Back to reality...and the inflatable giraffe pool.

Happy Day After Memorial Day, everyone!

Or, to The Monkey, Happy 21 weeks.

To Peej- Happy Day Back At Work...

And to me, Happy Oh My God, There's A Lot Of Laundry Here- and How Long Was That Sippy Cup Stuck Under The Passenger Seat, Anyway Day. (Observed.)

Some weekend highlights: Family, naps, pooltime, Skyline cheese coneys, miniature people in sundresses, multiple improbable yet highly successful mammoth group photos, a stunning black tie wedding, dancing with my husband...and other people's husbands, more food, more family, and one more nap.

A note on all of the foodliness- my in-laws are terrific cooks. They throw together a mean meal. (Or seven.) Cincinnati has some of the best fast food options in the nation. The wedding meal featured filet mignon with lobster ON TOP OF IT. (As I said to Peej- lobster again?) The passed hors d'oeuvres were so intensely good that I flirted with a waiter and somehow got him to seek me out each time the cheese puffs came out of the kitchen. (No big deal, you're saying? I'm five months pregnant. That requires a serious A game.)

Also, a tiny missive to the wedding bands of the world- When you start a reception with a live version of 'Brick House,' it makes me seriously question your intention to have this party "go all night."

Back to the family.

There was a cousin bath. (Of just the Little Littles. The Middle Littles helped while the Bigs looked on and the Parents attempted to shampoo.)

The paparazzi are EVERYWHERE,

There were two really yummy brunches. One featured a hammock. (For the Middle Littles, obvie.)

Just about at capacity.

We (in Peej's immediate family) cleaned up pretty nicely. And most of us stayed still. (Looking at you, Schoeny.) That joke is even funnier in this context.

Pic courtesy of Leah Brady Photography

And between P.J.'s siblings and their first cousins, Nora hung out with seventeen other little relatives this weekend. Most of them were blonde. This is also where the fabulous sundresses came in. Finally, one last pic just to illustrate two incredibly important points:

Also by Leah Brady!

My daughter is positively edible.

And I smile way too hard.

From somewhere in the Midwest...

Happy Memorial Day!

In light of the fact that many of you are traveling...and many of you are on your third brunch of the weekend- for example- we're gonna go ahead and do a real post tomorrow.

Love and thanks and hopes for a wundy day,

Keel n' Peej n' N.J.

Thumbnail pic courtesy of Clark Street Photography
Happy weekend, indeed!

Monkey in the middle...of my bladder.

An Open Letter To My As-Yet Unborn Baby...

(Whom My Mother Thinks We've Found Out The Gender Of...)

(But No, We're Still Waiting To Be Surprised...)

(Even Though I Kinda Think You're A Little Girl...)

(But Look How Accurate My Psychic Prowess Turned Out During The Last Pregnancy...)

(When We Had Your Sister- A Girl. And Not A Boy.)

(I Really Hafta Learn To Condense Before I'm In Charge Of Your Baby Book.)

Hi, little baby. You're 13 ounces humongo now. I do not have hopes that you will be some sort of giant or giantess, as your Dad is of average height (note: never refer to a guy as "short," even if you know a lot of tall people. Not if you really like him, anyway) and I'm just happy to have cleared Nana Alice's lofty 4'11". As for your sister, she's the original Thumbelina.

We had your 20 week appointment today and you did great! We're going back next week for an actual profile shot and some back measurements, but I don't really mind. And sure, you rebelled at the prodding and poking and stress (I did too, but less obviously) by covering your face with your hands. I know this move. I invented this move. We will be friends.

Okay, turn your head to the side. Pretend the thing in the middle
is someone kissing a photocopier. Lips and nose. Crazy, right?

Right now you're breech- but you know what? Your sis was, too. And we think she's just the coolest. And I totally get why we could only get an eyeful of one foot at a time. Stretching is important. So are Pilates. The Flying Wallenda thing you've been doing during the day could use a breather, but I'm not a stifler. Be free! Kick my spleen...but only if it makes you Happy. And if the spleen Treats You Well. (The Money Will Come.)

I want to apologize for the crazy amount of heat we ingested two nights ago. Your Dad and I were celebrating with insanely good Thai food- and I guess I got a little carried away, what with the superpower you've given me of being immune to chilies. (Usually after curry I look like a bad Botox patient with emphysema. (You don't know what either of those are. May you never.) Regardless, I was tempted, it was delicious, and you showed your displeasure with Swiss timepiece-like precision throughout the wee hours of the morning. Point to you, shorty. The bladder action was particularly devious...although that could have easily been on me, what with the pitcher of water I consumed between each of the seven courses. 

Speaking of food, do you like liverwurst or do you just like making me eat amounts of it for which even a puppy would feel shame? Either way, we're not slowing. And the shame has yet to come.

The best shadow puppet bird I have EVER seen.

A note- that voice that you hear at night? The one that gets way up close to where [we guess] your head is and sings/speaks soothingly/snores? That's your Dad. He loves you. And you, for your part, already have his mouth. Surprise, surprise. Though, if I had to wager, you've also already got my temper. Speaking of your sister, she's the one with the bossy sentences and emphatic labeling tendencies. Her voice is much higher pitched and also much louder- but that last part is because of her constant proximity to your face. [We guess.] She loves you, too, and tells you this constantly through my bellybutton...but at this point, she actually believes that you are the bellybutton. So we'll gently ease her into this new role, shall we? For now, I hope you like the stickers and murmured choruses of "rockabee."

Sleep well tonight, Monkey. I promise to quit rolling around so much...if you do, too.

Kicky Joe.

I love you more than all of the liverwurst and pickles in the world (and other stuff that non-crazy people like as well) and can't wait to kiss your button nose.

If you'll ever let me see it.

Wordless...except for the title and caption. And tags. And signatures.

Snacktime for Shorties.

Playing favorites.

Thanks to Trop50 for sponsoring my writing about fabulous bloggers. This year Trop50 is granting 50 Fabulous Wishes. Click here to enter for a chance to win $1,000 to celebrate a friend with a refreshing attitude about looking and feeling fabulous!

***

Okay, so I get to list five brilliant bloggers? Instead of being intimidated by this challenged, I was actually a little worried. Only five? (I do love me some interwebz-readin'.) So, with apologies to the eleventy other close, personal pals with terrific bloggy stylings, here are some perk-up-your-day, never-fail-to-make-me-smile reads from gals that I adore. (Also, hyphens.)

Kate at Grant Wishes has, hands-down, the most charming blog in the cosmos. Here's why: her subject matter (her three little dudes) are positively edible, she takes great photos of their life outside of Boston, and she has various themes that I truly dig; a daily thankful thought (even on those days that can be less than stellar) and two new columns that never fail to make me wet my pants. (Did I really say that and Did you hear that are primo examples of how strange and rad parenting can be.) Her husband Tom- who travels a lot for business- has his own column featuring adventurous pix of Leo, the boys' finger puppet lion, who gets to go on all of Dad's business trips. (Leo lives well.) All of these features- plus the fact that Kate updates nearly every day- makes for a good daily check-in. Also, she knows more about trucks and machinery than she ever could have planned for back in college.

Brie writes Pat and Brie Plus Three, which- yes- is technically another blog I love written by a mother. However, I wouldn't exactly call her a Mommy Blogger. She's more the Post Your Bail After Buying The Last Round Of Shots Blogger. What's more, she makes me guffaw. Guffaw, I tell you. Her stories are dirty, inappropriate for work, and quite possibly some of the funniest stuff online. Her Christmas memories post makes me cry with laughter. And sure, I cry a lot, but you know how sometimes I cry until I wheeze and hyperventilate and shake with spasms of tears? Like that. Brie's kids are also ridiculously cute, so there's that, too.

They even made their own wedding cake.

Cindy and Julia are good friends of mine. My husband married them. (This is true. Well, actually, they married each other, but he facilitated and got to stand up there looking all cute and cheerful with the brides.) They write a blog entitled What's for Dinner...but that may change shortly, as they're gonna expand into all levels of craftiness and awesomesaucity. I look forward to this, because these ladies are seriously talented. Besides being gourmands (if you're really nice, they might just make you a tart. And this tart might just make you cry) and fashionistas (they started a business called Crafty Broads wherein they design and tailor your clothes), they are also stage managers. Which means they are in charge of everything.

Huckleberry Flynn is penned by a gal named Emily whom I've known for her entire life- even before she was big enough to steal all of my toys. Regardless, she writes some of the funniest lyrical dissection this side of the Mississippi (although, to be fair, I haven't checked in recently with the other side of the river lately). Even though she occasionally strays back into the world of Sustainability (where she gets paid, yo), and traveling (she once slept tied to a ship's crow's nest while spending a semester at sea- but having seen how deeply she can sleep, it's not really that impressive), she endeavors to post as often as her glamorous life allows. Every single time a new link appears, I know I will laugh until I pee. (This is clearly the highest compliment I know.) Check out her take on Bruno Mars' Marry You. Her Skymall recap is also hilarious- and disturbingly informative.

Bogglingly joyful.

Laura and I have been friends since grade school. Even though we haven't lived in the same state (or time zone) for many years, I adore keeping up with her travels on I'll Take You In My Backpack. Recently, she's lived in Alaska, Japan, and now Guam. (The other day I went to a city park on the northside of town and was exhausted by my jaunt. For an example of my own comparative non-traveliness.) She remains upbeat and incredibly cool, despite the recent natural disasters in Japan- and, more recently, a burst eardrum while in her new locale. In fact, her arrival to each location has been marked by a separate earthquake each and every time. Alaska. Japan. Guam. Yep. So, good God, don't just go give her a gander...give her some love. (Also ask her if she remembers my Jonathan Brandis Trapper Keeper from seventh grade [mandatory] shop class.)

So there you go. You have no more excuses for doing your job or going to bed on time.

Get readin'.

And then come back here. 'Cause I'll always love you best.

***

Don't forget to enter the 50 Fabulous Wishes contest for a chance to win $1,000 to celebrate a friend with a refreshing attitude about looking and feeling fabulous. I was selected for this Tropicana Trop50 sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do. I received compensation to use and facilitate my post.

Get in the house.

Little kids.

The traditional third anniversary gift is leather. The modern one is crystal, or- if one is feeling frugal- glass.

I am giving P.J. none of these tomorrow.

Instead, today I'll regale everyone with one of the best Peej stories in the history of...maybe ever. (Although, when this tale occurred I was carrying an awesome leather bag and P.J. almost got his face smashed through glass. So to anyone who still feels that this blog has no tie-ins, well, I just laugh at you, sir.)

Okay. So this was back in the late summer of 2005. Our relationship was squeaky new (and a fortunately small group of people had taken to calling us "KeeJay"). I was twenty five. Peej was a positively toddler-esque twenty four. And we had been out late. The show in which we had performed had ended for the weekend and we had- quite possibly- stayed a little too long at the After Hours bar. And while we certainly weren't drunk, one of us was a little more tired than polite conversation demanded.

Our cab let us off on the busy intersection near my studio apartment and we began our walk towards it. Halfway down my tree-lined block, a car whizzed by- way closer to the parked cars and entirely faster than P.J. deemed appropriate. In true P.J. fashion, he yelled after it.

"This is a residential neighborhood!"

Out of nowhere, a smallish group of Wrigleyville jocks appeared on the other end of the block. Telling P.J. to stop being such an expletive and yelling at them.

P.J. explained- loudly- that he wasn't TALKING to them.

Expletive.

Expletive.

Quicker than you can say "full body cast," we were surrounded by the frattiest looking group of White Hats- and one trashed and trashy-looking girl. Awesome.

They demanded to know all about P.J.'s beef with various issues. Peej conjectured that speeds of that car's nature were unsafe this early in the a.m. It got rather heated, but not too unmanageable.

Until a hand reached out and shoved P.J.'s back. Which propelled him into the chest of the largest guy- with the White Hat most firmly turned backwards. Then came a lovely shoving backwards and forwards of various hands into various chests. Now, I'm no psychic, but I knew how this short story would end. Especially since this little, red-headed dude kept popping his face into P.J.'s and demanding to know "who was talking now."

There was a momentary lull in the action, which enabled P.J. to turn and offer up the most P.J. of all phrases he would ever utter to me, be it past, present, or future-

"Get in the house."

Oh, OKAY. I'll just leave you to your pummelly death then, shall I? Okie doke. I'll start getting ready for bed.

I ignored this advice, much to P.J.'s confusion. (Like I said, we were really new.) I then decided that this mission needed an ambassador mission and turned to the drunk girl.

"This is crazy," I informed her. "We need to stop this."

"My baby's gotta take care of me, you know?" She actually slurred at me. "He protects me from people disrespecting."

Uh, sure, Useless Girl With Imagined Slights. I chalked her up to be the least valuable person involved in the skirmish- maybe the city- and turned to one of the guys not currently shoving the boy I had decided would father my child in four and a half years.

"Please," I begged him. "This is stupid. I live right here and he hadn't even been talking to you. We almost got hit by a car!" I omitted P.J.'s strong feelings on speed bump necessities and also the gin and tonic- which I had just decided would be stricken from his drink menu until I died. (Which was looking pretty imminent.)

For some reason, this guy took pity on me. Or perhaps he felt something (respect? incredulousness?) towards P.J. fighting off six guys.

"Hey." And they stopped. It was magical. Curt words were exchanged and P.J. was grudgingly allowed to leave the circle of death. He and I walked towards the exterior door of my building and I unlocked it, all the while hearing mutterings of dismayed frat boys and one pathetic girl's misplaced prideful ramblings. As  soon as P.J. and I were almost safely inside the front door, the redhead piped up something obnoxious and unrepeatable. And since Peej has enough Irish in him to not let something like that lie- ever- he shouted back his own anatomical request.

And just like that, a crush of bodies shoved forwards.

Safely locking us into my building's foyer.

P.J. and I went upstairs and I contemplated having to move. As soon as we were contained in my apartment, he turned to me with a completely inappropriate gleeful smile.

"That was crazy!"

And while I didn't hit him- per se- I'm pretty sure he was more afraid of me than the pack of sporty hyenas down the street. Which is the basis for an solid marriage. And while nothing of that ilk has ever happened since, it was the first of many times where I knew that P.J. would happily face an angry mob (be it during the closing on our property or bugging the nurse for more post c-section painkillers)- as long as I had gotten into the metaphorical house.

And he still feels the exact same way about speed limits on tree-lined streets.

(I love you, Peej.)

The sun'll come out...in August.

Not only not recent, but not even ME.

I am le tired.

Perhaps it is the weather- this eternal just-on-the-cusp-of-March drizzle with twenty minute long bursts of quickly disappearing actual light- that makes me want to jump out a window. Except that my first floor is a half story up and the top level not high enough to really make a dramatic impact. (But maybe- just maybe- that's the kinda window jumping I prefer.)

(And then I remember that a goodly bit of the nation is having a WAY worse time of it, weather-wise. And I feel badly for wanting a consistent amount of sunlight at the end of May.)

Or perhaps it's the fact that I am still reeling from the smackdown I received from the LIBRARY two days ago regarding my wallet theft. No, they were not the first call I made (didn't even make the top ten), and no, I would not be filing a separate police report for the sole item of the library card, but yes, I will try and be more conscientious in the future. (I hate them.)

(But then I remember how lucky I am that the worst of my wallet-thievery is a bruised ego at the Sulzer branch of the CPL.)

Or it could be the recent development of this blog's traffic exploding to nearly eight times its usual weekly numbers...but because of an odd tracking glitch wherein no one can tell just where the numbers are coming from, I'm getting [monetary] credit for an less than an eighth of it.

(And yes, yes, yes, First World Problems. I'm extraordinarily lucky to be getting anything at all for babbling about...whatever it is I usually babble about. But the potential to earn more than a dime a day is rather tempting. Especially when the numbers are there. Unless it's a mistake. Or a bot. I LOVE robots. But only the nice, non-enslavey kind.) [Side note- Nora hates ALL robots, including, but certainly not limited to, our Roomba Wally.]

Maybe it's how I'm feeling ginormous and am one day away from being halfway through this pregnancy. That's right, this show's about to get bigger. We're not just taking it on the road, I'm BECOMING the road. And the nearby counties. And Peej is no help, as he says I look good. Great, even. But I am seriously beginning to doubt his ability to discern, as he has never once told me that my butt looked big. And I've worn some awfully big butt-ed pants.

(And this one stings the most, because we really, really wanted this pregnancy- and uh, still do- and the fact that I'm becoming an orca is a decent sign that we'll get a healthy baby and and and...)

And I hate whining. And whining about hating whining. It's a vicious cycle.

My point is, I'm tired. And batting incoming household/money/fatness issues away with Toddler Tantrum hands. (Can you picture it? Some of you have seen this.)

I promise to chin up.

While I still have a single chin.

Which is a rapidly closing window of time.

Just sayin'.

Some of the best expressions in the business...

...and business is good.

There was also popcorn in bed. Doctor's orders.

Sadly, Blogger has still (as of 9am CST today) not reinstated Thursday's post. So, uh, maybe check back later if you're dying for a mid-week recap? (And I know you are.)

Also, Wordless Wednesday explanations? The first pic is a magnetic version of a paper doll, one that the girls for whom I nanny love to dress in ball gowns and the fanciest of gear. They decided to make one that "dresses like Kiki."  "Can't I get a tiara or a snazzy dress?" "You don't look like that." So, rainbow tee and baggy jeans it is. (Also rad sneakers.)

The second pic is Nora, clad in jammy shorts, moments after gazing at herself in the full-length mirror and proclaiming herself to be "so pretty in blue [so pitty in boo.]"  Life Skills: Self-esteem in the face of questionable attire- check.

***

Last week was a jaunt through Crazyville. Not just the extreme temps (almost reaching 90 one day and then dropping to 37 the following night. I actually wept on Saturday morning. But that could've been due to a number of things), but the unexpected weirdness that permeated almost every single day.

Monday we flew home. And even an uneventful trip with a toddler is still a numbing journey through Overly Alert What-If Town that I wouldn't wish on my enemy. (Except that one. And she has it comin'.)

Tuesday gave me the unsettling experience of having my wallet removed from my person. (And again, lots of Ugly Cry. I cannot stress enough how unnerving this cry is to the random passerby. It also renders the Ugly Cry-ee unaware of blocks of time. My sister Rachel told me later in the week that we had had a lengthy conversation on Tuesday. We did?! Was I a refreshing conversationalist? She said yes.)

The rest of the week was spent at the DMV, the Police Station, the Social Security Office, and on the phone with various companies that, at one time, had my business. To up the challenge, I brought along a child well off the beaten nap path just to see what that would look like. Turns out, our precinct is remarkably nice and helpful- and rather slow at 7:45am on a Wednesday- and the DMV is a sucker for a good sob story/attractive baby. No kidding. The guy in line ahead of me had only his passport and was denied even a place number to wait for the next seven lines. He was sent on his way with stern words and an eyeroll. I handed my passport- warily- and explained that I had been robbed. ("Oh you POOR thing- and hi there, pretty little gal!" I think she meant Nora.) We were outta there in fifteen minutes, new license in hand. I didn't even need to take a new pic! Which is good, 'cause Bloated and Tear-Stained Keely does not make for a great I.D. We even breezed through the Social Security Office in FIVE MINUTES. (And isn't it sad when one's dealings with government offices is the high point of the week?)

Because Friday brought a trip to the dermatologist (during which time the receptionist mocked my name to the billing department- two feet away from me- and also had me wait for an hour.) I had developed a rash under my wedding rings, leading me- briefly- to believe that Peej purchased said rings at the Dollar Tree. The doc told me that, nope, it was just a rash. And- GET THIS- I should avoid washing dishes and/or getting my hands wet. Sounds GREAT! (And if I must do the dishes, I should wear non-latex gloves with a new pair of cotton gloves underneath each time. And I should remove my rings, adding two separate lotions after drying my hands with a clean towel each time they got wet.) That all sounded feasible to me.

I was all prepared to go home- expensive lotions in hand- especially since I had only put two hours on the meter, when the dermatologist asked about a spot on my back. And [TMI ALERT] I had dismissed it as a weird and isolated spot of bacne. He said that, no, it was in fact a "suspicious looking cyst" that he didn't "like the look of AT ALL." Then he left the room.

Oh boy. Well, I prepared to make a further appointment and then leave, being as I had ten minutes left on the meter and it would take that long to get back down the hallways and elevator and more hallways and north a few blocks to my car. (Forgoing parking garages is how I say I Love You to my husband.)

Suddenly, the door opened again (no knock- THERE WAS NO TIME) and a team of dermatological nurses wheeled in a tray featuring some very scary instruments, (a la Hostel, if I had seen it, which I did not) and the brisk instructions to remove my shirt. Uh, okay, I thought, looking down at Nora and then at my pregnant belly. And how exactly was this gonna go down?

They advised me to lay on my side, and that my daughter would be "fine just walking about." Sure. Until they began the procedure and she screamed bloody murder, necessitating a nurse to place her in the crook of my fetal position on the table, laden with a episode of Dora on my iPhone and a rubber glove balloon puppet. (This was not the time to restate my latex allergy, I decided. I just hoped no one would repeatedly thwack me in the face with it and all would be okay.)

The doctor informed me that the local anesthetic on my back would "sting." I informed him that my previous spinal had probably stung a little harder. He proceeded.

Have you ever received stitches while clutching a toddler who cannot decide if up or down is the place she would best like to be? I highly recommend.

Thankfully, I have Tylenol to get me through this Cannot Lay On My Back Nor Stomach Nor Right Side Nor Left Unless I Arch My Lower Back To Not Touch The Stitches Phase of my week. 'Cause everyone knows that Tylenol is a great narcotic, akin to putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun.

The week was redeemed- yet again- by Peej, laden with Mediterranean food, enforced early bedtimes, and allowing me to purchase [more] Little People village stuff and two antique wingback chairs at the Ravenswood Manor Garage Sale- all for twenty six bucks.

Who needs Tylenol?

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

I'm really bad at this.

Semi-Wordless Wednesday.

Any idea what the haps are in these two gems? Hint: The first one made me feel poorly about my self-image and the second is the sign of an overly adored daughter. (I'll explain later on the F'book page.)

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

Popapalooza '11

It was a really great weekend.

Sure, Keely, you say. You always have a good time/eat too much food/nap during the chaos/watch MST3k your Dad and old movies with your Mom. What made this trip so boss?

He shreds.

Well, there was live music. Featuring my Dad.

And two bands.

Three if you count my sister Chelly wailing on the vocals.

And the food was in a buffet- that means that no one really knew how much food was consumed. (Secret: new plate each time? Little convo with a new party guest each go 'round the food table? That's how it's done. "Oh, Keely, you should eat. Think of the baby!" "Well...okay.")

A rare, non-food table picture.

Learned that trick back in '92 from a good friend.

On one day alone, I made four (4) trips for a bowl of sausages ALONE. That's right. Not even a flower for garnish. Bowl o' sausages. And that was just that type of meat. There were others. And I had some enchiladas and oriental salad and salad salad and pasta and potato salad (even though I do not- generally- care for the potato) and chips and multiple cupcakes originally in the shape of a sunflower.

Where's your I.D.?

The night before, I had been in charge of frosting the yellow ones. There were many delicious (and temper-tantrumy) casualties.

Kazoo= instant party.

The music was epic. The groupies were out of hand.

But easily, the best part was the one-on-one (or, rather, sixty-on-one) with the birthday boy himself.

And the pulled pork sammiches.

But mostly my Dad.

You're the best at this, Pop.

On [in] the road [air] again...

This is how I USED to travel.

This morning, the mini Schoeny clan o' Chicago shall be heading back East.

Sadly, this involves plane travel.

Over the past few years, I've come to realize that I am a car trip kinda gal. So is my daughter. So is my husband (sans the "gal" part.) In fact, that last part is a bit of an understatement. Peej is the KING of the road trip. (And I am his consort. I can never be the Queen, you see- for I am, at heart, a commoner.)

Plane trips seem to bring out the planniest part of my nature. That's not a good thing.

I begin making lists- weeks in advance- when I know we'll be taking a flight. Lists to pack, lists to check, lists for carry-ons, and lists for stuff to do at home (because- and I really hope I'm not alone in this- taking a flight brings out the fatalist in me. This requires that everything be cleaned, washed, and put away. You know, just in case someone shows up to judge my homestead after I'm gone).

I make lists of how to pack things; ease of getting things from the car to the gate, ease of getting things in and out of security, and ease of transpo for the toddler. (The Nora part used to be cinched up by having me, at 6am, put her in a cloth sling. I'd take her out at roughly midnight and that would be that.) Now, sometimes we use a stroller. And sometimes she runs and I lure her with stickers and the promise of an iPhone show. Tomorrow will feature the device I enjoy best- Daddy's Shoulders. (Freeing Mama up to carry the diaper bag, carry-on bag- which, let's face it, holds nothing for my personal in-flight entertainment sans a broken blue crayon. Fun!- and various incidental things like Proof That The Baby Is Ours. I'll say it again- if anyone wants to take a child on a flight- theirs or otherwise- do not make them show documentation. Why the heck would they willingly travel with a child if not bound by blood and/or familial responsibility?)

I pack three pairs of [Nora's] pants. In "my" carry-on. Because nothing signals the beginning of contained travel like peeing through pants, hers or anyone upon whom she is sitting.

You'd think the snacks I carry could sustain the entire passenger list. (Ooh, there's an idea. I could clean UP! "Cheese stick? Yeah, that'll be nine dollars. Half eaten apple? Hmm. Fourteen. Hey, buy it or don't- it's the last one.)

Then we do the prayer dance that a) our bags are among the first fifty bags off the flight...and/or b) that our bags made it at all.

And among my absolute favorite parts is trying to flag down one's ride...which is currently impossible to do, as it is illegal- punishable by death- to stop anywhere near the curb/airport/major metropolitan area to pick up one's passengers. Unless they are already in your car when you pull up to Arrivals, then you are doing it wrong.

And it cannot be stressed enough that this is for a One. And. A. Half. Hour. Flight.

If this were a car trip, we'd all be wearing hoodies, we'd shove ourselves in the car twenty minutes after we rolled out of bed, and halfway through the trip I'd toss a banana back to Nora. (And we'd be HAPPY.)

Here's wishing you all a Thursday free of peed pants and lost anything, and with all of the complimentary snacks your heart desires.

Even peanuts.

Unless you don't like them.

Then I wish you a day with no peanuts.

She's just like her mother.

Thought I'd try something new. For me, anyhow. For the rest of the blogosphere, it's most likely horridly clichéd.

Here's my attempt at a Wordless Wednesday. (I am failing already.)

I will not explain why I love these pictures. Or what they mean. Or why the last one is so terribly funny. It's killing me, but I will not. Because it's Wordless Wednesday.

And I have already said too much.

Also, liverwurst now comes in slices.

I think I see a dandelion, Dad.

There was a lot to celebrate this weekend.

Globally, the capture of Osama Bin Laden. (And while I rarely "celebrate" any death, I happily acknowledge the sense of justice permeating the interwebs. To paraphrase a friend -thanks Andrew Slack!- Everyone remembers where they were on 9/11; scattered all across the globe. And now everyone will remember where they were when they heard news of Bin Laden's death- on Facebook.)

Regionally, we were stoked about three solid days of sun. For what feels like the first time in eight years. There were birthday parties, lovely weddings, first communions, legions of kids covered in sidewalk chalk...

Even more locally, our front yard is in full bloom (ranunculus and pansy and tulip, oh my!) and when I finally tracked down the taco cart I had been jonesing for, they had stewed lamb and green chilies. And it was revelatory. For example, I had a revelation that this is what I should be eating every day for the rest of my life.

The pleasant weather brings out the crazy in the Schoeny family. It really does. Here's a smattering of Saturday events:
-P.J. fought a battle with the neighborhood's dandelions, digging the roots out of each one. He did pretty well, but now a good portion of our backyard, front yard, and median strip of grass looks like a really outdoorsy version of whack-a-mole.

-I already mentioned the taco cart thing, but what cannot be documented enough is the fact that I was sitting on my stoop, clutching a five, looking for all the world like an abandoned puppy. (Seriously, you cannot sleep in the summertime here, what with the dinging and bike horns and beeping trucks selling tamales and snow cones. BUT NOT THAT DAY. Bereft isn't a strong enough word.)

-P.J. wanted to mow the lawn, now that Operation: Dead Dandelions had been completed. We needed gas for the mower. So we decided to take a family walk to the BP on the corner. To get the most bang for our walkin' buck, he suggested that we walk a few items to the Salvation Army a block past the BP. No problem. Except that the items were a humongo hand-me-down stroller and an end table. Also a life jacket. Seriously.

- I loaded some smaller items into the stroller, because Nora wanted to walk, natch. P.J. carried the end table- and Nora, once we got to the end of our block. Every single thing we carried and/or pushed was unwieldy, most of all our toddler. (My favorite addition was the gas container poking out of the stroller. "Can I see your baby? She's beautiful!") So we were those people walking down Montrose: a pregnant lady pushing her treasures in a cart, followed by a man hefting a heavy (and ugly) end table along with a smallish child screaming that "[she] dooo ittt..."

-After we dropped off the items, Peej took the kid and I took the gas can. (We still looked a little weird...but slightly less so.) While P.J. filled the container at a pump, I took Nora over to the sidewalk next to the BP Mart. She quickly fixated on the ice machine, which featured three penguins dancing on ice cubes. This joyful sight caused Nora to drop to her knees and hug the machine, saying "hi hi" to the "pingus" and kissing them one by one. It is really, really hard to dissuade a child from doing this. Regardless of how dirty the machine/sidewalk/BP Mart may be, it kinda makes one feel like a monster.

-To make up for our cruelty, we took her to Leona's (Groupon!) where P.J. and I proceeded to drink lemonades as big as lampshades...and Nora chose to only eat three bites of tomatoes and a handful of black olives. (The next afternoon, after my darling charge Julia's first communion and during an absolutely awesome luncheon at the University Club with her fam, Nora only ate...one bite of squash ravioli and a full slice of cake. She must be on a 'tapas' diet.)

But, today is a new day. Many things must be dealt with. Among them is the bizarre thing that there are seven towels- all used- hanging on the back of the "master" bathroom door. This is despite the fact that a) the door can truly only hold three towels- and that's if it's really trying its hardest- and b) to the best of my knowledge, only two people use that shower. The third resident takes a bath downstairs and all of her towels feature hoods and smiling creatures. (Okay, some of mine do as well, but my point is that these aren't HERS.)

These are the things with which I must deal, people. My only hope is that, by doing so, you will never have to.

Have a happy Monday, and may the towels on your bath hook be your own.