Is that not the best short fiction title EVER?

I was not kidding.

I've recently begun a new project.

Which means I've been talking about it nonstop and whining about it to my big sister.

But not so much actually "doing" it. (We all have our process, right?)

And it's a big undertaking; I'm going to attempt to scan and file every single document of importance ever, so that future generations can marvel at my utter inability to throw away a napkin.

Picture this- I've kept a scrapbook binder of STUFF since middle school. One for each year. I am now 31. And I've been keeping one for Nora since her birth. She's gonna be two this year. Now, I'm no math expert, but I'm getting some pretty scary exponential numbers in my head here. (Okay, on my fingies.)

Plus, I've been watching an awful lot of Clean House lately...and it's always the same. Women who don't have a problem, confronted with their problem, crying about how they didn't know they had a problem, and later yelling at the people who are trying to take their problem stuff away to the Salvation Army. Television magic, sure, but it hit a couple of crowded nerves. (My elbows were resting on binders and scrap boxes at the time. Scrap boxes, you ask? Oh, that's when she's too lazy to actually rubber cement or three hole punch something- and just shoves it into a random shoe box for later sorting. I could open the worst Foot Locker ever.)

It got me thinking. This kind of keepsaking is a type of vanity, isn't it? Like I'm thinking to myself, not only is my stuff amazing, but the trajectory of my life has been so unreal awesomesauce that people I don't even know will want to analyze my dating history. And who thought I was great enough to send me a postcard from Rome that one time. Or ponder the significance of the one Highland School Field Day ribbon, circa 1987. (None. Everyone got one.)

Not to mention all the room this stuff takes up. I already have a lot of- er- collections. Teacups. Handbags. Leather boots. Books n' books n' books n' books. Quantum Leap fan fiction- whatever- we don't have to psychoanalyze it. The point is, I've always entered into any relationship with a bucket o' parts. I married this last guy and we darn near completed a wedding registry. (That's expensive stuff!) And now that I've passed a good chunk of my childhood possessions onto my kid (provided she plays with them correctly), I'm starting to see what's important and what isn't.

Starting to.

My new guideline is this: if- God forbid- there were a mammoth fire tomorrow, what personal documents would I be devastated to lose? (I have to keep this hypothetical situation strictly to random documents. The idea of a real, Lose Everything kinda fire makes me want to run around screaming with armloads of knicknacks, Ender and Bean, and that new pink armchair I love. Nora's got new sneakers- not only can she follow me outside, but she can grab my Kate Spade china mugs as she goes.)

The problem- beyond a culture that prides itself on ownership- is that I have an eighth grade-esque love for every single thing I own. It's true. There are very few things in my home to which I'd give a disinterested shrug. (Which would also be odd to see.) I love dreaming over things, organizing them, moving them around, and telling other people how much I adore them. (The things, not the people. If the people don't know how much I love them, well- one can only do so much.) And I realize that we are not our possessions. I know this. I do.

Baby steps.

So. Yes. My plan is to copy every document, save and tag it, and file it on a big ol' external hard drive. That way I can take a walk down memory lane without getting beaned in the head by 1998. (A good year for memorabilia.) Hopefully, that will free me up to toss out napkins and movie stubs, saving room in my ONE scrapbook for truly important things.

I have not yet narrowed down what that may be.

Pretty sure all of my writings penned around second grade need to be immortalized in hard copy. Especially the ones where I was also the illustrator. Double especially the ones with a foreword- by me, obvie- and credits. Which was...all of them.

Definitely yes. Those need to stay.

I can sense that I may run into some difficulty, here.

Cause And Effect

(Well, I did make her faster.)

(And yes- she does read Reader's Digest. That my husband stole from his folks' house. I didn't want anyone to have to find out this way.)

(p.s. Yes. Pirates.)

(Also, I am TERRIBLE at "wordless.")

The One In Which P.J. Almost Offs Himself.

Friends, I was almost widowed this weekend. 

And it would've been painful. Painfully embarrassing, that is. For me. 

In less stressful times.

On Friday night, after Peej's show opened, he returned home and complained of having lower region pain. At first he thought he was dying of a hernia or something else that I didn't take entirely seriously (because a- he is either completely fine OR on death's doormat with no middle ground ever and b- he later told me that my Braxton Hicks contractions were "sympathy pains." For him. Yes).

So he took a bath- another oddity, for he is A Man who only lies down in pain when something heavy is pressing upon him, like an anvil.

Side note: I remained in the other room, still reeling from the movie that we accidentally watched in its entirety. Killing Me Softly, ever heard of it? Joseph Fiennes and Heather Graham? Aw-ful. With an emphasis on awe. As we shuffled through the channels, we landed on this "erotic thriller" (which sadly, was neither) and watched five minutes as a joke. Then we literally could not look away. We were stunned into watching the masterpiece in one fell swoop. (What kept me going was that the plot line was almost exactly that of So I Married An Axe Murderer, sans Mike Meyers, Nancy Travis, comedy, or haggis.)

Huge digression, I realize, but I need to set the stage for why such a long period of time passed before I went to check on Peej. I needed a Cheers marathon to wipe away all of the poignant looks and incredibly trite dialogue.

Anyhow. Opened the bathroom door a while later to see if he needed anything for the triage...and heard "Careful!"

Because my husband, the love of my life and half of my kids' DNA- was in the tub with a plugged-in laptop sitting on the edge.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING," I CALMLY ASKED.

"Work."

"Why is the computer plugged in?"

"It's dying."

I informed him- pleasantly- that he was being a moron. He politely disagreed. I pointed out that our insurance policy would not cover acts of stupidity. He rebutted that sitting in a tub with a computer wasn't exactly like jumping out of a plane. (I agreed with him on this one. 'Cause at least one would've made a better tragic death.)

Afraid I hadn't made myself clear, I told my husband that I would dispose of his body in the neighbor's recycling bin if he killed himself so idiotically. (Why the neighbor's? Because the city hasn't yet given us our own blue bin. Sorry Anita, I didn't want you to have to find out this way.) P.J. agreed that this was fair.

I told him that I wished I could blog about stuff like this- but had, until this very moment, refrained out of kindness towards my spouse. He gave me the green light, asking what 'being nice' had ever gotten anyone? (Besides respect, integrity, and a sense of humanity, I kinda had to agree with him.) He then went on to quote an episode of Blossom in which her Dad dated a stand-up comedian who used him for material. The Dad was rightfully upset, but then realized that the woman was who she was. And to change her would be wrong. (I had been SO READY to ridicule him...but then remembered that I had also seen this episode. Wind= taken out of sails.)

As he didn't want me to be tired and stressed out(!), he told me to go on up to bed, feeling confident in his abilities to both a) not die and b) also impart a life lesson.

I fell asleep wondering a) if my husband was going to die horridly and b) when he had ever watched Blossom, since he had grown up without cable. College? Was he watching Blossom with his roomies?

All ended well, even though P.J. ended up falling asleep, too.

In the tub.

Who doesn't love a good tummy flower?

Remember how I said that one month/six months/eleven months was my favorite age? I was wrong.

Turns out, my all-time favorite is a week shy of twenty months. (It's true.)

Sure, we're smack dab in the middle of the Terrible Twos on-ramp...which is really just a dramatic way of saying that someone is incredibly bossy and specific, with simply awful fall-out if not instantly heeded. (But I've worked in the theatre since the age of nine. This is nothing. Ever seen a diva with a improperly set wig head? A stage manager with a lost clipboard? A sound designer with a half-drank Snapple...by someone else?) I fear not my daughter.

Besides, I've always been exceptional at placating/distracting/tickling.

Last night, as a special treat (for me), I decided to forgo the nightly bath and let her play with her Little People instead. It was a humid night, her playroom is wonderfully cool, and her father is in tech rehearsal every night this week. (Besides, it wasn't like she was covered in blue cookie cake frosting- again- or anything.)

She set up a village for herself (out of a cast of hundreds) starring a fairy castle, airplane, carousel, train track, and small fleet of emergency vehicles. Nora sat herself in the center and quickly went about placing pets on the Ferris wheel. Fairies in rail cars. A king in the pilot's seat. When each seat and room was filled to capacity...she Godzilla'd them down. And then offered up an empathetic apology full of contrition and tears. Then she rebuilt the town. And promptly caused a car crash into a nearby farm stand. She finished it up by berating a character wearing bunny ears that We Don't Hit.

My point is- I could watch her play with her things all day long. And sure, I'm not feeling the sharpest mentally that I ever have (although I knocked the socks offa The Curious Village the other night, I will have you know). But I think I still have a pretty decent sense of humor. And this kid is funny.

She is a pitch-perfect mimicker. The phrases that she remembers (and she remembers all of them) and reuses are frighteningly spot on. And frightening.

NJ also has reached that critical age where she no longer requires my services at the park. (In her mind.) I still think that a ten foot high shaky bridge is no place for an assertion of independence- especially when its flanked by a) a twisty slide and b) a ten foot ladder drop-off. But I guess I'm just old fashioned. And way too girthy to squeeze up the ladder to retrieve my kid any longer. (For the next three months, at least.)

Last night she helped me make supper; salmon in a yogurt and mint sauce. The mint was from our garden, and every time we pass it, she needs to take a bite. ("Oh, my mint!") Every. Time. So last night I took a gamble that she'd dig the recipe. And she did. "My mint! Dip, dip, dip." The running commentary can get a little old, but hey- have you ever dined with a foodie?

Sometimes she seems impossibly grown-up, with big kid preferences ("I take my vites, now") and an uncanny awareness of exactly which devices and gadgets are capable of playing Dora videos.

But at night, after she's jammied and basted with apricot oil (or frosting), after the eight trillion books and sips of water, but right before the interrupted songs with requests for different ones...

...she's just my baby, resting her head against mine, with Doc Bullfrog pressed between us. And until she starts kicking her little soccer star legs against my sides with impatience, I can almost pretend that she's a lumpy little newborn again.

But then she kisses me- with added sound effects- and I snap back into the reality of how much more fabulous this is, anyway.

And that feeling lasts until I discover yogurt on the cat.

Cookie Cake Redux...

Starring our pal Blue Frosting.

Okay, I had WAY more than one.

This past weekend- to quote The Office- rocked my face off.

To start the festivities, our lovely friends Annie and Jared came for a visit on Wednesday night (which, I realize, is not the weekend. Unless you're 20 years old. Which I am!) and stayed through today. This is great. And I'm superbly happy that they stayed with us, as their dance card was quite full with friends and a wedding and such...that it was a good way to guarantee we'd see them at least twice a day.

Anyone want some blue?

On Friday, N.J. and I surprised Peej with a cookie cake from Jewel (the grocery store)...but it was no ordinary cookie cake. It was one that kids could DECORATE! (Apparently, when you give my child a choice of any color frosting or sprinkles or decorative cake-like things, she will choose...blue. Lots of blue. (It was ridiculously delicious, btw.)


On Saturday, A and J drove to Iowa for a wedding (which, Massachusetts friends, yes- it's possible to do from Illinois) and the mini Schoeny fam walked over to our neighborhood's block party. (Peej made brownies because he's amazing. Also because I do not bake.) There was an insane amount of food (and coleslaws. Neighborhood parties require a boggling amount of coleslaw). 


There were free snow cones. (As many as you wanted, turns out! Trust me on this one.)


A fire truck showed up- which usually signals a disturbance in the 'hood- but not this time! It was, in fact, there for eager kids- and some enthusiastic adults- to tour while wearing mammoth fireproof coats. As one kid who was a dead ringer for Jerry O'Connell in Stand By Me positively shrieked- "They're letting you GO INSIDE THE TRUCK!" (This kid also announced in the exact same voice that the firefighters were opening up a hydrant and that the prizes for all of the games were CANDY...so it's safe to say he was pretty darned excited about the day.)

Sankyou, siren.

We couldn't stay too long- for we had a barbecue to attend. (Lest people feel like we're the Swelly McPopulartons- rest assured. Come February, no one takes our calls. But we're a pretty good social occasion/big crowd bet. 'Cause, once again, P.J. bakes brownies.)


And the bbq was fabulous. Our pals Sara, John, and Owen had us over to their gorgeous backyard and we all had a blast watching our respective kids get muddy/splashed at the water table/cover themselves with creamsicles. And they have very cool friends with very cool/quite muddy/dessert-ed up kiddos. 


I even had part of a beer.


And it was really great. 


Since we had a feeling that Nora would conk out early and without incident, we planned a date night. Peej suggested taking his laptop out back and watching a movie under the stars. I mentally prepped the popcorn. 


Sheer seconds after tucking Nora in her bed, P.J. stretched out on our bed and- mid sentence- started to snore. I thought he was kidding. (He was not.) I amended the evening's plans by eating a column of brownies (don't your brownies get eaten in columns? No?) and finished Professor Layton and The Curious Village on my DS. (Because sugar makes me brilliant.) And yes, no need to tell me. I am an awesome date.

Dad, you're the daddest.

The next morning was Father's Day, and Nora celebrated by clinging to him like a barnacle, singing his name, and opening his present for him. (She made a silhouette of herself for him- I helped- and it looks awfully cute next to the one we made last year. We're also facilitating the buying of his new shoes- that he will choose. For he is terrible to surprise. Awful. The worst.) There was also a Mickey and Minnie card that, while not exactly Father's Day material, was The. Only. One. That. Would. Do. 


We even got to go to Victory's Banner, the brunchiest brunch in town! (Happy Father's Day to us all!) 


That night, after Annie and Jared returned to town, we surprised her with a li'l ol' surprise party to celebrate the big...29. Again. Again. Her loving husband threw the whole thing together and it was hosted by the gracious Brea. All I did was pick up and deliver the cupcakes from Sweet Mandy B's and show considerable restraint in not buying out their entire shelf of individual coconut cream pies. Seriously, people. 


I also got to lie to one of my very best friends for a good couple of weeks, up to and including the ridiculous whopper concerning Nora's sitter. ("Why are we spending money on a sitter for our Game Night at Brea's? Why not just have it here at your place, Keely?" "I...just feel like going out. On a Sunday. Even though P.J. has tech rehearsal. And the sitter's coming after Nora's bedtime. 'Cause we have a very specific start time to this Game Night. No reason.) Yet again, I would make a terrible spy. 


ALL worth it when we got to see her expression when a room of her closest friends began singing Happy Birthday to her...and recording it all on iPhones. Ah, the future. (Annie and I had shared birthday parties for a number of years- back when video capability didn't come on phones. Heck, phone capability barely came on phones. But the lack of documentation is most likely a check in the plus column. Ah, the past.)


The food was stellar, the company even moreso. (But seriously, the cupcakes. I had- more than one. My weigh-in for 24 weeks this a.m. is bound to be a good time.)


If this past week is any indication of the summer ahead of us, I am le stoked. 


And if I don't slow it down, I will also be le huge. 

And no baby classes this time, either!

A good friend of ours (and neighbor! Like real people who have neighbor friends!) recently lent me his copies of Brain Age 2 and The Curious Village for the Nintendo DS. This is timely. As someone who cannot for a day lapse on the staving off o' dementia, not to mention the much-debated Preggo Brain ('cause as much as I hate to rely on hormonal excuses, I showed up for work last month sans diapers and/or milk. For a  ten hour day!), I need all the help I can get.

Also, I recently remembered that I possessed a Nintendo DS. My friend Nat gave it to me back in the day (pre marriage/pre baby/pre homestead/post brunch- sigh) and I had hidden it in a fit of traumatic guilt after I had accidentally starved my Nintendog to death. (Maybe they should TELL you that, even though the game is powered off, the dog is still requiring food and rolling about in his own filth!)

I'm sorry, Nat. I didn't want you to find out this way.

So, yes. Brain teasers.

Apparently I have the Brain Age of an 82 year old. (This is the truest thing I've ever typed- it literally came up as "Uh...82. The ideal Brain Age is 20!" Yeah? So is body type, but you don't see me fretting that one.)

And sure, maybe the perfect time to try out new software/test the ol' brain is NOT at 10:30pm, in jammies, under the covers, pretending that one's husband is pretending to not drool on one's shoulder. (See, kids? The awesome does not have to fully stop after your childless twenties! Just most of it!)

I promise to give it another go. I'm clearly a work in progress as, just this morning while emptying the dishwasher, I put my full coffee mug away in the cabinet.

And I realize that I haven't posted about this pregnancy as much as I had with Nora, formerly known as The Bitsy. And yes, I also realize that it would be impossible to fill as many self-absorbed tomes as I did with my first pregnancy ("No one else has ever had an ultrasound like this"/"Turns out heartburn is REAL"/I've decided to go BPA-free...and I'm the first one, ever").

But seriously, what do we really know about this kid, other than his/her birthdate (October 4th), penchant for cured/processed meats (liverwurst and microwaved salami- breakfast of champions), and facial features (just like Nora's and P.J.'s- shocking)?

Okay, not much.

But the stuff I know I really like. I have less fear this time. (Which is an absolutely asinine thing to say- anyone who's ever even been around a kid knows that you should never lose your terror, ever.) However, the things that used to send me for the baby manual, nurse's hotline, and sister's cell in the middle of the night (sorry, Kate), doesn't freak me out so much anymore.

Crippling nausea? Take a box of Triscuits to bed. (It also discourages any pesky cuddle time.)

Peeing every hour on the hour? Nope- not bladder cancer. Just regular ol' pee. Sometimes there's nothing even there! (Oh, HAH.)

Kid kicking way too much at 3am? No, she/he's not trying to tell me that something is horribly wrong with the umbilical cord (I was a mess, this I realize). It's just the kid's way of saying hullo, thanks for the soft tacos.

Perhaps this knowledge combined with the fact that we are not rebuilding a foreclosure in the 7th month this pregnancy also helps with my feelings of well-being. I'm not [too] garishly huge [yet], my cravings are still whimsical, and this new kid already has multiple places in which to sleep once he or she makes a grand arrival.

I like The Monkey a lot.

So does Nora, but she fully believes that her sibling is already here, in the form of my swelling tummy. That's right, she kisses "the baby" and pats him/her, and believes that is that is that. Sibling rivalry NOTHING. Having a baby is easy when it makes no sound and requires no additional attention from her parents. Mainly Dad. Which is good. Status quo is awesome.

I don't foresee any major obstacles, do you?

No change needed, here!

Today is Best Friend Day.

...At least on the blog. And today's best friends are Lily (age 4) and Nora (age 1.5). They do everything together. Except baby stuff. ('Cause as Lil's quick to point out- she is NOT a baby. But Nora is. She's a baby toddler. Like a big baby.)

Strangely, True Blood did not play into the dream AT ALL.

There was a fountain here a sec ago.

Emma and Dan have left. Boo.

However, we no longer have 8,000 glasses, cups, and mugs in/on the sink/ dishwasher/ countertops. (Flynn girls pride themselves on hydration.)

No one is making me laugh like a loon by announcing "Hey, brotherrr" (a la Arrested Development) every time someone enters the room.

But then again, no is giving me palpitations by making me wonder what train stop they're taking home/if the alarm is properly set/did someone grab an umbrella for the flash monsoon? (This must be what it's like to have kids...in their mid twenties.)

Seriously, in the past...couple...of years, I've totally forgotten what it's like to stay out past 9:30pm. I mean, I did it. There was a time when 6am was considered time for bed and not a toddler's brekkie. After all, Peej and I spent the formative months of our friendship in a late night show that ended at 1am. So obviously we had to get a drink around 1:30 or 2am. And you couldn't leave before the Tamale Guy showed up. (See? The Mexican food's not just a pregnancy thing.)

But these days, it's just another planet which I no longer orbit. Perhaps in a different solar system.

When Dan and Em suggested going to see an improv show at midnight, I actually laughed. But, as it turns out, these things still happen. (Go to bed, people!) On Friday night, after the four of us watched The Soup- which, uh, is the Schoeny late night event...at 9- they left for the 10:30pm I.O. show and stayed for the midnight one as well. By 10:30 in my house, we had watched the last forty minutes of Good Will Hunting, half an episode of House Hunters International (in Italy!), and fallen fast asleep...where we would remain until midnight. Then we groggily dragged ourselves upstairs to bed and remained there until the smallest and loudest of us needed bacon at 6:30am.

That said, we had a lovely, quiet morning (except for one impromptu mix CD dance party)- and even that wasn't until 10am. (Sorry, Em and Dan, who didn't wake until 11am. Hope you liked the ceiling music.)

I'm pretty sure I just sent a dozen people running to refill their birth control prescriptions. But- and here's the kicker- P.J. and I were early-fall-asleep-on-the-couchers way before we were even married. Homeboditude (read: lameness) knows no age. But the age thing doesn't exactly help.

Speaking of baby-related perks, I've been having more than my fair share of hormone dreams lately. These are a joy (for P.J.) and I can't tell which my tolerant husband least prefers:

A) The dream in which I have an epic relationship with someone whom I've not-so-quietly crushed on for the past few years. Most recently, Alexander Skarsgard of True Blood fame. I like him a lot. Now, these dreams aren't the kind where you wake up and wonder if you should mention anything to your faithful and devoted husband. Nope, these are the five hour sagas wherein a love affair begins, comes to fruition with a full blown Ikea jaunt, has each and every step along the way (even the Saturday Afternoon Listening to Vinyl On the Couch, Wondering Who's Gonna Make the Hamburger Helper phase) and its eventual breakup. All of these in EXTRAORDINARY detail. By the time I woke up from this dream the other morning, there was no question about whether or not to tell Peej. I was downright mournful (of my painful breakup with Alex) and contrite (about living with another man while carrying the first's child).

P.J. really didn't want to hear about that one. But he may actually savor those mornings over the ones where the other option has occurred-

B) P.J. is a jerk. A real meanie. For example, the other night, Dream P.J. was getting high in bathrooms with girls that looked like young Heather Grahams and Did. Not. Care. that this made me unhappy. Later in the dream, he changed religions to one where he could no longer be in the same room with me. (I have no idea why this was stipulated, it just was.) He also told me that I was stupid. (Because my worst dreams involve second grade insults.) This was also a really lengthy dream, so Peej got the pleasure of awaking to me glaring at him. I seriously had a good mad on for my first hour of the day. Which, admittedly, is not fair. But come on, Heather Graham?

I never said I was easy to cohabitate with. (In fact, I may have even suggested the opposite.)

None of these things (complete 180 of schedules/nighttime habits/things you couldn't possibly know for which to apologize in advance) are included in marriage vows. Part of me thinks that this should be amended.

The other part wants to gleefully wait and watch people find out for themselves.

Says the girl who has been married for three years...and has people watching her to "just wait."

In a nutshell, I'm a lame-o, I watch fabulous television, babies make you get up early, we consume a lot of bacon, pregnancy is crazy, illicit dreams are an excusable sin, and I have unfair rules and standards.

Also, I miss my sister and her boyfriend.

(Hey, brotherrr.)

My kinda town. And beach.

My youngest sister is in town!

Em and her boyfriend Dan have been here since Tuesday night. It's part visit, part graduation trip for Dan, and part Nora seeing the people that go with the faces in her picture book. (Win/win/win.)

It's pretty fun having people from out of town- especially if said people are sisterish types- because it allows me the chance to do something for which I so rarely find the time: be a tourist.

Yesterday we spent the afternoon at Montrose Beach. It was Nora's first real time at any of the city beaches (not counting our completely overprotective windswept panic fests of her early youth) and she completely dug it. With a plastic cup, even. Emily and Dan lucked out with the weather; at 100 degrees (by the lake!), the scorching sun actually made the frigid water a refreshing swim. It was crowded but not crazy, and we had a pretty sweet perch right by the water...where I could easily convince Nora that all of the passing balloon and cotton candy sellers were showing fun things to wave at. (I love this age.) We picnicked (and ate more than a little sand), went swimming (to wash off a goodly bit of the face sand), and chilled on our towels, where some of us determinedly crayoned despite the melted wax mixing with sand.

We drove home wearing swimsuits, completely wind tousled, sun baked, and boiling hot, and each of us took our second (chilly) shower of the day. Okay, one of us took a bath. And then most of us napped. (Seriously, who's on vacation, here?)

Dan and Em have a pretty full dance card of stuff to see and do this week- some of the museums are even free for the next few days- and N.J. and I are going to try to get in on as much Chicago action as we can. Later today the gals and I are joining them for corn dogs and cheddar curly fries at Navy Pier (okay, maybe that was MY suggestion), and tonight is Dan's requested din of deep dish at Gino's East. (Nora will LOVE that drawing one's signature on the walls is not only acceptable behavior, but in fact encouraged.)

The stormy skies of the next few days will most likely not be a deterrent for them. After all, they're in their twenties. For seriously. (My thirties friends are nodding.)

I'm sure we'll still manage to squeeze in some more backyard barbecues and beers [for everyone else, sigh] under positively balmy nighttime skies. More day trips to some of Chicago's most fabulous neighborhoods. And plenty more iconic food.

You know, the stuff that makes living here worthwhile?

And I will leave you with this last little glimpse into what life in Chicago is all about...

...my daughter yelling (and bossing) at the waves for more! More! More!

I love summer.

Someone's feeling nostalgic this week...

Points to the kiddos who can find themselves below. Double points if you can find me in each one.

Yippee ki yay!

Thank you to Cube Dog for sponsoring this review. For more information about Cube Dog please visit the Facebook page or download it on iTunes. (And the Facebook page has a sweet contest running June 13th-17th!)

***

I was rather excited to review the new Cube Dog app, available now (for free!) at the App Store. But no one- no one was more excited to "help" me play/review/play/play/boss/review this little guy than 4 year-old Lily and 1.5 year-old Nora.

This thing is pretty cute. The basic Cube Dog app includes the options to customize your own puppy; head shape, eyes, ears, facial expression, and color.

My helpers and I created a reddish dog (although not too red, one of the shorter members of my crew would like me to point out) with humongo eyes and a sweet square mouth. Against the protestations of the minis, we named him J. McClane. (Anyone?) Lily had wanted to name him something noun-related, and Nora pretty much wanted to agree with Lil. But as it's still my iPhone- for now- I had veto power on this [one] option.

McClane. Being coy.

Once we had created the little guy, it was time to play. There's a little toolbar on the bottom of the home screen that lets you choose how to play with your pet. We started with the 'ball' icon, figuring it was to start a game of catch- but it incited our guy to grab a ball, run away, and hit a line drive with a baseball bat he had apparently stowed under his fur. We were impressed.

During one game experiment, we apparently either bored him or inspired him to communicate- because he whipped out an iPhone of his own and called us. Seriously. The call screen came up on my phone as an incoming call from Cube Dog. (I got stoked for this one...but sadly, it wasn't a real call. Once I "answered," the image went back to McClane, who pocketed the phone under his positively tent-like fur.

Lily also wants me to include the fact that, when you tickle McClane, he laughs. And squirms. It is quite cute. She also is apparently the only one who can cause him to go all heart-eyed. I think they're in love.

And I'd definitely like to include his ability to turn into a ninja. That's right. When you touch one of the toolbar playing options, a throwing star appears at the pup's feet. (Also inexplicably- or for a reason which I have not yet discovered- when you touch a certain part of the screen too hard, he goes into Battle Mode.) This is great. He looks momentarily alarmed and then gets out weapons and a headband for, you know, combat.

Ninja pupper.

You can shrink or enlarge the puppy by pinching or expanding- pretty standard fare for an iPhone app- but it also lets you go all 3D and turn him any way you choose. That's right, you can play games with your dog while he's facing away from you, leaning back at a 45 degree angle. (I have no idea why you would do this, but my point is that you could.)

This app is compatible with the iPhone and iPod Touch 4 with the camera; you're gonna need the cam to document your puppy as well as I did. Obviously. The camera also gives you the option to have the puppy's background be what your phone sees. Like the coffee table where you and two tiny helpers are creating digital art. For example. (Again, I have no idea what purpose this serves other than to elicit an- "Oh, look at the coffee table" reaction from one of the girls...but time will tell.)

It looks as if there are some pretty cool toolbar features available in the advanced (read: paid) packs at the App Store...but for our usage, the (free) games we have are good enough.

In short, this thing is fun. Nothing earth-shatteringly wild, but certainly toddler-mesmerizing for at least ten minutes.

Which I'm pretty sure is all the impetus some of you will need.

***

While Cube Dog provided me with the app to review, the opinions I've expressed here are solely my own and represent my honest viewpoint. Cube Dog, Clever Girls Collective and I promote Blog With Integrity.

31 is the new slightly-older-than 30.

OhKAY!

Today marks the anniversary of D-Day, the founding of the YMCA, and the coronation of the German King Henry II the Saint.

Way more importantly [personally/distressingly/not surprisingly] is my birthday. (It is also the birthday of my nephew Quinn, my cousin Eammon, and my favorite teacher Ed Udel. I think I've made my case. Also born today is David Abercrombie, founder of Abercrombie and Fitch, a brand which I have never worn- I'm about five...ish... years too old- but I'm trying to get some more star power up in here.)

I have a birthday request. A wishness, if you will. But more on that in a sec.

If I may be permitted a bit of Pollyanna, I'm extraordinarily lucky. And blessed. And happy. This past year has been simply stellar; not only do I get to live in an increasingly livable home (in my absolute favorite city) with my super-duper crush and our wicked fun mini sidekick, but I'm actually [starting to get] paid [a little] more and [not that much] more for freelance and blogging, plus I'm carrying a little monkey who is threatening to be just as cool as every other current card-carrying member of my life.

And even though I wasn't feeling Birthday Party-ish, the King of Troy Street took me out to one of the nation's top restaurants last night (deets on that unreal experience soon). And two of our exceptional friends became our Pinch Hitter Sitters when Nora's regular gal came down with a fever. (They wouldn't even let us PAY them. I cried. In a good way.) Tonight's taco fiesta (party of 3.5) is brought to us via my folks, all the way from Western MA. Friends and family have been showering me with literature, my favorite foods, pedicures, certificates for spa treatments, and at least one Happy Birthday rendition that transitioned from classic to swing to Christina Aguliera to Little Richard.

My daughter even made me a card that proclaims me to be the Best Mommy in the World. (The world!) There was a collaged flower inside, so you know it's legit.

So how can I even hope to ask for more when presented with the actualization of every single childhood hope and dream [the trick- wish vaguely] I've ever had? Because I think it's a decently small and simple thing to request. (Tell me if I'm wrong. I'm rarely wrong on my birthday, but it wouldn't destroy me. Much.)

My Grand But Smallish Birthday Request is to have this be a really, really good year for my blog. This one. The one about the nothingness (but not in the NeverEnding Story kinda way). My ten year plan for this site is to have it fully finance my lifestyle in Virgin Gorda in a [tasteful] villa after my husband has retired and my [11 year old!] daughter has announced her plans to never leave my side, ever, and my as-yet-born kiddo has announced his/her line of How To books, detailing how motherhood Should Be Done, as shown by the mother figure in his/her life (making him/her the most precocious nine year old ever).

Or.

To have this be a really, really good year for my blog, as evidenced by the handful of new followers and/or advertising campaign or two.

If you'd like to help with either of these goals (for real, it's totally your choice), and wanted to repost this blog, or "like" it, or "love" it (which is NOT a current Facebook option but is, in fact, the only real option at Coldstone Creamery), or follow it on Google or Twitter or Networked Blogs (or recommend that someone else do so)...well then, I wouldn't be able to stop you. Except with my tears. Of gratitude. Which- I'm told- can be quite off-putting.

But now I must return to my tea party- currently in progress- whereupon my daughter has presented me with her choice of [plastic] birthday foods: ice cream, doughnuts, french fries, and a celery stalk. Mixed together with a fork and presented on a tray with some Legos.

Sure, I'm celebrating differently than I did ten years ago (21 seems like a different planet) but I wouldn't change a thing. (I love celery.)

And I love you, too. May you all feel so stoked on your individual birthdays, whether you celebrate with tacos or liverwurst- or (more likely) something that is decidedly NOT tacos nor liverwurst. Again, up to you.

Have a really good day.

And everything will bring a chain of looove...

A kid now lives in this room.

Money's weird. (Don't get me wrong, I love it. But I tend to love a lot of weird things; liverwurst, sleeping with a blanket over my ear, the first three Underworld movies...)

I have four jobs. One pays really well. The next two- not so much. (Can you tell which two are in the field called The Arts?) The fourth is completely unpaid...and may just be my favorite, anyhow. But it turns out that American Express will not accept a peanut butter-smeared hug as payment. How's that for irony? (They're not accepted at the Olympic games- circa 1996- but are gonna be choosy about what THEY take? Please.)

Anyway. Money. We don't have a ton. But depending on whom you ask, we're simply rolling in it. Or standing in the bread line. And NO, the former opinion is not mine, and the latter is not P.J.'s (Not entirely.)

Our neighbors think we're supra wealthy because- get this- we don't rent out our basement. Forgetting for a moment that that's why we bought a house and aren't still renting...let's focus on the fact that, on our block, people have at least three apartments in each house. Most of the folks living therein are related. This is boggling to me. I mean, I love my family (a lot, let's just go on record as saying) but I cannot imagine a separate branch of my family in each bedroom. Permanently. Okay, actually I can. And it feels all crampy in my mind's eye.

When we first moved in, a neighbor approached me (in Spanish) about renting our basement out to his friend. I laughed. (Partly because my Spanish is really rusty and I thought he had said something hilarious about liquor. He may also have.) A few moments of thought later, I told him that we weren't gonna be renting. At the time, we had just moved away from our own stompy upstairs neighbors- plus, our lower level was nowhere where you'd wanna live. Or load the laundry after dark. Maybe during the day if one were unarmed.

My response quickly made me aware that we were suddenly the whitest Richie Riches on the street. So I amended. The next time the question was posed, I eagerly told them that YES, as soon as we made it livable would we be renting...but only...you'd have to ask my husband. He knows all the details! (This I hate. I do not care to be thought of as the Clueless Little Woman- but it's the lesser of two evils between that and having to evade money-related questions. Okay, and those both fall way beneath the third possibility of being stabbed to death in my sleep during a Rob The Swells raid for Great-Grandma's crystal. Which we don't have! We don't even have bad crystal.)

Another neighbor asked Peej if I were Nora's nanny...which I'm not sure if it means a) we're rich enough to have a nanny of our own, b) no one in this 'hood gets to be at home with their own child, c) Nora looks nothing like me, or d) I appear way too young to have birthed offspring. I think you know the answer I dig.

Some friends think we're well-off because we own a home. But- and back me up here, homeowners- this just means we were able to afford 1/200th of our house's worth...and will never be able to afford to move out, ever. (Which is cool. 'Cause after how intense our move-in process was, I told P.J. that I planned on dying in this house. Even after my family goes on to live in far-flung locales, I'll still be the creepy old woman/ghost haunting this joint, checking for cured meats in the fridge and watching my programs.)

Granted, we're definitely fortunate enough to do what we love. Peej and his three and a half jobs and me with mine (and jeebus- internet writing? Is that even a thing?) and the crazy amount of time I get to spend with Nora each day is beyond a gift. That said, I'm still nudging Nora towards a career in The Maths. Also, I wouldn't turn down a Powerball ticket or two.

But then there comes a moment like the other night, after P.J. had hooked up our "new" antennae to our TV (did I mention that he's taking my cable? HE'S TAKING MY CABLE. Sure, new baby, blah blah, reduced work hours, la di dah- wait a sec, maybe I'm the reason why we're poor...) and we were scrolling through the fuzzy channels and finally landed on PBS. And there was a documentary that I only half understood. It was about a Korean social worker and an impoverished island and a blind girl and all of these kids that she taught to read and these people that had NOTHING at all...and I Ugly Cried. (Sure, we only caught the last five minutes- hence I have no idea of anyone's name or actual locations- but that didn't stop me from weeping like I had been dumped only moments before the 8th grade dance. For example.)

And I realized [yet again] how good I had it. And how good 90 percent of the people I know have it. (And how awfully that poor blind girl of indeterminate origin had it.)

And it made me want to send them all of my possessions: the frayed hoodies, wedding china, and unopened package of liverwurst. (That's right.)

At least an IOU for a blanket tent, signed with an apple juice-soaked crayon.

(Those nouns make me feel pretty wealthy, indeed.)

Even though the sun wakes her at Ridiculous O'Clock...

...It's finally SUMMER!