return to our marriage as gratefully as one might expect. He feels all 'second-placey' to Demetri- but I made no bones about with whom I was spending my Thursday nights. It's called an arrangement.

I still have John Krasinski (for now- although once people in charge figure out that I like The Office, that'll be it. I'm the Kiss of Death for programming.) And, of course, Psych comes back in June. And I can continue my love affair with a certain Nordic vampire in True Blood that same month.

But for now- totally married. Goin' on strong.

And I cannot- cannot- deal with the ending of Law & Order yet. Possibly ever. And yeah, fine, millions of NYC actors won't be able to get their SAG cards, blah blah. Let's look at this on a way more personal level: it's 3am. I've had a craving for tacos. I need to watch something, 'cause eating alone in the dark is way too sad to ever do again- and I can't believe I just put that in print- so what's it gonna be? Infomercial? Seen it. Lifetime programming? Not this late at night, thank you. Law & Order? Perfect. Soothe me back into indigesty sleep with your procedural drama, your forward-moving BOM BOM, your neatly wrapped up confession/courtroom 'gotcha'/healthy dose of righteous indignation...and if there are no more new ones, that means that- someday, someday awfully soon- I will have seen them all. A lot.

Look, I know shows have to end (I really do not know this), but this show is more a part of my college experience than my [frisbee-shaped] diploma. Sometimes I slept through class. Or would forget to eat. But miss an episode of [seven times a day] Law & Order? I wouldn't be the person I am today if I had let that kinda thing slide.

My Nana and I used to watch this show religiously as a backdrop to our nightly Rummy games. Sure, later on Nana was known to say that she "never really cared for that show, much." But, as Nana was also known for the occasional untruth, I'm gonna file that statement under the What're You Sellin' category.

Please, Dick Wolf- of the masculinely noun-ed moniker- please. Dick. Do not take away Nana Alice's favorite show. Don't make me turn to other cop dramas for comfort. Leave me with the illusion of dignity and classy viewing.

Because, as Nana would say- "I never know who she's gonna bring home."

Hint: I'm not The Genius.

This weekend we had a mix of Peej's fam in town to celebrate his nephew's 12th birthday: P.J.'s parents from Cincinnati, and his oldest sister and her son Tony from Myrtle Beach. They all came here because he wanted a trip to Chicago for his birthday.

Let that sink in for a minute.

We are so awesome that a 12 year old- (read: Land Of Which Nothing Having To Do With Adults Is Awesome)- actually wanted to spend time with us.

Or maybe we were just the only family in Chi-town. Regardless, we are awesome.

Peej took them to a Cubs game on Friday, and that night I got to experience my favorite type of restaurant: ESPN Zone. Let me list the ways in which this place is not geared towards, say, me:
a) Sports.
b) Aneurysm-inducing lights.
c) Head-crushing sounds.
d) Arcade filled with games about Sports.

But, since it was not my 12th birthday, I happily joined the fam for a lovely dinner and a sniper game.

This past weekend (while superbly fun) got me thinking about family dynamics- specifically birth order and the roles we set for ourselves (or get cast as) super early on. A while back, P.J. sent me this article about just that. And, while I don't believe that Nora is nursing solely as a devious means to prevent a sibling- it raises some good points about how we struggle for attention with our folks and the labels we find ourselves stuck with.

For the past few days I've hosted a set of parents, an oldest sister and an oldest brother, plus I live with a youngest sibling, and, of course, an only. P.J.'s sister has been nicknamed "The General," for her early responsibilities herding four younger sibs. And Tony happens to be the only boy in a family of five girls- four half sisters- but only lives with his younger sis.

But what happens when the oldest boy is an 'only' for a long weekend? Or when the big sis is hosted by the baby brother- nicknamed "The Crowned Prince" in Cincy, but in Chicago is very much so "DAD" in all caps? And how about The Parents, very much so in charge of their family, staying in the home of their baby boy and the youngest of their kid-in-laws?

I'll tell you. It's a lot of politesse. Roles are forgotten, remembered, things are almost said, taken back, lips are zipped, mugs and plates are moved- it's a complete upheaval of The Way Things Go.

This, of course, is coming from a crowd-pleasin' Middle in a family of all girls and one Dad. Sometimes a male pup. (But when the Middle- one of the Biggies in the sibling lineup- of one family marries the Baby of another...isn't she instantly relegated to Baby status in the eyes of her in-laws? I think yes. But that's fine. Decision-making starts to chafe after awhile, anyhow.)

In my immediate family we have very defined roles of The Good One, The Funny One, The Star, The Smart One, The Pretty One, The Favorite, The Practical One, The Genius, The Happy One, The Savvy One, The Rebel and The Vegetarian. (And that's only four gals!)

I tried for the longest time to give myself the tag of The Devastating One or The Wealthy One. But, like I've been saying, you cannot do this. It has to be thrust upon you. (And- turns out- you can't just decide to be devastating. Apparently it's a way of life.)

And if there's any cross-over? That results in a very weird gray area of jealousy and reinforcement. ("Yes, we love your highlights- but you cannot be The Pretty One. We don't make the rules.")

It's enough to make someone question (over and over and over) how many kids is optimal in a fam. Thoughts? Comments? Accolades? Meanie-pants suggestions for which I'll promptly tattle?

I'll go with the majority decision.

That is, after all, my role.

As long as you're okay with it.

It's like Guilt Gyoza- but worse!

I'm extremely lazy. Or exhausted. Late at night, I can't tell which it is. And it's been causing some guilt. I like to call this guilt- Floss Guilt.

I know I should floss. I spent 6k on my teeth in the past handful of years alone (not to mention Braces 1.0 that was sponsored by my folks between '90-'92. It didn't "take." Some may blame a latent latex allergy; I happen to know that I have evil teeth.)

But by the end of the evening, I find that I can barely muster the energy to check items off of my usual bedtime routine: teeth, retainer (did you know that I wear a retainer? Now everyone does.), three step face 'system' (I have a thing for infomercials), cocoa butter for "problem areas" (which- ahem- is strictly preventative), *TMI ALERT* using the pump (or as Annie and Kat call it, "playing a polka-" it's very rhythmic), taking vitamins, Thermos of Dutch cocoa, seaweed wrap, chilled cucumber slices, mini mani/pedi, brow maintenance, a section of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnets From The Portuguese..."

The idea of adding 'floss,' regardless of how crucial it may be- exhausts me.

I informed P.J. that I was too tired to floss.

"Okay."

Too tired to floss? my inner adult scolded. Are you also too tired for future dental anguish? (Sometimes I don't even need anyone else with whom to argue.)

So I flossed. Angrily. Lots o' huffing and sighing. And timed it. Thirty seconds! Cheesen'crackers, it takes longer to organize Mount St. Pillows on our bed each morning! (And I never skip that.) So I added flossing into the routine.

Except for last night. 'Cause I was too tired.

And speaking of timing activities we don't feel like doing- Real Simple has a new segment called Speed Cleaning. Now, I love Real Simple more than I could possibly extol. Truly. It's a minor [major] obsession. But I think they might have overSimplified things this month. (See that right there?)

This month's Speed Clean was..."Your Porch. A total transformation in 10 minutes or less." Okay, I don't have a porch, per se (certainly not the Tara-esque one featured in the mag), but I'm feeling game. Even gamey. Let's clean:

-Minutes 1 and 2 tell me to remove everything from the porch. Done.
-Minute 3 says to wipe down all of the objects with a damp cloth. Okay, maybe I can do it that quickly.
-Minute 4- "Using an extendable duster, sweep cobwebs from high corners, overhangs and shutters." A minute? Really? It's gonna take me twice that long to locate an extendable duster, let alone use it. More if I hafta walk over to Walgreens.
-Minutes 5 and 6- Wipe down all metal and wood surfaces. Also- clean the windows. Really? Really?
-Minute 7- Sweep the porch and steps. Okay, maybe I can do that one in a minute. But I may have used up some time from whining about the windows.
-Minute 8- "Dip a long-handled scrub brush in the bucket and clean the floor." I am but one woman, Real Simple. (Have you ever cleaned any floor in a minute? Junk, it's taken me half that to complain about this step.)
-Minutes 9 and 10- Once everything is dry, I'm supposed to put everything back, then get myself something to drink on my awesomely clean porch.

Perhaps a chilled IV bag to replenish the fluids lost in the death march called Speed Clean Your Porch.

(I much prefer the game called Hose Off Your Cracked Cement Patio.)

And now, some kudos; the blog's recently been gifted with some sweet awards. Thanks to Kristin@Ellie-Town and  JoeyRes at Big Teeth And Clouds! I'd like to pay it forward as well (minus the horrid script and overblown budget), and acknowledge some fellow bloggers without whom I could not get through the day.

-My youngest sister Emma's blog: Huckleberry Flynn. I recommend not having a beverage anywhere near the vicinity of your mouth and/or nose when you read her lyrical dissections.
-The bitingly witty Caitlin Montanye Parrish and Everything Loose Will Land. I'm lucky enough to be in a secret society with her.
-The multi-talented Regina at And Baby Makes Four. She shops organically. She cooks. She has two boys. She has still yet to come make ANY of the dishes featured on her blog.
-Rick at Retired Pastor Ruminates (and also Rick's Recipes!) I will forever known him as Reverend Floyd, seeing as he baptized me and all. One blog is full of literary wit, the other teeming with truly yummy recipes.
-My pal Leah at Tin Roof, Rusted. Nora's in love with Leah's son Calder, and I'm in love with the fact that she and I are both from Western Mass.
-The hilarious Nifer and Jeremy at He Said and She Said. Contrasting views on arbitrary themes? False. I daresay they are crucial themes.
-Neato keeno Gwynne at God Spam. Trivia: We were almost roommates back at Camp Hamp. Due to a lack of follow-through, this did not occur. I think she lucked out. I am a horrid roommate.

And before this turns into a lengthier blogroll than the one featured on the side of this page, may I recommend that you seek awesome reads there, as well? Can't go wrong. They are all Keely-Approved. I'd thumbprint them if I could.

If I weren't tangled in floss.

Why yes, that was a picture at the Bean.

I just love holidays. This is no secret. So, uh, a weekend devoted to mothers? (Yes, it's a weekend.) I accept. In fact, this 30 day span includes Mother's Day, our anniversary, Memorial Day and my birthday. Cinco de Mayo just missed the cut.

With the exception of Cinco de Mayo and Memorial Day, someone around here is feelin' the holiday pressure. And it sure isn't me. (And Nora never lets stuff like that get to her.) But, so far, he's stepped up to the plate. (But it's a long 30 days, Schoeny. This is no time to let down your guard, even for a second.)

So! The weekend began with a motherly trip to...the Home Depot. Apparently neither my bathroom window nor  various things requiring adhesive realize that this is a HOLIDAY. But they were giving out popcorn. Festivities- check. Also festive? The gifts that Big and Li'l Schoeny gave me: bubble bath (yep, I still take baths. But these days it's more of a "Forget* this, I'm taking a bath") and a membership to Costco. Woot, a brick of cheese bigger than me! Also, admission into that club that acknowledges 'second breakfast' and 'first lunch!' I was also given a stunningly crayon-ed card with questionably good penmanship for a six month-old.

(*Sometimes I don't say "forget.")

After a quick car nap, Nora was ready to be bundled within an inch of her life to go play downtown. (For you see, we live in Chicago. March= 90 degrees and May= 12.) We took her to the Celtic Fest at Grant Park...where it was predominantly about Nova Scotia. And by "predominantly" I mean "four booths." The other was manned by the Chicago Tribune. So, they scaled down a bit. We still had such fabulous Celtic fare as...Irish nachos. You know, like the [Mexican] Celts used to serve up. Whatever, they tossed some corned beef on top and I had no qualms at all about saying Erin Go Brasa.

And then it rained. But it was cool because Nora was charming the aprons off of the counter staff inside one of the beverage tents= we got to stay without ordering more food. In the process of trying to rip P.J.'s cup from his hands (she loves cups) one of her squeals of outrage and dismay attracted loud 'awws' from a few 20-something gals. So we hung out for a few with our pals Natalie and Dave and his bro (Natalie of 'Get Keely Back In Shape' fame- seriously, she's faboo) and then realized we should actually, you know, see the festival. We had wanted to stay and see the Saw Doctors at 7pm but, well, rain + infant + only four booths of merchandise= we were done by 4:30pm.

We went home and took a nap.

That night P.J. and I had an inexplicable craving for meatloaf. So, we whipped up a batch and ate it while watching SNL. Yes, Betty White was great. So was the meatloaf.

Sometimes adulthood is a lot weirder than they make it out to be.

The next a.m. Peej and Nora took me to Victory's Banner, my favorite brunch place in the entirety of the world, where I ate too much food, let strangers tell me how darling my well[ish] behaved daughter was being, and was handed a lovely long-stemmed rose. (I also met a woman who was originally from Pittsfield, MA. The Pittsfield contingent can attest to how bizarre this is. For many reasons.)

But what holiday celebrating motherhood would be complete without a couple of Oh My Goodness, Please Don't Remove My Child From My Care moments? For instance. As I was rocking Nora to sleep on my lap, a YELLOW JACKET landed on her bare arm. (I have no idea how it got inside, for the record. Windows and doors= closed.) I had a moment of panic- about eighteen rapid fire thoughts rushed through my mind- is she allergic to bees? Am I? WHO CARES? And then I grabbed the corner of her towel and crushed the bee in my hand. And then yelled for P.J. And then did the exact opposite of Stop, Drop & Roll, which is Run, Spin & Panic. 'Cause I couldn't find the bee.  P.J. discovered it a few feet away from us- yep, we had traveled around the upstairs of the house with it in the towel- and he performed a Fatality. My poor nudie daughter was more alarmed by her crazytown parents than by any impending stinger. (At least bees are quiet.)

And yes, she was clad only in a towel- we had just given her a bath and were letting her play naked due to the horrific diaper rash currently wrecking her poor bottom- and that was because of an adverse reaction to her oatmeal baby cereal. I, too, was in a slight state of- um- exposure due to nursing prior to BeeWatch 2010. Perfect for running around in front of windows, especially if you're drawing attention to yourself with yells. Happy Mother's Day!

We finished off a lovely weekend with exceptional Ecuadorian food and a viewing of that maternal classic- Blade.

Okay, adulthood isn't just weird. It's also relentlessly terrific.

As long as you're properly attired.

Enjoy while ya can!

This might just be my favorite new billboard- and that's saying a ton- courtesy of my big sis Kate:

Oh, Pittsfield. Thank you for your stellar advertising skillz.

Let's dissect, shall we?

Happy birthday, Margaret! One hundred years...wow! That's certainly something to...wait a sec. Who did you say was sponsoring this? Devanny Condron? The funeral home? Well, enjoy it now, Margaret. As Kate said- "Devanny Condron is waiting for you."

Now, personally, I'd like to be feted by sugar free Red Bull on my 100th birthday. Perhaps Spanx. Definitely Splenda, with which I will undoubtedly be preserved. Or maybe some futuristic jet pack/meal tablet amalgamation of awesome. I'm not picky. (Takin' notes, Peej?)

 And speaking of Berkshire County...I know a lot of gals from home are getting married this year. As I am still dealing with the fallout from [ahem] some vendors, I'd love to lend some advice. Sadly, I cannot. Yet. (At least not until my lawyer gives me the go-ahead. Oooh...) That said- do you like personal attention? Stand-up contractors? Stellar service down to the last detail?

If not- email me. Have I got some people for you.

Back to Chicago.

Opening this week is a show featured in the Five To See from Metromix! It stars our very own Annie Gloyn...and I shall be there Friday. Woo! Deets here.

Another big thing that happened this week: I was accused of being 23 years old. It was great. It was unexpected. It was...short-lived. You see, one of the homes in which I nanny also employs a part-time housekeeper from Poland. (Facebook friends- skip ahead if you like. I really need to stop updating my statuses prior to Thursday.) She's a very nice lady. But very Old Country. And not in the 'Buffet' way. When one of my kiddos mentioned that I was going to be THIRTY which is hardly even a NUMBER 'cause it's so HIGH, the housekeeper chimed in with- "No! You 30? No. I think 23, 24."

Me: Wow! Thanks! Nope. I'm gonna be 30!
Her: You look so young...
Me: Gee, I-
Her: But 30. That is so OLD! I did not know you were so OLD!
Me: I mean, I feel like 30 is the new-
Her: It is a good thing you had your baby when you did, no?
Me: ..........
Her: She is so pretty.
Me: Thank you.

Nevermind the fact that NONE of the families with which I work had their babies prior to 30, nor do I intend to not have any more, regardless of my perilous age. (Call Devanny Condron.) However, this is also the lady whom, right when I returned to work, mentioned my still-protruding belly. Which is never cool to mention unless it's to state how awesome you think it is. Although, when I first got engaged, she was the one who showed shock and dismay. Why, you might ask? Well, it's 'cause she thought I was only 17 and was worried about my future happiness. And that's terrific. (She should, however, have a better handle on my age by now. She's been mistaken about it no less than three times. Maybe she thinks I'm a different nanny. Perhaps we all look alike to her.)

And now, I get that unparalleled joy of having a stranger hold my infant daughter down and jab three needles into her thigh, while she simultaneously weeps and stares at me with a special mix of panic and betrayal.

Tradesies? Is it too early for a drink?

It's five o'clock in Oslo.

Bringin' the issues.

I've spent the morning g-chatting with my younger sister Chelly- her weekend was consumed with the taking of the SATs. No, she's not 18. She's just a tutor of said test. I can't imagine accepting any job that would make me relive the longest nine hours of my life (I took it three separate times and got the exact same score. No, I will not tell you what it was. Let's just say that I was lucky to be such a good college interviewee.) 


Here's what I've learned about how the test has changed: Frida Kahlo is apparently a pinata. Or giant, pinata-shaped metaphor. The test-makers are racist. If you do really well on the essay part, they create a new grade for you. (Gonna call 'shenanigans' on that one, Rachel. Regardless of how Nadia Comaneci-esque your performance was; apparently it combined scene analysis from 'Angels in America' with a lyrical breakdown of Ke$ha's 'Tik Tok.' I'm starting to understand my score a little bit better.) 


When compared to a weekend like that, one can't help but measure the success of their own Saturdays and Sundays. If I had to sum up my weekend in three words, I would choose these: Derby, Walgreens & Jorts. 


Before you are consumed with jealousy (and, likely, more than a little confusion), lemme add three more: Boppy, Sports Bra (two words?), Weed Whacker (okay, five.)


I will elaborate on the first three while I prop my laptop on a nursing boppy, wearing (among other things) a sports bra that I donned before Pilates yesterday- and has subsequently become painful to try and remove, so I haven't- and am listening my neighbor do yard work outside my front window. And, so help me God, if the whacking o' the weeds wakes up the wee one, it may get ugly. 


I'm ready for anything. I am wearing a sports bra, after all.


SO.


The weekend began with a Kentucky Derby party at the home of some rad pals. There were juleps. And televised horses with phrase-y names. And babies in hats. In fact, there was a competition for Best Baby Hat. And, oh- didn't I mention? NORA WON. I have succeeded in making her awesome. That's right, my infant daughter is being shoved to the floor by the weight of my adolescent hopes and dreams. Winning a competition. Based on something having to do with looks. Call up Toddlers n' Tiaras- someone's ready for her spray tan and infant stilettos.


Okay, or it may just end there. Because- Nora is a little bit of a barefoot hippie. (*Cough*LikeHerDad*Cough*) I had put these miniature pink patent leather Mary Janes on her feet before we left the house and, by the time we parked the car, her toes were poking out of the middle, rendering the footwear a really awkward set of ankle bracelets. So the shoes went. And the hat was a glorious monstrosity of ribbons and curlicues. She hated that, too. So, after the initial parading of Baby With Hat, she became Barefoot Baby with Bald Head. (Sigh.) And, after the blue sundress became too constricting, she dropped that as well. It was that kind of party.


Also, the horse that P.J. was gunning for- and the horse that won- was named Super Saver. Who saw that coming? Coupon humor!


Next word. Nora and I walked over to our corner Walgreens to pick up some photos yesterday. On the way we were stopped by a man collecting money for feeding the homeless. He looked at Nora, clad in a romper covered in rosebuds and a purple hoodie, and asked- "How old is he?" 


I need to put a wrapping paper bow on her head or something.


The prints I had ordered were a mix of old photos; my Nana as a young woman, my Dad as an infant, etc. Basically cool photos for our front wall. They were so cool, in fact, that the guy ringing me up exclaimed "I loved looking through your pictures!" (What? Isn't that kinda something you're not supposed to admit?) 


He followed that up with "I wish I lived in your time." (Um, that actually wasn't 29 year old me in those grainy, black and white pictures of babies in buggies and such. 'Cause that was the 1950s. As stated by the scrawled words 'April 1953', for example. Or maybe he means the non-Walgreens vortex. That makes sense.)


Then he proceeded to tell me that the name on the photo slip was incorrect. 
"Is this how you spell it?"
"Yep." 
"But there's two 'e's." 
"Uh huh." 
"But it's wrong on the front." 
"Nope." 
"That's not how you spell Kelly." 
"In fact it is not." 


Pausepausepausepause.


"What is your name?"
"Keely. Like on the front."
"Oh, I didn't know how to pronounce it!"
"No!"
"Now I know."


Which is awesome. Because now we can definitely avoid such exchanges in the future. 


He also tried to sell me on the rack of dollar DVDS up front.


"You like movies?"
"Yep."
"You should get some from over there. They're a dollar."
"Awesome!"
"Can't have this one, though, [holds up a copy of 'Wolverine.'] 'cause I got the ONLY ONE."


Weekend= near to ruined.


And that brings us to...Jorts.


My big ol' project this weekend was taking the rest of my maternity clothes and putting them into storage- and getting all of the spring-y, smaller sized clothing out into the light of day. Being as I was fairly preggo last year around this time, some of this clothing hasn't seen any action since I was but a carefree newlywed with nary a mortgage and possessing pockets of time in which to be bored. (Sigh.)


I tried it all on. And 75 percent of it FIT! I was so excited that, naturally, I updated my Facebook status with this phrase: "just tried on cutoff jeans from three summers ago. And they fit. This should probably not elicit the amount of excitement that I am currently experiencing." 


People responded, as I knew they might. Fourteen females 'liked' it and responded positively. Three guys questioned the style choice, the possessing of 'jorts' and whether or not it was 1993. 


But here's the kicker: they're a size 4. That's right. Ridicule away, boys, I'm too busy dancing around in teensy-tiny knee-length shorts to devote the amount of tears that a Facebook-trouncin' would normally require. 


Which is a lot.


Although not nearly the volume elicited by the SATs. 


Maybe I should have worn my Jorts.