8 Ways To Tell If Perhaps You've Given Up On The Whole "Limit The Kids' TV" Thing.

It all looks so real! Almost like it's animated!

1) Your 2 year-old says "Vamanos!" as you leave the house. (Passersby commend you on your bilingual teachings, but you know that it's really all Dora's doing.)

2) You've actually referred to at least one of the Backyardigans as a jerk.

3) Everyone in your household knows that there are three separate Strawberry Shortcake series- the oldest of which is the one you yourself watched as a child. (And they also know about your very real fear of The Purple Pieman.)

4) Dreams have featured the Dinosaur Train. You've ridden on it in these dreams. And it was awesome.

5) You and your husband have debated the potential detrimental effect of Elmo's "Me Speak," Ming Ming the Wonder Pet's speech impediment, and Diego's predilection for shouting.

6) Whenever you break out the tools for a repair, at least one person shouts "Yes We Can!"

7) You find yourself choosing a new show at random- just to hear a different theme song, for the love of God.

8) And- most tellingly- when writing a list like this, you hear The Count's voice in your head.

(Eight! Eight parental fails! AH AH AH.)

Wednesday Morning, 8:17 AM

Holy Holy Moly.

It's official.

Zuzu is legit.

(In the eyes of Christianity, anyhow, and not in the whole She Doesn't Look Like Anyone Except For Maybe P.J.'s Best Friend Neil A Tad When The Light Makes Her Hair Slightly Reddish- But I Swear She's A Schoeny, Have You Seen Her Mouth kinda way.)

P.J.'s awfully excited.

We had a small baptism yesterday for our secondborn buttercup...and I'm not kidding you, she was an incredibly good baby. Which is no surprise. But it's still really nice when it occurs publicly.

When Father Bevin poured the water over her head (three times), she barely flinched. Although she did give a Look that seemed to say- Oh, please stop that. Soon-ish. Whenever, really. Oh, forget it- you're fine.

She didn't even mind when Nora "blessed" her forehead rather roughly. (To make sure it stuck, I imagine.)

Her godfather Nat (one of my oldest pals) and her godmother Dorrie (P.J.'s sis) did a really good job of a) getting Susannah to smile, and b) making sure the baptismal candle didn't tip/light anyone aflame.

"I saw Goody Proctor with the devil!"

Zu wore the Schoeny fam christening gown (which, when Nora wore it, inspired my sister Rachel to blurt out "I saw Goody Proctor with the devil!) It is rather eyelet lacy. And there was no hope of getting the bonnet on Susannah's head.

Let's just say that we waited so long to baptism this kiddo that there was a very real chance she would answer all of the priest's questions herself.

But she looked absolutely sweet and wonderful. And her after party dress (obvie) was a sailor dress.

Because nothing says I Now Know Jesus like an embroidered anchor.

Our families did an awful lot of work. (I think my Mom got off the tarmac and already had two things on the stovetop and hummus in the Cuisinart. And no one complained.)

Monkey bread, a.k.a. Eating A Bowl Of Sugar.

P.J.'s mother washed everything in the kitchen twice. (Because it got dirty repeatedly. Not because she thinks my house it filthy. Although- man, does she think my house is filthy?)

Two of my sisters came to play- which is always super fun- and I repaid the favor by making them sleep on the couch/on a half-inflated air mattress.

My gal (both gals, really) were spoiled rotten by family and our smallish group of pals. And I've already consumed my caloric intake for the month.

Which means...nothing, really.

Because I'm still about go do some damage to leftover Baptismal Quiche.

Can someone superimpose Rachel's head in here? 

I Practically Work As A U.N. Translator.

I had my first honest-to-gosh Spanish conversation the other night. (My first, that is, since 11th grade. And that one was mainly about the seasons and whether or not Gil had been to the greengrocer.)

Our neighbor from two houses down (for those keeping track, not the 300lb autistic boy and not the irate Filipino) walked by the other evening with her 3 year-old. A little girl named Suzy.

Her Suzy waved at us from the street. My Suzy almost unhinged her shoulder in a full-body attempt at a wave. Nora momentarily stopped shrieking about the green car (and the red car and the silver car) and asked if we could go outside to say hi. So we did.

Her name was Mirna, which I promptly mispronounced. She referred to me, inexplicably, as Ellie. She confessed that she knew very little English. I jumped at the chance to display my own ignorance with her language.

I'm a little embarrassed at how long it took for us both to properly convey that- yes- we both had daughters named Suzy. Hers was Suzenna. Mine was Susannah. Ha hah!

Mirna informed me that Suzenna meant a type of flower. (She may have even said which. But that wasn't covered in the chapter with Gil, so I failed to understand her.) I responded that I thought that was lovely/preciosa- her daughter was named after a flower/flor? Que bueno.


It was only this morning that I realized what an absolute idiot I can be. The Mexican name "Suzenna" definitely means "flower". But you know what else? "Susannah" means "lily," something I knew when we chose it. Flower. Yes. They're the same flippin' name.

But back to the conversation. Mirna was impressed when I informed her that Suzy was cinco meses and that all three of my family members were born in Octubre, but less so when I told her that Susannah was born on the 29th. I didn't say the expected vientinueve, oh no. Dos y nueva, I told her. Instead of "29," I told her "TWO and NEW."

I'm pretty sure I also mentioned the biblioteca, what I was going to do on Tuesday, and various parts of the body.

I didn't say it was the most life-changing conversation.

And even though it was over too soon (we had to distract our children away from slamming each other's arms in the chainlink fence), it felt good to know that at least one person on this block didn't see me as a standoffish jerk.

Just a borderline illiterate one.

Suzy from the block.

Seeing What All The Fuss Is About.

Susannah, meet Real Food.

(I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.)

Green Means Fun, Darnit!

Sorry, Zuzu, it's picture time.

This was the best summer holiday I've ever had for St. Patrick's Day.

Because it was ninety degrees outside.

(I did, however, have a momentary fear for all of the revelers. Irish holiday plus Saturday plus downright 4th of July weather conditions? Happy, drunken, glittery folks being swept downstream in the Chicago river. Wearing skimpy tops proclaiming bold statements. Perhaps even singing.)

Our festivities were way more low-key. It would be hard not to be. (Even with the ten children under seven years of age, it was quieter than anything going on a few 'hoods south. Even when they brought out the kazoos. And even after the sugar. Sugar and kazoos and ten little ones. Still quieter.)

We had the usual corned beef and cabbage. (I did, however, have no less than two people tell me that it reminded them of their Irish grandma's meals. Which could be good or bad, I suppose. Irish people do have a way of boiling dishes to death. Mine, however, is always fantastic. The secret is a brown sugar and Dijon mustard glaze- I've said too much.)

Boden hugs the Zu. She approves.

There was a potentially unwise amount of Harp, Smithwick's and Guinness. (And for someone who doesn't drink a ton of beer, a wall o' beer in the fridge is more than a little daunting.)

Picnic blankets and lawn chairs graced the [green!] backyard. For, as previously stated, it was midsummer.

We even had a glorious tiramisu cake, courtesy of a completely wise choice made by a four year-old dude. (Thanks, Calder!)

The baby wore a green tutu and a sweet onesie proclaiming her to be "A Wee Bit Irish." (Thanks, Annie!) The girl wore a green top and belted denim skirt and promptly announced that she would not be in any photographs. We agreed, but told Susannah that she did not have such an option.

Uncle Nat snuggles Suzy, Nora
accidentally gets her picture taken,
and Boden looks on in abject horror.

It was a lovely weekend of friends and family and over-eating- made all the more awesome by P.J.'s bro and his kiddos staying for the past few days. (Trains and parks and bistros and museums and picnics, oh my!)

Mondays are always tough, especially after a jam-packed few days. (Why do you think so many kittens have to Hang In There and Don't Do Mondays? Because the day is so universally rough, that's why.)

But I'm ready to face this week with energy and zest.

Powered by the remaining tiramisu in the fridge.

Spring Fever Is Darn Near Killing Me.

It'd be great if you'd point that
camera somewhere else, yeah?

I may be the first person to actually be driven insane by spring fever.

My normal state of being is fairly tightly wound. I'm cheerful and playful, but I'm also borderline OCD. (Undiagnosed, actually, so there's a rather good chance they'd be all like- borderline? You are textbook. A neatly bound textbook, placed alphabetically and color-coordinatedly in a descending size row.)

These orderly tendencies keep me firmly planted in the day to day business of running a household, raising smallish people, and staying on task with completely unpredictable writing assignments. I make lists. Loads of them. (Those descend in size and color and stuff, too.) When I clean, for instance. Or when I section off [small amounts of] time to write (even if the writing is just "the the the pfbbbbbt"). Even stuff I do with the girls during yicky weather; I put museum free days in my calendar, make dates with pals so we can climb on their furniture as opposed to our own, and determine which days will be spent at the library (so we can also pay the unfair fines levied by power-hungry librarians. For example).

But this weather is destroying me.

It has been so unseasonably fantastic in the normally frigid city of Chicago (seriously- negative 20 wind chills is nothing new for March), that I'm not truly sure which end is up anymore.

It was eighty degrees yesterday. And sunny. At the same time. Out of doors.

During the past few months, Wednesday morning would mean some quiet activities with Nora, some writing while Susannah napped, and toilets. All things bathroom would be cleaned on Wednesday.

BABIES NEED HATS!!

Yesterday, however, it was a solid seventy degrees by 9am. Obviously, we had to go outside and marvel and try not to stare directly at the sun with our mouths agape. Actually, we went to the Nature Preserve in  Peterson Park. We were joined by our friends Angie and Emily and we had the best time ever. (Even when Suzy decided that she was DONE- ten minutes in- and Nora fell backwards off of a log...best time ever.) We came home, the girls were zonked, and I was so flummoxed by the morning's fresh air that I promptly did nothing of note until they woke up. And then I got all stressed like- darned kids aren't giving me any free time. I had time. I just apparently didn't have brain.

And it's been like this all week. We're so confused by the nice weather that we keep going outside and having a fabulous time.

And not one toilet has been cleaned.

I'm behind on my writing and my cleaning and my projects and I do not believe anyone has fed the cats. (And today's their 8th birthday! Happy birthday, Ender and Bean! I'll feed you so soon!)

You think you've got problems.
I've got no arms.

But it's pretty hard to stay grumpy about a boggling amount of unfolded laundry (and/or a potentially dangerous shower mold) when one's cheeks are pleasantly flushed and freckled, and when one's blonde children have faces that smell like apple juice and sunshine. (Yes, both of them. Even the infant. It's a long story.)

It feels like a test. Will she snap before the summer if: The dishes harden in the sink? The towel smells suspiciously like someone has peed on it? The cat hair actually stands and slinks away?


I've never been very good at tests.

But summer- that I've been good at. So I'll work on it.

(After I close these taunting, ajar, cabinet doors.)

But Who's Watching The Baby?

My favorite blue-eyed cherub...

...And her jaunts to the park...

...With her two babysitters. 

Weekends Aren't For The Weak.

Close-up of ugly door.
Close-up of blogger's old promo pic.

P.J. loves it when I start a new weekend project. No really, he just adores it. What's not to love? Go on, honey (he says), why on earth would I prefer to sit here and pound through episodes of Firefly? It would be much nicer (he agrees) to help you prep, clean, facilitate, and be the sounding board for all of your ideas and/or misplaced anger. And even though my preferred color and state is white paint/unadorned walls (he acknowledges), I can totally get on board with a Mayan red door and Cajun red walls. Since you've already begun.

I'll admit it. I blindsided him with this weekend's project. But the front foyer and door had been staring me in the face with their ugliness for close to three years. And we're not talking just outdated or just a state of disrepair.

It was both. A lot of both.

The foyer was a yellowish hue, punctuated with poorly sanded holes, poorly covered holes, and smears of pink handprinty-type things. (And/or faded bloodstain handprinty-type things. Nothing surprises me anymore.) The door was chipped, water-stained, and rather warped "original" wood residing in a chipped, rusted, brownish frame.

Super old pic of Nora.
Super discolored foyer. 

You know how, sometimes, things are so bizarrely ugly and impossible to deal with that your brain actually stops seeing them? That's the only way I can explain how this entry point into our home lasted like this for so long. (Unless you factor in exhaustion. And laziness.)

Well, the fog finally lifted on Saturday morning and I had to do something. So I ran to Home Depot. Bought new edgers, new paint (Mayan red for said door and Eurolinen for said foyer- the latter of which is just a fancy word for...cream.)

While there, I racked up a two hundred dollar bill for...absolutely indeterminate items, but that's an entirely different story. And issue. (And credit card.)

Once home, I realized that we were down to one sole paint roller. And my project would require [at least] two. This revelation- while potentially explosive- was tempered by P.J.'s cautious suggestion that we could make a run on the following day and just focus on the door for Saturday. Whatta guy.

So I sanded. And wood-filled. And scraped. (And removed Mayan Red paint from an eight-foot radius. Because I become positively Jackson Pollock-esque when I renovate.) I had literally no fear about turning the front door into an eye-catching thing of awesome...as opposed to its current life as an eye-catching time capsule from the 1970s [after some natural disaster had occurred].

And you know what? It looks awesome. There wasn't much I could do about the rather dated diamond shape window facing the street, but the door's new deep mahogany color at least says- Hey, we're trying.

I felt quite proud. Prouder still once I managed to finagle the doorknob and dead bolt back into place. Whimsical poll: Do you know what makes a doorknob incredibly difficult to secure? Previously stripped screws and/or painted hardware. COME ON, PEOPLE/PAST OWNERS. I AM NOT A MAGICIAN.

Close-up of door at night
(in incredibly poor lighting.)
No artistic blog awards, here.

The next day- once the paint rollers were secured- I began the spackling and sanding and priming and painting of the foyer. It was a time of discovery. For instance, I discovered that the wall underneath had previously been teal.

This part was really easy. In fact, at one point I proposed marriage to my paint edgers. (P.J. yelled from the other room- You can HAVE her!)

Then, I touched up the trim and baseboards with white paint. (See, P.J.? Compromise.) However, it's a slippery slope from painting the trim in one section and not letting it drag you all the way around the house. Because where in a home's identical trim do you stop and say, "Nope, this area can remain dingy even though it's attached to the other twelve feet of newly shiny baseboard?" But seriously, that conversation needs to happen, or else you're painting the staircase railing and adding another layer of tar to the roof.

But it was when I was wrapping up the foyer/door project when I noticed the interior door frame. Perhaps, even moreso than the previously ugly door, the rusty spikes by the doorknob would act as a Feng Shui deterrent. (Maybe also burglary?) So I sanded and painted and hammered down spikes. (It'll just take a sec, I told myself. And P.J. And Susannah, who had now been waiting for someone to just feed her since roughly 8am on Saturday morning.)

New door, new trim,
new walls, same ugly tile,
same crazy miniature person.

During this time I was kept company by my next door neighbor's attempt to sand a bike that may or may not have been his. The weather, however, was so warm and pleasant that I paid no heed to fact that the potentially hot ten-speed was being stripped of colors that may or may not signify a certain gang. And across the street, my neighbor blared an incredibly loud homemade mix tape that consisted solely of Linkin Park and Nickelback.

If nothing else, it really drove home that I needed to hurry up and finish this frickin' project.

So I did.

And, at the end of the day, the walls were one color, the trim didn't extend onto the hardwood floor, and the door actually latched. And locked. (Twice.)

You can't be too careful.

After all, there are Nickelback-lovers right across the street.

Keely Forces Culture Upon Her Children.

Off to discover!

In my ongoing struggle with WHY I LOVE CHICAGO and UGH, CHICAGO (not quite short enough to be tattooed on each knuckle), yesterday's activities warranted a check in the plus column.

We went to the Art Institute- free the first and second Wednesday of each month for Illinois residents- and even scored free parking on the street. (I'm not sure how I wasn't towed, because I do not believe that former Mayor Daley left any inches of non-billable street parking in the city proper at all.)

And it was close to seventy degrees. In March. The windows were open on the drive and Nora, Suzy, and I enjoyed fresh[ish] air on the drive over.

There wasn't even a line to enter the museum, so we didn't have to stand outside and make conversation with the lion sculptures (which may actually be a minus in Nora's column).

It was Nora's fourth or fifth trip to the museum. But it was Susannah's first, thankyouverymuch.

We had our run of the Thorne Miniatures Room- allowing us [ahem] to see the English Drawing Room, circa 1930 and Cape Cod Room, circa 1780 unobstructed. (Also California Living Room, circa 1940 and French Boudoir, circa WHY DON'T I HAVE THAT KINDA TUB IN MY HOME?!) Okay, we love them all. For the unfamiliar, the Miniatures Room is a gallery of teensy rooms behind paneled glass. Artists have painstakingly recreated impossibly small bowls of fruit, woven rugs, even ambient lighting for beyond the wee windows and doors. The Los Angeles room features a darkened sky and twinkly lights beyond a terrace. The Cape one beckons through an open door to the beach grass-lined path. (To the ocean! I know they have an ocean back there!)

Anyway, as cool as it is, I realize that not everyone is as loony for dollhouses as I am/was. Thankfully, I have created at least one more person who agrees that this room is boss. (And I was slinging the other, for whom the jury is still out.)

Nora had a really good time peering into each room- repeatedly- and occasionally begging to be picked up to better spy each small dog and glimmering chandelier. (Ever try to wear one child in a Baby Bjorn and hoist the other on your hip? Squiiiiiiish. We pretty much guaranteed that Nora's favorite memory of the day was easily Susannah's worst.)

Some other Nora-isms from the afternoon:

-Upon seeing Renoir's Two Sisters in the Impressionists Gallery: (pointing at the younger one) "Oh there she is!"

-Viewing Seurat's La Grande Jatte: "THE MONKEY IS IN THE CORNER!"

-Entering the Modern Wing's Picasso exhibit: "What is he DOING?!" (Me: Who, Picasso? Nora: YES.)

-After I explained that one of the Miro paintings was a circus horse: "I don't see it." (I pointed at it again.) "I DO NOT SEE IT."

We had a good afternoon. And I'm sure that Zuzu will hold fond memories in the deepest corners of her tiny heart- among them when I finally sat down and fed her in the prairie garden across the street from the museum.

Because nothing says Bonding Moment like publicly nursing a baby in a winterized lot in full view of art students and/or the elderly, during a gusty windstorm that upends a) the bag of crackers that had, moments before, held crumbs for sprinkling on the feeding child's head, and b) the blanket keeping one from public nudity.

But the check for the plus column stays.

Because if nursing debacles/implied nudity were a reason to leave Chicago, I wouldn't have lasted nearly this long.

She's Not A Monster. She's Just Drowsy.

8:46am: Dumped cats' water bowl out. (On cats.)

9:03am: Dumped out contents of dresser onto floor. (Are you sad, Mommy?)

9:39am: Dumped self onto floor. Split lip. Bled. Cried about bleeding.

10:02am: Asleep in car during three minute drive to Playgroup. 

10:03am: Keely realizes that her Godzilla is actually a Sleeping Beauty.

Non-Squalor Home: Check.

About a month ago, we had contractors come and quote us for a couple of projects around the house. Among them was an estimate to finish the downstairs room- what was once a second kitchen, and was now a very real eyesore/storage unit amalgamation of awesome.

They asked us what we wanted to do. We answered with the usual; new shelving, finished walls, maybe a new countertop, definitely a wet bar, perhaps a gas fireplace, a pool table, a craft table, an indoor swimming pool, and a good place for Jazzercise. We weren't picky. We got two quotes. One for 5k and the other for 8k. We scaled back our requests- okay, maybe just make it a liveable space? Still 5k and/or 8k.

Looks clean in this pic. It ain't.

Now, if you'll remember, this room has been a source of crazy since Day One. It was originally a lumber yard when we moved in- a place to build necessary things like doors, baseboards, and wooden spikes to stick in one's eye when full Homeowner Realization set in. Then it was an apartment storage unit for a good friend. (For a year.) Once all of that got cleared out, I carried all of the remaining building supplies out into the yard during an exceptionally long nap of Nora's. (Then I spent the next day tending to my sprained arms, legs, and face.) I scrubbed. I painted. I shelved. But it still looked dirty, grimy, and mostly unfinished.

Some of you will recall that, this past summer (whilst hugely pregnant), P.J., my sis Kate, and I undertook some minor demolition of a Formica island (which would be a good name for a slasher flick) and found...water damage, rot, and holes drilled directly into the [ugly] ceramic tile.

So we got an exceptionally good mold remediation/demolition team to dig out, eradicate, and repair. They did a great job. But, when they were done, we still had a half-painted, fully plastered room with loads of storage junk in it.

Pregnant gal. Water damaged
floor/wall.

That brings us to this weekend. And since 8k is way too much to spend on an auxiliary room in our home (and since spending 8k on any room would instantly make it The Nicest Room In Our Home), I decided to Get. It. Done. Myself. (A game which P.J. haaates.)

We donated a ton of, well, junk. Threw out bags n' bags. We sold some more. We Craigslisted a very comfy- but very much so on its last legs- easy chair...which, moments after we placed it out back was vandalized and stripped of all metal springs and supports by a marauding scrapper truck. (Darn you SCRAPPERS!!!) I scrubbed and scraped some more. Painted and edged and painted and edged. Pale spring green and white and pale spring green and white. Covered a teal window well with five coats of white paint. Decided that the bright green horizontal blinds in the small window would have to stay. Decided that the cracked vinyl of the picture window would have to stay. Decided that the ceramic tile styled after a Miami hotel from the 1970s would have to stay...for the entire level.

But the ugly, greasy, and chipped cabinets gracing an entire wall? The holdover from when this was a garden apartment's trashed kitchen, complete with broken, water-filled appliances (the only ones in the house upon our move-in)? Those, I could do. I painted and refaced and painted and refaced. (White and white and white and white.)

It felt good that I was reclaiming an area of this house from its former squalor.

It felt good that this room no longer incited me to vomit and/or cry.

The lighting does this pic NO favors,
but it's the same angle as the first pic. And
yes, there is fruit on the rug. Baby steps.

I kept going, painting a green Formica corner shelf. (Painting things white is my way of saying- there now, this never happened. Shh.) We hung up a vintage framed Volkswagen poster. An 8x10 of Peter Sellers. An 8x10 of Scott Bakula. ('Cause, if you'll remember, I know him. From this time period.) Shoved a papasan chair in the corner. Plugged in a lamp.

Now we have one really cozy little corner...and a gigantic, extremely clean, and extremely empty room.

Just perfect for putting down a Jazzercise mat.

Keely Saves Money. Keely Lives Better.

She's awfully yellow.

So, shot a commercial on Monday.

And it was for Walmart.

I shot a Walmart commercial.

My name is Keely, and I played a Real Mom who shopped at Walmart and took the Walmart Challenge.

And it was awesome.

I got this gig through an agent and my friend Bradford (thanks, Bradford!) and was able to go to multiple auditions because my neighbor and friend Angie watched the girls (thanks, Angie!) and spent the day at the shoot due to the generosity (and generous sick day policy) of my husband and his job. (Thanks, P.J.! Thanks, MSDS Online!)

The location of the shoot changed on Sunday evening, and I received a phone call from the producer. "It's in Mount Prospect, Illinois," he cautiously told me. "Do you know where that is? I think it's past the airport." Being that he was from California, it was a fair question. "Past the airport" could easily mean "Wisconsin."

And my calltime changed from 8am to noon. Noon-ish, in fact, since they had a feeling it would be running a little late. (Running late before we even start? Awesome.) So I found myself leaving the house a little before lunchtime, giving myself plenty of time to get there- because, uh, I know me. I already missed Nora and the idea of leaving Susannah was like chopping off a limb. Plus, I suck with driving directions and was a little stressed with the [new] knowledge that they were filming the commercial twice. With two separate Moms. Which was not what the agent had told me, but which was apparently happening anyway. Because they wanted to take it in two different directions and would see which one "read" better. I wanted to be the Mom who "read" better. And that is why I was stressed.

Made it there in the nick of time- actually, the drive took twenty minutes, but I cheerfully veered onto the wrong highway and Google-mapped my way back to civilization in just under an hour- and arrived at the Jewel-Osco. That's right, I met with a representative at the competitor's grocery store and proceeded to buy a ton of groceries with a sweet lady named Alix. After we loaded up my haul, we drove over to the nearby Walmart and unloaded it all into Walmart coolers. I was sent into the staff break room to await directions...and found a ton people just starting lunch. I was told I could join them in eating. Which I did, making me feel like a total mooch. (This did not stop me from enjoying a very nice sandwich.) I did feel a little awkward, however, which is the only way to explain how I found myself quietly sitting against a wall and eating a bowl of iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing. (I abhor ranch, but didn't want to cause a stir.)

The other Mom was there, too. She was really nice, though exhausted. In fact, they were ALL exhausted. Because they had been shooting the commercial with her since 7:45 that morning. And there were all sorts of technical difficulties. And they were cold. And they weren't done with her shoot yet- not by a long shot. They did, however, have plenty of laughs and inside jokes with the other Mom.

So I sat and ate my lettuce and wondered if they'd ever have inside jokes with ME. (Short answer- no.)

Can you see where she's miked?
THAT'S RIGHT YOU CAN'T.

About two hours later I was sent to hair and makeup. I was supposed to look like a Real Mom, just on my way to take the ol' Walmart Challenge...but I think I was done up to look a lot nicer. In fact, I was wearing so much makeup and had such a pretty half updo that- even if my commercial were chosen- you may not even recognize me. No matter.

Finally, it was Ebony's last shot of her commercial and the first shot of my commercial. Since they had filmed hers backwards, it was the same shot as the start of mine. When they switched over to me, I actually heard three crew members groan. (Tired/cold, etc.) I had sadness. But I overcame with Pep.

We did multiple hours of filmed whimsical price comparison (and for real, guys, IT IS STUPIDLY CHEAPER TO BUY NAME BRANDS AT A SUPER WALMART), and I got to feign surprise- which was, more often than not, actual surprise- at how much I could save at Walmart. There were shopping cart races. There was berating over how much cheese my family consumes. There were many, many deer in the headlights shoppers with incredibly daring outfits that continuously got caught on film.

There were also, sadly, many Jewel-Osco stickers on products that got accidentally filmed. And thusly could not be used. Many of those shots contained my bantery best. I started to lose hope [again] that my commercial would get chosen.

But overall, it was a really fun time. I got paid exceptionally well AND got to keep all of my groceries. Diapers for weeks! (Maybe days. Sigh.) Someone fabulous did my hair and makeup. And I still made it home to kiss the girls goodnight.

And I'm not kidding about that price comparison thing. I saved almost ten percent off of my Jewel receipt. (And that's only the stuff that had an exact item-for-item comparison- it would have been more of a savings if I didn't have such a predilection for Fage's fat free Greek yogurt. Yet again, this penchant shoots me in the foot.)

Professionalism.

If they chose my ad, it actually would have begun running yesterday. Or, I suppose, the same would be true if they chose the other gal. (I didn't see mine. Although my method of checking for my commercial was to set up a camcorder and leave it pointed at the TV all afternoon. Very scientific.) If you live in the Midwest, you'll see it. It may even run in other pockets of the country.

And, as soon as I go through my daily Sony footage, you'll see it here.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some difficult-to-compare Greek yogurt to consume.

That's some Real Mom action for you, right there.