"It costs more because it SAVES more."

Sometimes things just don't turn out at all how you expected.

Example A: Instead of enjoying a cup of coffee whilst typing, the ottoman tray upon which my Mama Bear mug had previously rested decided to upend said coffee onto tray, couch, self- but most importantly, not computer. The empty mug is now being cradled by a vanilla powder-scented baby doll. This is a first. And sure, while annoying, it doesn't really represent the bigger picture as well as-

Example B: The other morning, while crawling around on my hands and knees in Nora's bedroom, I smelled something awful. Sure, this in and of itself is not unusual in the home of a smallish child- but I was fairly certain it was something rather dangerous. I called in the troops. Or, uh, troop. I asked P.J. if he smelled anything like gas or a chemical, to which he replied that he was certain it was just Nora's diaper pail, proving that even my husband believes that we live in squalor.

I called People's Gas and they showed up ten minutes later. Wow, I thought. What a helpful and prompt organization run by the city! They'll get this fixed in NO TIME!

Except.

His sensor thingie went wild in Nora's room, due to gas leaking in through the drafty baseboard that led to the crawlspace (you know, the one we just spent bank trying to insulate?) He then outdid himself by finding four more gas leaks (at LEAST, said he) down by the boiler and water heater. Nervous but optimistic, I asked what would be best to do.

He shrugged. Gotta turn it off. Law.

What?! You can't turn off my hot water, cooking gas and general warmth in DECEMBER in CHICAGO! I politely informed him that I had a young child, two cats, pipes that I'd prefer not to have freeze prior to New Year's, and a general desire to shower.

He told me to call my "guy-" but warned me it would be pretty extensive work. And that's where it got ugly. I was informed that at LEAST one wall would hafta be ripped out upstairs (to even find where the leak MIGHT be), and I'd need to solder off THAT piece and put a T pipe in HERE and have "your guy..." And I felt my optimism falter. Maybe quiver a bit. And, as most of you know, my strength is not hearing technical descriptions and committing them to memory. It just isn't. So I asked him to write it down.

"Too much to write," he helpfully dismissed. So I then asked (and I HATE myself for this part) if I could call my husband to hear all of these instructions for our plumber. The kindly gentleman from People's Gas then told me that I have EYES, I'm the one HERE, just LOOK at this and remember that it needs to be soldered here and a T pipe put here...

And I really, really hate myself for this next part- but I got so overwhelmed that I cried. A lot. The kind of sobbing that you pretend you're NOT doing, the kind that you choke back to reply to A SUPER TECHNICAL QUESTION, but it only comes out in high-pitched squeaks. The type where the city worker looks at you with utter confusion/disdain, the kind where the toddler in your arms wonders what weirdo game we're playing now, and the variety that makes you see the dollar signs floating away into the ether like some deranged cartoon and also at the pajamas which you may well be wearing for the next week. That kind.

So he shut off the gas and left. ("Sorry. Law.") And I called P.J. and for a good few moments he didn't know who was on the other end, perhaps some tragically hyperventilating chipmunk. But, as he so often does, he took care of it. Namely by leaving work early. And getting our "guy." And crawling into the insulation to dig out pipes with our plumber. And moving stuff into storage, outta storage, into storage again. And talking me down from my useless cliff of hand-fluttering.

But it all ended decently well, even though we're sure the city of Chicago now believes us to be dangerous horders, what with our upended storage spaces and all. Our "guy" fixed both the downstairs and upstairs leaks WITHOUT tearing into any walls. (I imagine he also soldered something and used at least one T pipe.) I made an edible emergency crockpot Beef Stroganoff with none of the traditional ingredients therein. The gas company arrived at 7pm to turn the gas back on (after a manly competition with the plumber of Whose Monkey Wrench Is Bigger.) And, most impressively, the house which we constantly disparage did not get below 62 degrees, despite an entire frigid day with no internal heat. Let's hear it for brick construction!

But, as I think you'll agree, that anecdote is a terrible way to end the bloggy year.

So how about if I wish a WONDERFUL birthday to my lovely pals Natalie and Cassie, and tomorrow to my darling sis in law (and pal) Natalie! (Also, did you know how long it took me to realize why so many ladies born in December have the name 'Natalie?' Including my mother in law. I work with words, folks.)

And may the new year bring more blanket tents for fun and less for warmth.

More stellar programming and less cancelled shows.

More sushi and less Ramen.

More hugs and less missed Skype calls.

More happy tears and less Ugly Cry.

And absolutely no rats.

By the numbers.

This was Nora's holiday week- let's break it down.

On Wednesday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members were hugged.

Thursday: (5) meat products were consumed, (30) family members were hugged.

Friday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members- not including her touchy/feely parents.

Saturday: (6) meat products were consumed...plus (5) cheese appetizers, (29) family members were hugged.

Sunday: (5) meat products were consumed, plus the rest of the cheese/etc., appetizers, (10) family members were hugged.

This a.m. is too soon to calculate. But I can imagine it'll be a doozy on the food/smooch front. Some other important numbers:

- (500) rows of large families with small babies at the family mass- and (1) Nora who began singing her own "song" any time a new intro was played. Also, (1) freakout when an elderly lady belted the descant.
- (2) Baby dolls that smell like vanilla powder. That Nora will get to play with REAL soon.
- (1) Plush rocking horse with realer-than-real whinny. (Thanks, Aunties.)
- (300) Dessert-esque things. (Gotta keep your energy up to digest all of the protein.)
- (1) Really nice camera For The Family- but which Santa will have to pry outta my greedy, snappy hands.
- (2) Trips to Skyline, each time warranting (1) cheese coney and (1) small 4-way, extra onions. (Why, what are the rest of you having?)
- (1) (6)-hour trip back to Chicago, roughly (4) hours from now. In addition, (3) loads of ruffly socks of which to wash/pack.
- (40) miniature creatures: snails, kitties, bears, firefighters, policeman-in-car, at least one Bushwoolie, and a Doc Bullfrog to pack into the car along with the full size ones.
- (1) meat-stuffed and overstimulated toddler, laughing herself into a frenzied half-sleep every few hours. Only to wake at 3am. And then sleep past 8am, burning the morning nap. Which threw off the afternoon nap. Which would, obviously, make her wake up at 3am. HahAhaHahAhaH.

And (1) shocking revelation that it's currently Monday morning at 9am Eastern, not Wednesday at 1am, any time zone.

See you Thursday, at some morning hour.

At some time zone.

With some semblance of sentence structure and throughline.

One can dream.

You're gonna want to sing this one aloud.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…a mortgage and a baby.


On the second day of Christmas, Chicago gave to me…two parking fines, and a Volkswagen and a Bitsy.


On the third day of Christmas, my kiddos gave to me…three blanket tents, two museum free days, and a "Sleep in 'til seven thirty."


On the fourth day of Christmas, my parents gave to me…four words of wisdom, three No Way naptimes, two ethnic bake shops, and a "Sorry the Brita's empty."


On the fifth day of Christmas, my kitties gave to me…FIVE YUCKY THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Do it now’s,” three paper airplanes, two taco joints, and a plate full of pasta for me.


On the sixth day of Christmas, my good friends gave to me…six rolls o’ sushi, FIVE HALF-DEAD THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Doing great's,” three sticker books, two festivals, and some Kombat on the Wii.


On the seventh day of Christmas, my sisters gave to me…seven calls o’ gossip, six dates with bacon, FIVE INNARD THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Write your thank-you’s,” three twigs and leaves, two clean playlots, and a kiss on my bruise-d knee.


On the eighth day of Christmas, my homestead gave to me…eight wonky fixtures, seven rants o’ lifestyle, six Pinot Grigios, FIVE MASSAGE-Y THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Go to bed’s," three trampolines, two new parades, and some programmes on the TV.


On the ninth day of Christmas, my daughter gave to me…nine gleeful babbles, eight missing light bulbs, seven money crises, six spicy tunas, FIVE SCRATCHED-UP THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Have you done it’s," three princess wands, two vintage shops, and a love song sung on key.


On the tenth day of Christmas, my Blogger gave to me…ten featured postings, nine bossy gurgles, eight crazy neighbors, seven Call You Right Back's, six fried-up dumplings, FIVE COUGHED-UP THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four "You're my favorite's," three tutus, two car alarms, and a bag of my favorite coffee.


On the eleventh day of Christmas, the theatre gave to me…eleven brand new playwrights, ten front page write-ups, nine pointed mandates, eight scary thuddings, seven belly-laughings, six pickled gingers, FIVE LOUD YOWLIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four "Eat your crust's," three mysteries, two barking dogs, and a trip to see the sea.


On the twelfth day of Christmas, my conscience gave to me…twelve thankful feelings, eleven non-eq epics, ten full page ads, nine 'dis' and 'dats,' eight "The smell is fading's," seven "Love you- bye now's," six sauce with goat cheese, FIVE GLAD PURRIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four thumbs way up, three crayon hearts, two lakefront naps, and permission to Feng Shui.


(Merry Christmas!)

All is true.

Why, Amit, WHY?

[Note: As I sit here in the drafty front room of my chilly abode in the downright frozen town of Chicago...I am having a really hard time keeping my chenille blanket about my shoulders as I type. That's right- I CLEARLY NEED A SNUGGIE AS I AM COLD YET ACTIVE. 

Note note: I did not get paid for this post. (Nor for the mentions of Snuggies or any other product herein.) This is not a review. It is a love song from my heart to a business' ears.

Thank you.]

And now, An Open Letter To Amazon.com.

Dear Amazon.com,

I love you.

You have changed my life, and- more importantly- my shopping habits. Before you came along, I used to actually have to go to the store. If I wanted something, I had to search for the best deals and varieties on foot. In person. Usually with a baby and diaper bag and something else really heavy in my arms. 

Your site sells everything. EVERYTHING. In a relatively short period of time, I've come to think of the word 'Amazon' as one of those wonderfully ubiquitous things like 'Google' or 'Kleenex' or 'Bandaid' or 'Jello.'

And guess what? You've recently made my instant gratification instantlier and infinitely more gratifying. Simply by guessing that since I buy diaper rash ointment vats large enough in which to backfloat, I must be a Mom.

And your new program Amazon Mom allows me to have Amazon Prime for free. For doing nothing. Nothing, that is, besides buying really awesome stuff for my kid and having it within two days. And now I get it completely free of charge, with no strings or fees or anything ever. Twenty five bucks worth of qualifying purchases for each free month of Prime? Yeah, I think I can swing that. (Especially since you guys are wonderfully loose in your definition of what a 'Mom' should buy. Proving that you are intelligent as well as convenient.)

Here's the truth: I've done 120% of my Christmas shopping on your site. I've made over thirty individual orders and had them all within 48 hours- again, with free two day shipping- and with lower prices than other sites. Trust me, I know. (I'm a Mom, remember? We know stuff.) Some of my purchases have even raced me across the country in my travels- and won.

One purchase didn't make its destination. You guys replaced it, no questions asked. My husband doesn't even give me that kind of leeway, and he likes me a LOT. 

Yesterday morning we realized that we had forgotten a present for one of our nephews- and ten minutes later it was out the door before I had managed to even shower. That's right, besides being good for our wallet, you have also ensured we are not going to be the awful relations this year. 

The other day as I was driving home with my daughter, singing Christmas carols along with the radio and feeling full of the holiday spirit, I gave thanks for you, Amazon.com. I am so serious. I actually felt such a welling-up of gratitude that it gave me a chill. Being a person who does not consider The Mall an integral part of the holiday process, I have so thoroughly enjoyed browsing and hand-selecting gifts for eleven million people (all with completely opposing tastes), sending them on their way within moments, and then being done with holiday shopping forever and ever, Amen.

This frees up more time for drinking mulled wine out of boots, crying over children's movies, and badgering my husband about my present. I think it's safe to say that we all thank you.

In closing, you are fast and powerful and I will never pay for shipping ever again. 

Exuberantly,

Keely

***

And now, to be fair and balanced, here is my sister Kate's actual transcript with Amazon.com customer service when she was trying to hook up her credit card to her rewards points. The conversation took 27 minutes and, at one point, the rep didn't respond for 8. Also, check out some of his gems. I've put my favorites in bold. Enter, Amit:

Kate: Hello. This evening I linked my AMEX membership rewards points account to my Amazon account. I see that they are linked, however, when I go to check out and pay, I am not given the option to select that credit card/points for purchase. Thanks.

Amit: Hello, my name is Amit. I will be happy to help you today. Please allow me a quick moment while I pull up your account. You do not see that option, correct?

Kate: Correct. I have three credit cards saved in my account. When I go to check out, only one of them in visible/able to be selected and it is NOT the one linked to my rewards points.

Amit: I too see that. Are you selecting a different address this time Kate?

Kate: For delivery, you mean? Yes, they are going to different addresses. If you mean something else by different address, I'm not sure what it is.

Amit: I mean place the orders with your address, let us see if we see that credit card. I can always change the address.

Kate: I'm still not understanding what you mean. Do you mean that I should try to place the order all going to my billing address? And if that works then you will change the shipping addresses for each item? I have 18 items going to different addresses, so I'm not sure that's an easy way to go ahead. Is there no way to instead get all of my credit cards to prepopulate on the payment page?

Amit: I do not have to change them individually. All are Amazon items.

Kate: Please explain to me how doing this process will affect the ability for my stored credit cards to show up on my account. It seems to me that no matter where I want to send my purchases, all of my saved credit cards should be available to me at check out. [Eight minutes later.] Amit? Are you there?

Amit: For security reasons when you enter a new address credit card should be entered in full. I am here.

Kate: I do understand that. None of these were new addresses. Yet only one credit card is available.

Amit: How can it be?

Kate: I just went back through and changed them all to my home shipping and billing address. This time, only two of the three credit cards were available, but not the one linked to my AMEX rewards. It seems as though something isn't working properly on the checkout end of things. 

Amit: If you select your own billing address as the shipping address then what is happening?

Kate: How can it be? That is why I'm chatting with you. I was hoping to get help resolving this problem. YES, precisely. If I select my own billing address as the shipping address for all 18 items, only two of the three credit cards are available. However when I go into my account and look at payment options, all three credit cards are there. When I have the items going to different shipping addresses, only one credit card is available.

Amit: I did not mean to hurt you Kate. I see three cards also.

Kate: All that I am trying to do is pay for my purchases but I need access to all of my credit cards.

Amit: Would request you to try to place the order after some time. There might be a technical issue now.

Kate: Is this something you could report then, in hopes that it could get fixed promptly? Thanks.

Amit: I will surely escalate it to my manager Kate.

After all of this, Kate filled out a survey for 'Amit' and was asked if she would like a call to resolve this issue. She said what the heck and agreed...only to find out that the call back was unavailable. Shortly thereafter she received another super secret number to call and reached a gal named Kristy. Who fixed everything, and- I'm assuming- didn't take things quite so personally.

Ah, Amit.

You're like the friend of the sixth grader I'm dancing with (I'm in sixth grade in this scenario, too) who keeps butting in and asking if we're in love yet. No, and STOP RUINING EVERYTHING. 


I still think Amazon Mom trumps The Amit Defeat (get it? Get it?)


And yeah, sure, maybe I pulled up that middle school scenario way too easily. But I think we can all agree that it caused a pretty visceral and instant recognition, yeah? Yeah?


Merry Christmas week. 

Christmas + Birthday= Featured Day.

Today I am the luckiest- and stokiest- to be featured at The SITS Girls! They're a fabulous community of over 7000 gals, all of whom have stellar blogs and thrive on supporting each other. And today it's me. And that is unreal awesome.

To the newest visitors: Hi! I'm Keely/Kiki/Mom (that last one is rather selective.) On any given day I'm a combo of writer, nanny, actress, mother, wife, sister, daughter, and overeager Feng Shui enthusiast. I am a superb napper. I cannot count without using my fingers. I know every bit of Hair Metal trivia ever...and can hold my own with a few other genres as well. I blog about all of these things with nary a through-line. Also, punctuation is rarely my friend.

These two are P.J. and Nora Jane (with some random girl at the otter tank.) They are, together and individually, the coolest things that have ever happened to me. He's an actor, sound designer, software guy and hero. She's the smallest mobile person ever and a personal source of hilarity and glee. They feature largely in this blog, as does the city of Chicago. And our Money Pit of a house. Also- Bean and Ender, the catz.

To get you started- three of my best [funniest/weirdly popular] posts:

The Tearjerker

How P.J. Annihilated An Unwanted Houseguest

...and Keely Yells At The Magazines

Thank you so much to SITS and all of the visiting gals! I'd love it if you followed the blog on Facebook... or Twitter...or, you know, here.

Here works, too.

It's the little ones you hafta watch.

Bath Pingu also frightens me.

I am easily frightened. I think we all can agree on that. However, the other day my bravery reached an all new low.

I was taking advantage of a quiet/resting Nora by doing all sorts of exotic and glamorous activities in the upstairs bathroom; brushing my teeth, using moisturizer, contemplating a braid.

Glancing up into the mirror, I saw into Nora's open room through the reflection. I saw her crib, I saw her lovies, I saw...her miniature face staring at me through the bars, in a position she had clearly been holding for a good while.

She giggled at being seen. Maybe she also laughed at how hard my heart thudded against my ribcage. That's right, I was completely freaked out by the image of my own kid. The idea of anyone staring at me without my knowledge, no matter how related they may or may not be, still gives me a chill. Yup, even typing this- chill. And I don't know, but I'm pretty sure catching anything in a reflection is even creepier. Like- oh man, it's coming to get me and I haven't even turned around yet!

This could all easily be traced back to the misjudgment on my part of tearing through the entire series of Twin Peaks in two days. I pretty much always expect someone to crawl out of the furniture or dance backwards or do something equally terrifying.

On a somewhat tangential note- did anyone catch the Twin Peaks episode of Psych? Sheer, awesomesauce brilliance. They nailed it. Cadence, character, creepiosity...and poor P.J. barely saw any of it, due to my squeezing of his arm and squealing of his eardrums about that NAME and oh my goodness that's an ANAGRAM and that was the SONG they...(etc.) But it's okay. He wasn't a thousand percent invested as a) he oddly falls asleep towards the end of Psych episodes and b) he's actually never finished Twin Peaks. He's still pretty sure Laura Palmer's gonna be okay.

Back to the fears.

I really don't have a [shivery] leg to stand on, what with my penchant for scaring the bejeebers out of my poor parents. My Dad likes to tell the story of how I sleepwalked my way into the fridge. Or that time I made it outside. I personally like the time I ended up mid-staircase.

My Mom's zinger came the night I ended up standing over her sleeping body, staring evilly and chomping on something indeterminate. After a lot of incomprehensible babble [on my part] and prying of the jaws [on hers,] it was concluded that I had stolen the toothpaste cap and had attempted to grind it to death.

She put it back. And, I'm assuming, me as well. But man, what a freakish way to be woken!

That is why I- one thousand and two percent of the time- sleep with a blanket over my ears and up to my forehead, making a little tent for breathing room. (I tried to get my sister Kate to help me invent elastic straps to keep sheets securely fastened to the ears- but nooo.)

It's a well known fact that the mere presence of a blanket acts as a barrier to all sorts of undesirables: axe murderers, ghosts, vampires, hooligans, ruffians, and cats.

Okay, it actually encourages the cats.

I really hope Nora hasn't inherited these phobias from me. I'm pretty sure she's okay so far, given that she's the toughest thing around. From falling onto her back [Oh wowww] to laughing like a loon when upside down (something her folks have never and will never be cool with for themselves), she's a Brave Little Toaster already.

And P.J.'s a pretty brave guy, what with the [reluctant] hunting of That Sound Downstairs and going outside at all hours to Have A Word With The Neighbors.

He's already planning on taking big kid Nora to theme parks for their birthday week. I can just see them now- rollercoasters, splash rides, crazy spinny things in the dark...

...And I'll see them just fine from my perch on the kiddie carousel.

We Won't Go Until We Get Some.

I am not remotely done with the Christmas songs.

Whilst in the car the other day, Nora and I heard the cheerful lyrics of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. This is one of those songs that, for me, is so completely ingrained in my mind and memory of Christmas that I have fully stopped noticing the words. Until the car ride. Can you imagine if actual carolers came to your door one night? (This sort of merriment may occur in more refined and neighborhoody places- but if someone rings the bell in Albany Park after 8pm, your left hand's on the door and a Louisville Slugger's in your right.)

Okay, with me so far? It's late at night (yes, 8pm is LATE) and people are non-violently in front of your house. They are singing at you- which, as anyone with a schoolyear birth date can attest- can be rather awkward.

And then they want snacks.

Not just any snacks.

Pudding.

Figgy pudding.

(At this point in the song I'm wondering if 'figgy pudding' is the kind of treat that these folks are used to in the comfort of their own homes, or if they're just hoping to hit the snack lottery. Like if I went to my neighbor's house and screamed "Mussels fra diavolo!")

All of the aforementioned is weird, right? Especially towards the end of the song when they start outright demanding it. Give it right here. Merry Christmas.

Side note- (Also, did you know that 'Side Note' is the actual title to this blog?)- ever since my scree on Dominick the Donkey, it now plays no less than four times a night on our XM radio. P.J. can back me up on this, since it's usually he who sprints to change the channel.

And on the topic of radio stations, does anyone in Chicago listen to Lite FM's Christmas Wish shebang? (That is not the real name, I was just feeling jaunty.) Basically, people call or write in with their big Christmas wish and the radio station grants them multiple times per day. (I have tried to figure out a rhyme or reason or schedule for these free-for-alls. I cannot.)

Early in the season, I briefly entertained the idea of writing and begging for a Vespa or a closet with a shelf or two and a lightbulb. Then, once I heard the wishes being fulfilled on the air, I realized why I could never ever ever go through with my paltry demands.

These folks that get chosen? They have STORIES. Most of them have lost their jobs, someone in the family's always ridiculously sick and/or has died, the Mom has run off in more than a few of the cases, and no one has socks.

The only thing we really have in common is that I do not currently possess an abundance of matched, non-holey socks.

And they want one present for their kid. Or something to make for Christmas dinner. This one woman the other morning was the sole breadwinner for her son and his kids ('cause the mother had run off and her son had lost his job.) She was 72.

These stories always make me tear up and make me feel like the spoiled, white, middle class kid that I am. They're wishing for a special meal and I'm whining about carbs.

So to add to the mother guilt and Catholic guilt and American guilt...I can now safely acknowledge my Christmas guilt.

So I donated to the Arbor Day Foundation. (Yes, I am a card-carrying member, thankyouverymuch.)

And I gave to St. Jude's Children Hospital. (I CANNOT handle the St. Jude letters. Ugly cry x a million.)

And we adopted a family for Christmas presents.

We over-tipped our paper route kid and mail carrier and cat sitter.

Basically, I am trying to be generous and thank those around me and attempt to atone for the fact that, the other eleven months of the year, I am a horrid human being who does not eat bread crusts and instead throws them away.

I will strive to be less awful in 2011.

Anyone have any favorite charities that I haven't even realized I should acknowledge and fret over? Please list them below. 2011= Philanthropy Year!

Peej is gonna love this one.

The menagerie's full.

Many of you are hyper aware of my love affair with Earnest Music. (I initially typed 'Ernest.' That would be amazing. And most likely earnest as well. 'Camp' and 'jail' will do that to you.)

My earnestitude hits a whole new high around Christmastime. Holiday songs = country music + rhyming poetry on the scale of I Mean This Message Quite Deeply. But I dig 'em anyhow. A lot. Our radio has been tuned to the Christmas station since two weeks before Thanksgiving. That can cause some serious holiday earworms.

[Side note- If ever I am forced to hear Dominick the Donkey again, I will perhaps become homicidal. HEE haw HEE haw.]

[Side side note- A darling friend from middle school loved this song so much that she put it on a holiday mix CD for me. Twice. Intentionally. Despite this, I was thrilled to count her among my bridesmaids much, much later. But seriously. In the age of digital recording...I really could've easily skipped backwards on the track listing to hear Dominick bray again. Which would never, ever willingly happen.]

But there are certain holiday songs that just GET me. Quite embarrassingly, too. For instance- O Holy Night. Oh sure, it starts off innocuously enough with mention of how brightly the stars are shining and how special that evening is. Yep, I'm thinking- sure is a nice holiday song. Then the chorus hits. [Faaaaaaaaall...on your kneeeeeeeeeeees...] And suddenly I'm all like- wow. The notes are going up and up and up and the singer's gonna unleash a descant in a second or two. And then they do. Full voice. And I WEEP.

And Peej usually starts laughing, because- more often than not- I'm in the car with him when this happens. Or washing dishes at the end of the day. Then POW. Goosebumps and actual tears in the eyes. And then I do my embarrassed sniffle, the one that makes it more awkward that I'm clearly crying over nothing. And lemme tell you- there are few things worse than pretending you're not crying over something trivial while someone laughs [at you.]

Okay, there are many, many things worse than that scenario. But it's still pretty pathetic.

It gets worse.

You know who frequently covers songs like this? Crooners. Full-voiced, multi-octaved soft rock singers. That's right, let's add some more fuel to my furnace of shame. I am bawling to the melodic stylings of JOSH GROBAN AND CELINE DION. (Whom, let's not forget, I can seriously jam out to.) But it really doesn't help my case.

I recently stumbled across this version as well. I do not cry to it. Except with laughter. (Please do yourself a favor and listen to it in its [glorious] entirety. He really lets it wail at the end. Even replaying it in my mind, I'm trying super hard not to pee.)

So there's that.

Another semi-awkward bout with outward emotion always occurs when I watch Claymation Christmas. (Jim Henson Productions equate buckets of tears, apparently.) Man oh man, We Three Kings sung by the wise men and some sunglass-wearing camels is the absolute tops. And Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer as jammed out by The California Raisins is epic. (Does it bother me in the least that I'm thoroughly believing the activities of walking and talking raisins? Nope. I once watched an episode of their TV show in the '80s and was incredibly invested in the unfolding story of one of the female Raisins' (Raisinettes?) struggle with self confidence. When she managed to rock out a solo at the end of the show and shared a kiss with the lead(?) Raisin, I remember being really choked up. This is so true.)

However, I'd still choose the O Holy Night dude AND public sobbing (maybe even public California Raisin admiration) over Dominick the Donkey.

Hee haw, indeed.

December 6th...that day sounds familiar...

Happy Feast of Saint Nicholas!

Just what I asked for!

Here is how we celebrated this morning:
 -One of us filled a miniature boot and two normal-sized boots with candy, advent calendars and a rubber reindeer duck.
-One of us peed through one of our jammies/bedding/lovies/sleepsack.
-One of us spilled coffee on ourselves whilst trying to eat a Snickers bar shaped like a Nutcracker.

I'll leave it as anonymously as that.

Okay, so now it's fully and terrifically the Christmas season. We've got two of the major checklist items already notched; the tree and the Christkindlmarket boot.

The tree is courtesy of Home Depot (thirty buck tree and they tie it onto your car? Boy, long gone are the days of me having to heft the thing with P.J./whine about it until he threatens to cancel the holiday.) And boy oh boy- is there any more 'Dad' thing than the whole tree endeavor? I'm pretty sure it's one of those events that automatically straps a Bjorn onto your chest and peppers your temples with grey.

The choosing. The turning. The "helping" the guy attach it to the roof. Lugging it inside. Standing it up. Adjusting it. Adjusting it. Adjusting- (Keely, it's fine!) Watering it. Adjusting it. Looking in the circular for a cheaper holiday greenery coupon. Having remorse. Being convinced that all of the needles are falling off. Hoping you got a fresh tree. [Taking a break to listen to NPR and Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.] Going outside to hang the lights. Coming back inside and muttering about the needles. Admitting a balsam does smell best. Emoting at the string of non-working lights. Randomly announcing that they work, you just saw them work. "Helping" your wife hang ornaments- if she lets you. Setting the timer for the Christmas lights and staring them down, as if into submission. Bed.

Nora wants one, too.

And the Market is a must for a true Chicagoan...who doesn't mind hordes of pushy crowds and overpriced mulled wine in a smallish boot. This year it's red. The boot, that is. (The crowds were multi-colored on their outers and crabby on their inners.) The newly redesigned boot (more of a heel and a narrower toe- like a city boot) is going to join his brethren on our kitchen countertop for the holidays...it's like an elf came and lost his footwear every year from 2006 'til now. And there's a mug from '02- how boring- and, inexplicably, nothing from '03-'05. (Anyone have those years? I would happily swap it out for another mug in my collection- perhaps one with an ironic saying? Let's not forget Elsie the cow.)

This jaunt to the Christkindlmarket was the very first time that I cared more about the line to meet Santa Claus as opposed to the line to get the mulled boot. If that's not indicative of something, then...I don't know what is. Maybe something else Nora-related. But if I was gonna force Nora to interact with someone whom she probably wasn't going to enjoy hugging, I really didn't want to stand outside in the cold with her for an hour beforehand.

But I needn't have worried. The North Pole beneath the gigantic tree had it together. We were in line for less than ten minutes. Mrs. Claus let us inside. (We got a picture. Nora is warily eyeing The Missus.) A few minutes later- the big guy himself! And he was the real deal. Kinder and gentler than I would've been at that point in the day. And even when Nora shifted from concern to outright doneitude, he patted her arm and told her what a good job she had done. Or maybe he was talking to us. Either way, he made our first Santa visit a screaming success.

Now Nora and I are off to celebrate the rest of my half birthd- Feast of St. Nicholas. I imagine that there will be a lot of "patpatpatting" of the lower tree branches [Nora] and a bit more chocolate-nabbing [me.]

Maybe some sheet-washing and boot-emptying.

'Tis the season.

3...2...1...

P.S...See that 'Vote For Me' box up there on the left-hand side? If you click it once, you'll give me a vote. (Of confidence.) Basically, they've restructured their site- yet again- and I've lost all of my votes. I miss them dearly. One click- reduced from two!- and no emails, etc., needed. Do it every day! Or...maybe just today?

Okay, I love you, back to the candy. 

This was no ordinary unicorn...

Get to work. Maybe comb that hair.

The other day I was asked- by more than one person- what I was "working on" these days.

Writing, I replied.

Real writing? They asked. Or just blogging?

Which made me think. 'Cause it's true- what initially began as a creative outlet for my projects and an incentive to keep going has rapidly become the norm in terms of output. And it's not like I don't have a plethora of other thingies on which to work. I do. Tons.

But here's the kicker: none of them are [yet] on the interwebz.

Thusly, the instant gratification of publication and glory of crazy page views is nonexistent. Meaning- I have to write it for good ol' fashioned personal purposes. And hope that someone with the ability to dole out paychecks will a) read it, b) pay me, and c) put it on the interwebz. Sure, the majority of stuff that I write about on this blog is Not Art, but do you see my conundrum? I'm already attaining the end result of publication, sans paycheck. Or glory.

Okay, it's not a conundrum so much as laziness.

'Cause here's the thing- I AM lazy. I can hear you thinking to yourself [Mom]: Keely, you are NOT lazy. You are energetic and wonderful and beautiful and fiercely intelligent.

And while two of those things are undoubtedly true, the busy work with which I exhaust my husband is not the product of non-laziness, but rather a childlike and irritating OCDesque tendency to do what feels right for that very moment until it stops being exciting and then it's time for a nap. I am a furniture-moving hedonist.

How does this affect my Good Writing? Well, it's a two-fold answer. The first part is this: anything remotely witty or funny or weird I immediately reserve for the blog. And use a ton of energy to [stupidly] make awkwardly long essays on Mondays and Thursdays. (Why are they so long? I have no editor. That's another one of those "paycheck" things.)

The second part concerns the snippets of time wherein I actually feel like producing actual words on paper. If and when the stars align- Nora is napping/I am caffeinated/the furniture isn't bugging me- then I usually feel a guilty twinge about starting the next blog post. Because- and this is the special part- the [minor] success of the blog has ensured that I value [obsess over] reader comments and feedback. And since I've been gently reminded [berated] to post when I'm an hour or two late, I certainly don't want to offend/lose my audience/feel even more guilt over my inability to just get one more thing done OH MY GOD THAT OTTOMAN IS ALL WRONG.

This is a very long-winded way of announcing that today's blog may suffer a tad in Awesome. As will the state of Feng Shui in my house. For my resolution in the month of December (New Year's? Yeah- anyone can do that) is to stop being such a leech of time and energy.

For example, if I played Farmville? I would stop.

That hour after Nora goes to bed and right before I watch some programmes? I will stop whining to P.J. about How. Much. I. Have. To. Do. And I may actually do it.

I shall expand my workable [writeable] hours to now include right before bed (too sleeeeepy), while Nora's happily playing with her Miniature Army of Cute ('cause while I usually say that I'm trying to be In The Moment with her...I'm really just checking Facebook statuses on my iPhone) and I may even start to include some unorthodox methods of writing such as using actual paper and pens.

I will finish plays and one-acts and short stories and essays and that book about snarky unicorns. (Intrigued? Okay, it's really about babies and falling-down houses. But that raises an excellent question- would you buy a book about a snarky unicorn? 'Cause that could totally be bumped up on the priority list.)

Starting now.

Or maybe after work.

If Nora goes to sleep smoothly and there isn't too much carnage to pretend to clean.

But definitely tomorrow morning.

Because a [writing] writer's lifestyle is possible to maintain and that's my point. It is. Possible and my point. Both.

The End.

For now.

Times a million minus a nap.

***

"Once upon a time, there was a marvelous horned beast named Chester..." <---(How's it done.)