Insulation Cancellation...*

Overshot the Peekaboo.

...and My Kid Is Terrific (Parts 1 and 77, respectively.) *Thanks, Dorrie.

Yesterday, we were going to have a guy come and fix our crawlspaces. They are seriously hurting. Four attic-like rooms off of the upstairs bedrooms- two the size of [really awful] bedrooms themselves- and all with upside down insulation...if at all. (There are, however, crazy amounts of notebooks, beer bottle caps and at least one high school prom mug. Good Counsel, Class of '83, if anyone's missing it.)

So I was excited to get them fixed for storage and general not-freeziness. But I was also wary. Here's why. This is how a contractor deal works at our house:

1. P.J. and I choose 3 companies.
2. I meet them all, listen to their spiels and Little Lady pitches, all roughly three hours apiece.
3. I suggest the company I like best.
4. Peej goes with the company of which he's just Googled something crucial.
5. On the Big Day, I ready the area, lock the cats in the laundry room and adjust Nora's naps accordingly...and wait. And wait. And sometimes wait.

Yesterday was no different- except- the insulation truck needed THREE SPOTS in front of my house. First thing in the a.m. Okie doke. Because, you know, I live on an extremely busy one-way street off of an extremely busy two-way street with rather expensive metered parking boxes (thanks, Daley), making our busy street the only free, non-zoned parking for blocks.

But sure, three spots.

However, I peeked out the window at 6:45am and saw the spot right in front of our gate had vacated. I ran outside in jammies, a hoodie and Crocs to place a questionably light folding chair in the space. Which is totally your best bet for staking a spot. Nothing says Back Off like a folding chair.

And somehow another spot opened up. And another. AND A FOURTH. I was so stoked and took it as a sign.

Oh, it was a sign, all right. It was a surefire way to guarantee that after I'd gotten the spots secured (as well as the wrath of my neighbors) and after I'd sealed off Nora's door against dust and shards, and after I'd settled the kiddo into a confused sleep in the downstairs pack n' play...that I'd get a call at 10am canceling the appointment. You see, the head supervisor's wife had had a baby the night before. I mean, mazel tov and all that, but THAT shut down operations for the day? And we're not talking about a Mom and Pop operation, here.

They said they were sorry. I said it was okay. (Grr, I always say that. And I so rarely mean it.)

But then I got to spend the rest of the day with Nora in a half-clean/half-rearranged household. And there's nothing like spending the day with Nora and her Doc Bullfrog and Jeopardy and the park.

I love my kid. I really do. As I was singing her to half-sleep and she was doing a patpatpat on my cheek in acknowledgement, it hit me (not her hand) that I'm blown away by this little child almost every day.

I looked down at her sleepy 11 month-old face and was kind of amazed by the fact that she was, indeed, this old. And still this young. And so, so busy all of the time. And such an independent little thing but still so happy to be held and rocked and kissed.

And she's ours. And she looks like both of us and no one else at all but herself and she never even used to exist. That blows me out of the water. I think it always will.

Parents always say that Having A Baby Changes You and You'll Never Be The Same and You Cannot Imagine The Capacity For Love and blahblahblah. And you nod and smile and roll your eyes, thinking- yeah, I know how to love. I'm gonna dig my kid. Yep.

But it's seriously unlike any other feeling I've ever felt. Even towards my husband. And I like him. A LOT. But here's the kicker: This feeling towards Nora? This wildly out of control love and constant gleeful surprise? I still couldn't explain and do it justice to an expectant parent.

I think it's kind of like how humans can't hold the full memory of pain in any sort of constant way- nor would one want to. You'd never get anything done, remembering exactly what it felt like when your arm shattered after a fall from a bike or that last migraine that left you incapacitated for days. But you know it hurt. And you tell friends how much it hurt. But even you've forgotten- just a little- how overwhelming that pain is.

And that's what it's like with Nora.

Except non-painful. (Unless I'm in a mood and full o' tears.) Because I think I have moments like I just did as I got her ready for bed because I can't keep that kind of awareness going 24/7. And so it's shocking and wonderful and silly when I do.

It's funny- I did not intend to write about this today. Really. I had planned on whining about insulation and home repair. Maybe gripe about laundry a bit. Share an anecdote about how people will still not talk to me at the park.

But as I started typing, here I was- again- extolling the virtues of being a parent. And I imagine- to my friends who have no desire to have babies- it's worthy of a little eye roll of their own. But here's another kicker: I think the majority of this amazement and love comes from the fact that I had SO little to do with how wildly cool this girl is. She just showed up, guns of awesome a blazin', and decided to change our lives.

And for that I have nothing but love in my heart.

And little but sweet potato on my shirt.

Cheese Royalty.

The Cheese Queen & Princess.

Our toes are just beginning to thaw, I've got a shelf full of vintage treasures, and I found a cheese curd in my pocket.

We've safely made it back from Wisconsin.

Now, back in the old days, way before I was married to a Midwesterner and was simply a gal from the 413, I couldn't have differentiated between Wisconsin and Iowa on a map. Really. Granted, I'm kinda terrible at geography, but in Massachusetts (a puzzle piece of a state so teensy that you could step back, squint your eyes and pinch it from across the room) all of those states Over There are kind of one big nebulous corn (or cheese) borderin' square. Even the ones that are decidedly not squares.

But I married a Schoeny. And to a Schoeny (or Verkamp, to be fair), Wisconsin is a Narnia/Disneyland combo of epic summer proportions. (And yes, that's 'summer' as a verb.) And I was wholly unconvinced. Until the summer of '07 when, as a fresh-faced fiancée, I accompanied P.J. to a week of family togetherness in neighboring lake houses.

I kayaked every day- at least three times. I pretended to swim- in the way I do that's not actual swimming (I don't even know if I can anymore)- even though I still do not care for the feel of lake bottom on any part of my being. I rode the well-loved and oft-lamented oldie bike Limey. (With our hoodies and bare feet, Peej and I could have been just another two kiddos at camp.) I ate fresh produce and more cheese than was wise. We had bonfires and bottles of wine on the dock, went stargazing and yard-saling. Fireworks were viewed from boats. I found a cove that I pretended to have discovered (though, in all honesty, I do this all over the world.)

In short, I dug the place.

So this past weekend, when we were invited to spend time with P.J.'s Mom, sister and nephew (the guy born just five days before Nora), we were stoked to take our little Bitsy up North.

It was a little colder than it had been a few summers ago- but it just gave me an excuse to break out the baby hats with animal ears. And sure, Nora's lunch one afternoon consisted of me feeding her leftover pizza in the backseat of our car...but I know she had a good time.

The kids attempted to toddle in a pumpkin patch. They crawled on piers (and each other). They shared pack n' play time, all of their toys, and more than a few of their germs (Sorry, Dor.) The grownups shared lovely meals, crisp Fall afternoons, and a spin in the sauna. (I could have happily slept there.)

And we got to go antiquing- one of those clichéd activities that women supposedly love and men are obligated to grumble about. But it's true- I love poking around antique and vintage stores. P.J....tolerates them. Nora thinks they're awesome, but sadly, they do not feel the same way about her. So yesterday, Peej gave me the most fabulous of gifts- he took Nora to go visit some family friends in town...and left me to chill at an antique emporium FOR AN HOUR. (I actually teared up. And my heart palpitated with excitement. Seriously. I've so rarely felt that fondly about another human being.)

And it was great. Overpriced as heck, but great. Especially since I found The Find of All Finds.

Lemme take you back a little- back when I was a kid, I loved having tea parties and using fancy glasses and plates. My mother- possessing a fabulous assortment of such pieces (not to mention the patience required of a mother to a fancy child) let me use these lovely things for special occasions. She also let me arrange her cabinets and ooh and ahh over the very fanciest. (I LOVE to arrange fancy things. Have you seen my dining room? Or living room? Or- heck, the upstairs?)

But there was a set of glassware that trumped everything else. Frosted Libbey iced tea glasses, all with a different brightly-colored carousel animal. A green and black zebra, chartreuse lion, reddish orange giraffe, yellow lion, pink elephant, teal deer...and a red pony. I loved the red pony best- loved it. And I would use these with all of the reverence and care of the queen's finest china.

Until the day that I dropped and broke one.

And it was the red pony.

I cried and cried. I don't even remember my mother being angry with me- I think she knew how heartbroken I was, and that it was an awful punishment to never again be able to hold that wonderful glass. And we moved on (somehow) and she even promised me the set to keep way down the road.

But now, here I was in the antique emporium.

Looking at the red pony on a frosted carousel glass.

And yes, there was also a blue tiger, an orange and tan pony, a pink and red elephant, and an orange and black zebra (how many did they make?)- but I am not even the littlest bit ashamed to admit that I wept in the middle of a Wisconsin antique store. And I called my mother. She was excited (but really, I don't think my level of excitement can be topped by anyone, ever.) And I finally feel like I have atoned for the horrible crime I committed back when I was eight years old.

And I have my red pony back.

Best. Trip. Ever.

And sure, we took a long overdue trip to the Mars Cheese Castle (it is a CASTLE MADE OF CHEESE- you cannot ever begin to convince me differently) and I felt like royalty with my bag of cheese curds...

...but seriously? The trip was made when I found that glass.

For two dollars and fifty cents. The one item in the store not marked for a hundred bucks.

Making it an act of Fate.

Or maybe an act of Wisconsin.

Hmm. Awfully muggy for "Fall."

Rearranging the dining room.

It is officially Fall. I know this because a) I own a calendar [app], and b) people keep wishing each other a Happy Solstice on Facebook. (What did I DO before Facebook? I'll tell you- I wrote in a paper journal and called P.J. eighty times a day to tell him hilarious anecdotes. I think we can all agree that Facebook has kickstarted my blogging and saved my marriage.)

Also a marriage-saver: Last night P.J. found a mouse that had- ahem- ceased to be in the corner of the garage. Actually, it had ceased to be in any locale. He discovered and disposed of it in the time it took me to ask "What's so snicky?" This is a great skill in a husband. He also reassured me that there were no holes in the garage or the shed, that it most likely snuck in while the garage door was open one night. This bothered me greatly so he amended it, remembering that he had also spied a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's person- so he must have died of old age.

Food for thought- does a mouse have a person? Or is it a 'mouse?' There was a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's mouse.

Nope. Can't use it in that sense.

And have you noticed that a story involving a rat= panic/anger/hatred and a field mouse= confusion/sadness/whimsical storytelling? That's because mice are itty bitty squeakers and rats can suck it. (My mother: Keely! Me: Sorry!)

Back to the Solstice.

I have been feeling so crazypants lately and it's nice to have something new to blame it on. I've been cleaning and rearranging to a ridiculous extent; my office, my desk, the living room furniture, P.J.'s dresser (gave that one up midway through- I can admit defeat when need be.)

P.J. does not care for this. He does not like "change," overmuch. But then again, he wasn't too keen on moving in together four and a half years ago, nor was he ready to have a baby/buy a home/get a car before we had a chance to really thiiiiink it over. For what that's worth.

Besides, I can't help all of this moving things about. At the risk of sounding compulsive, the idea plants itself in my mind and I know the only way to get peace is to physically shift and poke and spin things around. And it works. Because the things- rooms, desk drawers, half of dressers- look fabulous after I tweak 'em. They always do.

And clearly, I can use a change. At the risk of my mother saying I'm being down on myself- I'm falling apart. For no discernible reason. 10pm Bedtime Month is still going [relatively] strong. (I mean, sometimes you hafta stay up late to scope Lamebook while eating PB out of the jar.) So I'm rested. Plus I'm happy with my new work/home ratio. And Nora's the easiest kiddo ever.

But twice last week I fell out of my shoes. All the way to the pavement out. Another time I tripped and, instead of catching myself on anything nearby, I compensated for balance by flinging the baby monitor down the stairs. (I'm fine. The monitor is not. Somewhere in mid-fling the audio wire snapped. Perhaps when it met the ground.)

And the other day while riding public transit, the elastic holding my hair up just sorta...pinged apart. I actually heard a 'ping.' Didn't know what it was. But it kinda felt like someone was poking the top of my scalp- which is not altogether unheard of on the CTA. And the other riders got to stare at me while my hair slowly fell to the sides of my face. Which I'm actually kind of sorry to have missed. (That's like- performance art!)

Maybe this is why the other Moms at the playlot won't talk to me. Falling down, throwing things and personal grooming failures are rather off-putting.

But, you know what?

It's probably just the Solstice.

I'll be the one stuck in the squad car.

During the time I've been a nanny- almost a decade- I've seen just about everything that goes in, on, or around a child- and most places in, on or around which a child can play.


I've carted kids to lessons, playdates and child "friendly" locales in the dead of winter and the sloshiest of springs, knowing full well there's only so many blanket tents and PBS reruns one can tolerate.


In some of these locales I've spent the entire time in fear; for the child's safety, for the strep virus he's licked off a toy, and for my brain cells. (Seriously. An hour and a half of structured play for an 18 month old? Time...ticks...by...) And sometimes, when you have to wake the kiddo to make a class for which you've already pre-paid, it can equal an overtired, pricey, dirty, boring mess.


And that's no fun.


The antidote to that is Fantasy Kingdom, an indoor playplace conveniently located in the bustling North/Clybourn area of Chicago.

This space is so great for kiddos ranging from six months to six years (although some of my older charges have dug it, too). And truly, I've been hanging out here for years. My most active dude has sprinted off his excess energy before naptime. My shyest boy has made friends. My independent-minded gal has done her own thing- thankyouverymuch- storming a castle, dressed like a firefighter.


They have a police station, firehouse, cottage, and grocery store, not to mention a humongous castle with interior stairs (yep, been up there- didn't even get stuck) plus a gallery of costumes.


And there are toys- lots of them. Superbly clean toys. Like- I've seen people wipe and spray things down. (And there's sanitizer and wipes and tissues and and and....) The music is always good, too. That's huge for me. Music in play areas is SO important. And so often lame.


The vehicles for ridin' are pretty rad as well- though, sadly, I cannot fit in those. But that frees them up for the kids I've brought. Which I suppose is the whole point.


One of the BEST parts is the sectioned-off play area for Little Littles. Yes! You no longer have to choose between letting big kids have fun and a non-smooshed infant! The toys in there are pretty spiffy, too, and the Bigs and Littles can see each other over the separating wall. If they want to. But they'll be pretty busy.


Okay, I lied- the real best part is the free coffee.


Or maybe it's the fact that my admission is free with a kiddo. Unless it's a drop-off locale or unless I get a really sweet craft project of my own, nothing is more irksome than having to pay to be there with the kids.


There's also a separate area for lunch or snacks or coffee or whatever you purchase. (They have lots of goodies for sale.) With a fridge. And a microwave. And- more wipes. The neato part about this area is that you're still mere feet away from the main play area. Meaning everyone doesn't have to take off their costumes just because I want a juicebox.


They have all sorts of membership and admission packages- including day rates- and additional sibs under the age of one are free. And the multi-pass cards do not expire. (I really enjoy non-stressy memberships. A lot.)


Birthday parties are a big deal here, and they have all sorts of packages and ways to make the day super easy. I've been to multiple events at Fantasy Kingdom. Three words: Well. Oiled. Machine.


Still feeling the need to educate and artsify your child? They have projects and storytelling and activities with local artists. And you can attend when you like, let your kid sleep in when you don't, and no one looks at you like you've squandered the equivalent of college tuition for a twice-weekly dance class.


And now that my darlin' Bitsy is extremely active- and, let's be honest, the 8 month hibernation known as Chicago Winter is imminent- I'm going to need a regular place to run around. (With her, I mean. I'm gonna bring Nora.)


Just imagine- parking in the attached garage, waltzing in to have coffee with a pal, enjoying a clean, bright, friendly environment, letting your little one dream and dance and run wild...and then scooping her up for naptime that you didn't have to reschedule...


...Bring on the bad weather.

Fall is for Nostalgia.

There's something so freeing about chilly- and overcast- Fall weekends. They totally give you permission to do what you whine about wanting to do all week...nothing at all.

So we snuggled in. Ate junk food. Watched the '80s version of Pippi Longstocking- for Nora. In case you're curious, it completely stands the test of time. (Life is a breeeeeze...) We also watched a classic episode of Sesame Street- from the 4th season, once they'd ironed out most of the kinks of Snuffy not being invisible, Oscar not being orange, and Big Bird not having a shrunken head. That said- who is this man with the 'fro they're still trying to pass off as Gordon? And Luis was a stud! P.J. and I gleefully clapped along when our favorite animated shorts aired...while Nora, quite neglected, wandered into the laundry room to poke at unmatched socks.

Also. Ernie told Bert that he hated something in that episode. P.J. and I nearly jumped out of our skins, which poses the question- When did saying 'hate' become so darned taboo in children's TV? Obviously sometime between the late '70s and now. I honestly can't remember, which means it was probably on the earlier end of things. Discuss.

We had a date night- another of the 'no cash/no leaving the house' variety. We made our favorite cold weather drink of Hot Todgers- think Hot Toddy, but with ginger beer. We invented them. Watched Before Sunrise- which also remained a good flick. At least the first half did. After that, Mr. Snorey VonI'mStillAwakePants was "thinking about the movie" behind heavy eyelids.

But it still counts as a date.

We only left the house once this weekend and had a stellar brunch at our pals' Heather and John's place. The event had three major things going for it: It was in Albany Park(!!!), the shindig was kid-friendly, and they are exceptional cooks. I filled a plate to share with Nora- and she ate most of it. (Sure, I'll give you my pulled pork and goat cheese cornbread- but the Bloody Mary is Momma's.)

But this past weekend wasn't without its unnecessary display of hormonal tears, either.

*****ALERT- I WILL BE TALKING ABOUT BOOBS*****

I've slowly been weaning Nora onto bottles and sippy cups. And I'm totally fine with it. Absolutely. Except when I'm not.

The middle of the day feedings? Sure, give her a cup of formula. (Once I got over my initial feelings of neglect and abuse, I realized that not only was she not sad about the formula- but that she really, really liked it. A lot.)

But last night was the last evening nursing, leaving only the a.m. feedings for just a little while longer. So keep this in mind- this was the second to last feeding to be dropped. Nevertheless, as soon as she was done and started to doze off on P.J.'s shoulder...I lost it.

She was wearing footie pajamas that, mere weeks ago, flopped behind her like a cape when she crawled. Now they were snug. (And yeah, sure, they're still 6-9 month jammies, but STILL.)

It doesn't seem like that long ago that she was doing her little kitten snore in the bassinet next to the bed, waking at 2am for a feeding and having absolutely zero stuffed pals that traveled with her from locale to locale. What happened to that bundle that Peej would sleepily hand me? (Perhaps too bundled- between the hat, sleepsack, jammies and mittens, I could only see a small pair of irate, dark eyes staring up at me with a mix of hunger and baby rage.) And then I'd feed her and watch the tight little fists pressed against her cheeks relax. I'd see her eyes dart around in curiosity. I'd witness her valiant struggle to scoot around and do something to those bright lights and colorful shapes...and then fall back to sleep like a miniature drunken elf. I'd watch the rest of our late night programming, hand the wayward sprite back to her father, and then snuggle in until I got to hold her again.

And I already miss it. I never minded waking up with her. Sure, maybe the DuraMorph was extra Dura, but the euphoria of finally having her here trumped any petty ol' need for sleep.

Our bedtime routine was my favorite part of the day. We'd get her all cozied up (less bundling was completely okay, as we quickly learned) and I'd feed her as P.J. would alternate between reading her favorite books and singing her favorite songs with an [intentional] voice that somehow mixed Tom Waits and Neil Diamond. (This is 1000% true.) And, smiling sleepily, she'd be placed in her crib amongst a small army of hand-selected animals.

And P.J. and I would high-five. (This is also totally true.)

So, as P.J. carried her off to her room last night, these were the thoughts careening into my brain. And I cried. A lot. (As my friends can attest, I do not possess the ability to cry a little.) And neither P.J. nor I can be sure why it is that I think The End of Nursing= The End of My Bedtime Routine with Nora. I mean, I still live here.

And I can totally give her a bottle at night. And be an extra pair of  hands for jammies and books and snuggles. But I'm rapidly losing the one ability that no one else in her universe can even begin to emulate.

Which kinda made me a superhero for a little while.

With a superpower that she'll never even remember.

But we'll always have the opening strains of The Office. She'll hear it and laugh and become inexplicably hungry and that will be our little joke.

And it'll be okay.

Odd Hygiene and Noisy Celebrations.

I've been noticing a marked difference in my Nanny With Nora versus Nora At Home routines. There are just certain things that I can do In House that wouldn't fly whilst on the clock.

For instance, I attempted to shower while Nora played on the bathroom floor with squeezie toys and bath books- in my own bathroom. (General rule of thumb: Keep your clothes on/don't bathe in the workplace. This is just something I've always tried to live by.) Believe it or not, this whole "shower" thing actually jived. Kinda.

It took about two minutes in- and for Nora to be happily playing- before I realized that this shower was lacking shampoo or conditioner. (I usually shower upstairs, but in that postage sized loo Nora would have had to play directly on my unshowered head.) Faced with the prospect of either disturbing Nora's solo playtime of awesome OR forgoing a shower altogether, I opted for an unusual third choice: I used Nora's bath stuff. Granted, it smelled great, but I'm pretty sure it lacks any actual soap or soaplike product. But compared to the alternative...I was fairly washed that day. [I can totally see the dollar sign/coupon/exclamation points over P.J.'s head: You used her organic baby stuff? Why not just use the good bottle of pinot noir?!]

Maybe next time.

After said shower, once the Little Little realized that she no longer cared for this locale of play- and would like a snack, sankyousomuch- I crawled into bed with her (me in a towel, she in her half-soaked jammies- did I mention she tried to climb into the bath?) and let her have a bottle while I chilled and contemplated pants.

I later realized that this may have been an odd start to the day, compared to- oh- days when I shower solo and dress myself and feed my child at a table. But it's certainly not my oddest shower/nekkie/Nora tale.

Also, at work- the kiddos I watch generally are allowed a half an hour of TV every so often. Good, quality, pre-screened programming. Generally. I monitor this and check with parents and older sibs (the youngest ones will swear up and down they haven't watched a show since their first birthdays.)

At home- Nora will "watch" a DVD or OnDemand show while rolling around in piles of [clean-ish] laundry. Sure, she's young, and I know I'm rapidly approaching the days where TV will be a magical box of eyeball glue...but for now I generally just have stuff on in the background. A lot. She's seen almost every season of Psych. And anyone who's read the blog through the early maternity leave knows her Pavlovian response to The Office opening theme. And during our block-buildin' extravaganza the other afternoon, I purposefully turned on Jeopardy. (Hey- the periodic table of elements ain't gonna teach itself. At least not 'til 9th grade. And maybe not even then.) Yes, she has hours of the day with plenty of music and sometimes no sound at all...but I think I never realized how cool with TV I was until I was in charge of Nora's brain.

Poor Nora. At least she has Work Mommy to lay down the law about media and venue and clothing.

And may I personally wish Albany Park (and the rest of the world, to a lesser extent) a Happy Mexican Independence Day? I'm quite certain that my block will be celebrating the 200th anniversary with a 200 Firework (or worse) Salute around 3am. 'Cause my neighborhood reeeaaallly digs a good celebration, Mexican or otherwise. I saw multiple cars driving around with huge red, white and green flags atop their roofs. And not just little antenna flags either- huge honkin' flag poles sticking out of the top of cars. And that was YESTERDAY.

Though, to be fair, the Fourth of July isn't exactly known for tasteful and reserved displays of patriotism.

And, as Peej pointed out this a.m., every St. Patrick's Day people paint their faces and bodies with all sorts of "Irish" symbolism. I'm pretty sure that hasn't been a genuine tradition since the people of Ireland were called The Celts.

So happiest of days to all- whatever your nationality, personal grooming habits or mode of transpo. Clearly this block has room enough for us all.

If my neighbors can handle my soap-less Wednesdays and 70s rock blaring out the front stoop...

...I can dig a car horn symphony before sunrise.

Little Gorilla Design, a.k.a. P.J. Write This Down.

When I was a little kid, my Mom and I used to pretend to "shop" various catalogs. We'd have cups of tea and wield big ol' pens, circling home goods, knickknacks, clothing, and the Wish Book. I circled and craved everything- not because I was greedy (pipe down, sisters) but because I could genuinely make room in my heart for every single item in completely different ways. When I love something, I really love something and it becomes part of my Things (or 'Fings', as the Little Littles say.) Due to this all-encompassing love [for awesomeness], it's been said that I'm exceptionally easy to shop for.

It just got easier.

Cindy Perkins at Little Gorilla Design has taken the guesswork outta what you can purchase for my Christmas, Valentine and birthday presents. Maybe even Saint Patrick's and Arbor Days as well. She has created wearable works of art- not to mention seriously sweet kiddo products- that are simply fabulous.

Sure Keely, you scoff. You're reviewing their product. You hafta like it!

To that I reply- Nope and yeah. No, I am not obligated to love anything...but yes, I am compelled to love these belt buckles. They are completely covet-worthy. Especially if you've only recently gotten back into pants that necessitate an actual belt buckle.

Let's start with this one.

Yep. I could easily begin and end with this one. I'm gonna go ahead and call it Pink FancerPants. (If I wore this, it would easily be the fanciest thing on my person. By a lot.) The inspiration and design behind these began with Cindy creating her own scrapbook papers and working from there, adding Swarovski crystals and other magic along the way. (Anyone who has ever received one of my handmade Valentines circa 1987-Present understands that I'm welling up at this point.)

But you know what? I'd happily take this glorious one as well.

I don't speak French- yet. Though I would sure as heck mangle my way through it for you if you purchased this Parisian beauty for me. You're welcome.

This was originally my first pick-

-But then an immediate list popped into my head of folks who would steal it from me [cough*Nat/Vicky/AtLeastFiveOthers*cough], perhaps even while I was learning French or donning fancier pants.

While I work off the self-induced hurt from hypothetical thievery, you all should seriously check out the rest of their catalog here (they even sell supra cute belts!) I could hyperlink and paste images all day, but I think you get the idea. I dig this line. You should, too.

I'd hate to be this fancy (pants or otherwise) on my own.

Keely Says Awkward Things On The Food Network...

...And Other Weekendy Things.

Compared to last weekend's glorious hibernation, I'm pretty sure this weekend has led Nora to believe that her car seat is her new nursery. (It is very nice.)

Saturday: P.J. had an audition. (Good little trick for all you actor pals out there- disregard all audition notices for one calendar year. Have a big ol' life event. Despair a little bit about your career. One year to the day later- you'll be batting auditions away with a stick. A soft stick. Because you'll still kinda want to go to them.)

During this time Nora and I were to have a chill session of floor-blankie-blocks-nappin'. But a call from the Food Network changed all of that. (Doesn't it always?) The segment I was going to help tape the following day now needed me- and a few awesome friends- Saturday afternoon.

Most of my artsy friends were either working or supplementing their work with more work. (Bears season opener, anyone?) One friend who was available had her dreams of glory shot down due- yet again- to vegetarianism. (It's the meanest!) Did I mention that the show centered around adventurous eating and random types of game? (More "pheasant" and less "Connect 4.") Another pal has pneumonia. (Come on!) Crazily enough, my friend with a two year old was able to attend. Go figure.

So, she and I- and, at the last minute not Nora because Peej made it home in time- jetted down to the taping. Only to find that they had cancelled "actors" for the day. And were shooting stills of that temperamental artist known as The Kitchen.

So Leah and I went to Lincoln Station and had a beer and a Reuben apiece and enjoyed our kid-free date by...comparing labor and delivery stories. (The irony is that our friends are always at Lincoln Station and send us texts to join and we're all like- We can't. We have kids.) Sigh.

That night P.J. and I enjoyed an Outta Money, Kinda Tired, No I'm Not Cooking Date Night. (Marriage is awesome.)

The next morning we all put on our Sunday best because The Schoeny family was to be on the telly. Hopefully. When the producers asked me to return the next day, they asked if I knew a guy who'd be good on a food challenge.

Yeah, I know a guy.

And we just decided to bring Nora because, let's face it. Who's the most camera-ready of us all? Exactly. Nora= meal ticket.

We wanted to stop by the German Fest in Lincoln Square first, as Nora is a quarter German via Alsace-Lorraine (via Chicago.) We got her a bratwurst, some German potato salad and some sauerkraut- actually, she and I "shared" a plate, but I didn't get more than three bites in before she was gnawing on the Chinet. So, yeah, she likes German food. The Oompah band was a little much for her, but that just shows that she's discerning.

Started to head downtown and got a call that the taping had been pushed back one hour.

So we got some gelato. (Nora is a citizen of the culinary world.)

Drove down by the lake to kill some time and got a call saying we needed to come half an hour later than that. This put us smack dab in the middle of Nora's second nap. "She'll sleep in the car," we told ourselves. She did not. Not until we were all the way downtown and in the noisiest of 'hoods. This was also, coincidentally, when we needed to park and remove the sleeping child from the car. Ah well. I read that power naps are sometimes even more rejuvenating.

Got to the restaurant where the shindig was being filmed and met up with Leah and Kat, two of my most camera-fabulous friends. (I don't know how Leah swung the childless thing two days in a row, but rock on.) We proceeded to wait for an hour and a half in the blazing sun. They eventually told us we could come inside out of the heat- for the baby (yay baby!)- as long as we were silent during the last bit of kitchen taping. (That kitchen was a diva!) That worked for- oh- about thirty seconds. Then Nora screeched a random, happy shriek of babyhood and about twelve pairs of death-glarey eyes turned on us. So we loitered in the CVS.

Once we got going, however, it flew by. Without giving too much away, Peej and I were in a competition of sorts for a different kind of game show. We had to introduce ourselves numerous times to get the right angle/audio/dialogue and some of the stuff they had me say was a little, uh, non-family friendly?

"Tell them how much you like meat."

"Say you'll eat ANYTHING. Any kind of meat!"

"Tell them that your husband thinks he's gonna beat you BUT HE'S WRONG."

I kept it simple. And smiled a lot. A nice, 'don't listen to my words' kinda smile.

Leah and Kat hung out with Nora while we taped the segment and all was good until I dinged a stupid bell as hard as I could- in the heat of competition- and remembered at the very last second how much my daughter hates sudden frantic sounds.

So, she cried. And by "cry" I mean "purple-faced Sicilian mourner keening." Leah and Kat took her outside. And I had to keep taping. Because we were still rolling. And I was facing the street so, through the picture window I could see my baby gal soundlessly giving herself an aneurysm. But we kept going. (Watch for the part in middle of the contest where I glaze over and stare off into space and well up and bite my lip and clench my fists. Oh, TV is magical.)

And I won't tell you how it ended, other than to say that Nora was just fine and I'm pretty sure my friends are still talking to me.

We got home in time to let Nora run around nudie in the backyard while P.J. gardened and I- well, I don't know what I did much beyond telling P.J. that He Thinks He's Gonna Beat Me But He's Wrong. (It takes me a long time to get out of character.)

And I promise to discuss the season enders of Psych and True Blood- as soon as I can process them/acknowledge that I am programme-less for a few months.

But tune in tomorrow for a bonus posting- a featurette of a fabulous company (go say hi to them in the upper right hand corner!) And remember, the more you like them, the more they'll like me, and the more they like me, the more other people will like me, and maybe- just maybe- all this likin' will equal a decent paycheck which will also equal more columns and postings and features and antics.

After all, I just got the Fall L.L. Bean catalogue- and it ain't gonna mock itself.

Maybe Haunted Posts need their own blog day.

How can she post again so soon, you ask yourselves? What could have POSSIBLY gone down since Tuesday that's worth blogging about?

Not much, really. But that's kinda the point- when one's main trifecta of posting involves bodily functions/petty grievances/insignificant minutiae, it's never a slow news day.

Update- 10pm bedtime month has been defiled. Disrespected. Nay- disregarded.

And by 10pm's strongest- and loudest- proponent, no less.

I'm talking to P.J., Mr. Falling Asleep On The Couch Until 11ish. Plus, PLUS, we had gotten completely ready for bed prior to the season finale of Psych at 9pm (saved by CST programming)...and he fell asleep during the first half hour anyway. He says it counts because at least he was resting, but I say J'ACCUSE.

I'm pretty well rested, for my part, though probably not as well as you'd expect. Rage is sapping.

Other things that keep me in a state of not-quite-restiness...How about the fact that, despite public opinion and lack of actual "evidence," I know that we are 1000% haunted? It's true.

The baby gates swing open when there is NO WIND. (And only when they're unlatched/Nora's asleep. That would just be downright unsafe, otherwise.)

Or when the doorbell went nuts the other day, chiming long and short and half-rings, only to find that NO ONE WAS AT THE DOOR. (Okay, so P.J.'s fairly certain this can be explained by my getting nails and screws from the storage drawer where the backup doorbell is also stored- but that seems TOO EASY.)

And there is NO explanation for the day the TV turned itself off multiple times. Not the cable box, DVD player or Wii- although, come to think of it, why were all of those things on?- but just the TV. And no one was even sitting on the remote.

And what about those eerie sounds and unintelligible babbling at every hour of the day and night?

...Oh, right. Those are our neighbors.

Every so often, it's nicer to be haunted.

Computer screens are kinda reflective, too...

Just so you're all aware- September is 10pm Bedtime Month. This isn't a national thing or even a local thing, overmuch. Okay, maybe really locally, like the third floor of my house.

This is why we've been colossal lame-os for- oh, the last week. We eventually got tired of being tired all the time. (Initially, the proposal was for 9pm Bedtime Month but, as was pointed out to us- Thanks, Mom- 9pm is an awfully ambitious bedtime for people who like to do things such as eat dinner and acknowledge the other party in their marriage. And it is a party.) It's been going well, insofar as we've actually conked out on the couch at 9:30 a couple of times and disregarded it entirely Saturday night. (12:30- woo! Take off the lampshade, P.J.!)

Also, are you aware of how much time is wasted in that hour after dinner/kiddo's bath/kiddo's bedtime/hosing down of the homestead? That's usually when we find ourselves flopping on furniture and whining about how TIRED we are and how much we have to DO. That usually kills about an hour. Ironically, this was the hour that we reserved for Getting Things Done. Most likely, we'll ultimately find that we really don't have anything that we need to be doing, ever. That would be great.

Here were our obstacles and strengths: I don't like to go to bed super early 'cause I don't want to miss anything...but I'm quite good at writing something down and sticking to it. P.J. doesn't believe in "bedtime" if there's stuff to do like rewiring the downstairs or cleaning the gutters...but if there's any type of media present and a couch or two, he can be out like a light in ten seconds. So we've started watching movies in our bedroom around 9pm, knowing full well that I'll feel like it's a special occasion and P.J. will be lulled to sleep by the end of the opening sequence. Especially if it's subtitled.

This past weekend was one of enforced hibernation, which we thought would go hand in hand with the early bedtime thing. (I can see our list of pals slooooowly dropping away. Sigh.)

We organized all of our vinyl albums- no small task, as we've probably acquired a few hundred by this point- into stuff we need to have in the living room with the record player (Boston, Frank Sinatra, Burns & Allen Radio Hour, etc.) and stuff that could hang out in the newly available rec room off of the family room/Nora's Zone O' Toys (Christmas stuff, a positively alarming amount of Julie London records, etc). Shelves were hung- finally- and yet more mirrors now grace our walls, nooks, hallways, etc. Little known fact: Schoenys cannot walk by a mirror without turning and peeking at their reflection. True story. They can carry on convos and even be surreptitious about it- but no reflective surface can be passed without even a cursory glance.  This includes storefront windows and stainless steel fridges. The little one now winks at herself.

She gets that from her Dad, like everything else on her face.

The only time we left our property was when we had definite outdoorsy destination in mind- no more than ten minutes away, walking. Turns out we didn't need to venture all that far. Over Labor Day weekend other holidays were celebrated: The 100th anniversary of Our Lady of Mercy, the gold domed church up the block that celebrates each mass afterwards with amazing Mexican and Filipino food on its stoop, and the Central American parade that went by our block- not to be confused with last month's Ecuadorian parade nor next week's Mexican Independence Day parade. Seriously, it's been a nonstop march of crepe paper and mariachis all summer. It is THE BEST.

We took Nora over to the church's street fest for a lunch of flautas and arroz con pollo- and to allow yet more people to say hello to our "little boy." (Actual question- is pink a traditional boy color in Hispanic cultures? I would truly be unsurprised to find out that this is so.) Some teenagers performed a nifty Filipino bamboo dance...followed up by six year-olds dancing to that traditional tune, 'Pokerface' by Lady Gaga.

And a really nice gal approached me with an obvious case of mistaken identity (at least I think so- my pregnancy brain should all but be dissipated by now, yes?) and asked about my life, and so-and-so, and was I still doing whatnot? So, another burning question: is it more polite to vaguely play along in these situations, or to bluntly admit that I don't know her from Joe- or José - but that the other gal sounded really great? It's true. This Other Me apparently works with children in theatre- both things that I have done, sure- but she somehow seemed more altruistic and giving.

Because I totally went along with it. And when she told me that my son was lovely...

...I thanked her.

Labor Day, a.k.a. Nappin' Day.

            
              Take a rest, you deserve it.

              Back tomorrow.

I mock because I envy.

The single best thing that has ever been randomly sent through the U.S. Mail- ever- is something that I'm about to share with you.

It is a catalog. And it has changed my life.

Not only that, but I am also able to show you each individual item that has made me a better American- nay, human being. For- their online catalog is gonna allow me some visual aides.

Ready? (Of course you aren't. How do you prepare for something of this magnitude? As for me, I usually take a little power nap.)

Let's begin with an item I like to call- My Back Is On Fire. This gem, a.k.a. the Rock Music Men's Hoodie, features a guy who's too cool for any school (except, inexplicably, he seems to be in some sort of establishment with lovely wood paneling, so I guess he did all right for himself anyhow)- with a gigantic electric guitar on his back. And it is aflame. In blue! The color of rock! On the front you've got a nice little pick. Aflame as well, obviously. The axe not your thing? My apologies, Mr. Rick Allen, how about the flaming drums? On the front is...well, another picture of a drum. I guess a random stick would be weird. My favorite part that was weirdly omitted from the online version? "Rockin' hoodies let him show a little attitude." Key word- "little." Now get back inside and sort your socks.

Up next we've got some Laughing Crazy Critters. And yes, they've actually copyrighted that phrase- so back off. There's a dog and a monkey...and they are CRAZY. Ha Ha Ha, they are shown as saying. "You can't help but join in with these merry animals." Really? I don't need any more compulsion in my life, thanks. Also- "A great pick-me-up-gift for anyone who could use a laugh." While it's nice to help friends who are down in the dumps, if I ever approach you with a wiggling stuffed animal that will force you to laugh (Ha Ha Ha), I give you full permission to hit me with it. "But Keely," you implore. "Some people like animals that bring a chuckle." Check out the product video. See if it brings anything but confusion, crazy or otherwise.

Then we've got the 40" Lighted Stars. Innocuous enough, if you can get over the fact that you've got three mammoth glowy stars on your front porch. Which, nicely enough, I can. What really sells this one for me is the non-pictured phrase (why are they making me do all the work?)- "Holiday cheer no one can overlook." ACKNOWLEDGE MY FESTIVITY.

On to the Plush Turtle Ball Pit. This is a stuffed turtle with a gaping hole in its back.
Crinkle, crinkle, it says happily, or so they'd have you believe. It's for babies and toddlers, obviously, and I adore the fact that the instructions tell you to "sit your baby inside the Turtle Activity Bag's soft shell and fill it with...25 play balls." Yeah, when I was little that was called being buried alive. Bonus feature= the balls can be "pushed through a special hole in the turtle's shell." Nope! No thank you! No special hole playing, here! Also, despite your claim that my infant will love to throw the balls and/or "roll around in them," I highly doubt that this will bring "hours of fun." Maybe a good twenty seconds before she realizes she can roll out of it. Unless I've covered her with balls.

Next is the 10 Piece Cleaning Trolly with Working Vacuum. Now, aside from the fact that you're essentially paying for cleaning supplies for your kid (Rags and a pail? Really?), the kicker is that the working vacuum comes with polyfoam pellets for your child to suction up. Let's be clear here: if and when Nora gets her own vacuum, it will be called a DustBuster and we won't have to invent messes of which she shall clean. And while I'm all for playing house n' babies' and laundry...this is downright janitorial. You can almost see the weariness in her eyes, the long nights, the no-good bum who skipped town and left her in this sitch...

I bet she wishes she had owned a Guard Your I.D. Stamp, back in those days when she was flush with cash. This handy tool allows you to- instead of troublesome shredding- simply stamp and ink and do mini art projects over any worthwhile information. Now this kinda seems akin to the workload of pushing paper through a machine, but it could be rather fun. Plus- and this is where it trumps a shredder- I'm able to "carry it in [my] purse while traveling." Phew. That would have saved me literally a minute of bothersome paper-dealin' this past week. But you know what else fits in a purse? A Sharpie.

Oh, it's time to get creepy. Thank you, La Newborn Real Life Doll Set, for filling that niche in this catalog. Not only will "little girls love playing Mommy" (not even touching that one today), but this little beastie features "soft skin," a "baby nursery scent" (I guarantee that a real nursery scent would dissuade even the most motherly of little girls) and has been "designed to capture the experience of a newborn's first few days of life." Again, really? Because- and I loved becoming a mother- the first few days are the scariest, most overwhelming and rather painful for all involved. Does the baby need to eat every fifteen minutes? Are the nurses checking your milk output with military precision? Are they weighing her and threatening to bring her to the nursery if her latch doesn't improve? No..? So by "first few days of life," you mean...she feels soft? I cry False.

And- though I could go on for each page of this epic catalog- I'll leave you with the Knit Novelty Lounge Pants. For 9.95 you can have sweatpants featuring "realistic designs." Instead of relaxing with your favorite (yet constricting!) pair of faded jeans, these products allow you to wear sweats that look like "fun pairs of pants[!]" in such styles as denim and CHAPS. You know, when you're home on a Saturday and can't find your COMFY CHAPS? Fake belt buckle and pretend back pockets aside, we're one or two accessories away from being a Village Person.




Enough of this. I have real work to do. After I put on my loungiest of outfits and fish Nora out from her ball pit, it's time to start decorating for the holidays. After we protect our I.D.s, invent messes and smell her nursery.

Ha Ha Ha.