Surfin' Safari It Ain't.

"There's some good chompin'
sand over here, Susannah!"

There are days where you feel like you've unlocked the door to Competent Adulthood. Then there are other days where bang your head on the beam of Ignorant Idiocy.

Today would most likely skew towards the latter.

It didn't start out that way. No, the morning began with a cleaned kitchen, three loads of put-away laundry, prepped lunches, and an invitation to join our friends (and their daughter Emily, who happens to be Nora's favorite short person ever) at Foster Beach. While Zuzu took an utterly conflict-free morning nap (a half hour earlier than normal to ensure a 10am beach arrival, at that), Nora and I packed the car with all manner of beach gear. I blogged. She used the potty. The day seemed like it was skipping towards Easy Street.

During the [ten minute] drive towards the harbor, however, Nora conked out. Hard. She slumped over in her seat and snored. ("Peace out, afternoon nap," I whispered to the sunroof.)

Now, I've lived in Chicago for ten years. I've been to the beach a multitude of times. I've been to Foster beach dozens upon dozens of afternoons. I pulled off onto the harbor drive and drove for a few blocks until I reached the free lot. ("Seems to be farther than I remembered," I said to the sunroof. "Stop talking to me," the sunroof retorted.)

Unloaded one bag. Popped Zuzu into a sling. Unloaded the cooler. Grabbed the portable seat. Woke Nora. Woke Nora. Poked Nora. (Carried Nora.)

After hefting two children and potentially too much gear across the [Hotttttt...I lost a Crocccc...] sand, I set up camp- and realized that I had left our beach blanket in the trunk. (As I looked wistfully back across the sand over a dune towards the parking lot, I bid the blanket adieu. 'Cause that trip wasn't happening again.) Didn't see our friends, but figured they were either coming shortly or perhaps farther down the beach. So I texted them. By this point, Nora was already half in the water and Susannah had consumed her first fistful of wet sand, so I knew I needed to keep communications brief.

I asked where they were. (They asked the same.)
I'm in front of the Mexican restaurant, I told them. (Which one?)
Near the dog park. (There are no dogs here.)

I had a sinking suspicion that one of us had arrived at the wrong beach. And, if I had to wager...

I Googlemapped myself. (Because I live in the future.) And yes, turns out, even though I had driven down Foster Avenue, I had taken the side road that connected to Montrose Beach. (Damn you, Chicago Parks Department and your interconnected web of parks and grasslands and free beaches!)

By now, Nora was catching herself in her fishing net and Zu was yelling at her second fistful of sand, so I knew we had to stay put. I sheepishly apologized to my friends. I know they understood, but I accepted my punishment in the form of sitting amongst some of the loudest examples of questionable parenting this side of the internet. (Actual quotes: "You are so stupid. Not everything is about you." "Why you gonna run off? Bring 'er back and here and hit 'er for me.")

I missed my friends.

So did Nora. As she ate a sand-covered pb&j, she sadly announced that "Emmanee" was at a different beach. She used a passive tense for her statement, but I felt every inch of the blame.

Susannah was just happy to tag along, wherever it was that she got to eat her handfuls of sand. The presence of the beach blanket might have cut down on some of this roughage consumption, but she seemed to prefer it this way.

Proving yet again that ol' chestnut: One person's foray into dementia is another person's bacteria-ridden prize of a snacktime.

Sum-Sum-Summertime.

I should really just start calling Wednesdays This Week In Instagram.

This Whole Vending Machine's Out Of Order!

I object.

This past Friday, I was called to perform an extremely important duty. In an instant (after checking the hotline at 4:30pm, CST) I became Keely: Juror. 

I did not take this job lightly. (Most likely because I was stoked beyond belief to get to ride solo on a train, read a book, and potentially use the bathroom by myself at some point during the day.)

Here is how I prepared for my Big Day O' Juroring:
-I showered.
-I ate breakfast (at a table)!
-I packed a bag that did not possess a) toys, b) wipes, or c) sippies. (I still jam-packed that thing with snacks, however.)
-I bounced up and down a little.
-I mentally reviewed every episode of Law & Order that had ever made an impact (the one with the psychotic mother, the one where Clare was hit by a drunk driver, the one with Jerry Orbach's daughter as an informant).
-I way overcaffeinated. (I had spent the past 18 hours pumping milk with the abhorred pump, so I was totally good to go in terms of poisoning my own system.)

I potentially left a little too early, but you really can't be too careful with these transit things. These solo transit things. I stopped for another coffee. Beamed at fellow passengers on the brown line. Read a chapter. Listened to a few songs via my headphones. Made some phone calls.

All of these things were done before the train had fully made it three stops away.

Down at the courthouse, I breezed through security- most likely because I was no longer carrying any of the suspicious items that my children usually require me to possess. I received a panel number (34) and proceeded to set up camp at a nice table; I was going to finish my book. Catch up on all of my emails. Have a snack. Read some more. Snack some more. (After all, everyone had told me that- generally- no one ever gets called into a courtroom. Especially on a Friday. Also, to pack some snacks.)

We watched an incredibly informative video entitled You, The Juror, which pretty much summed up everything that I (and everyone around me) already knew from Law & Order. The best part was how the narrator was unable to say the word "juror" without adding at least seven more r's.

I had already decided that I liked being Me, The Jurrrrorrr.

Immediately after the video ended, panel 10 was called. (Suckers.) Five minutes later, panel 18 was asked to line up. (I unwrapped a fruit leather.) Then- "Panel 34, please line up in two rows."

What?! I haven't even had a chance to check out YouTube yet! But no, I had to close my laptop, decamp my already nicely decorated workstation, and shove the entirety of my snack into my mouth without detection. (Only two of those activities worked.) We were then led into a courtroom...where we proceeded to sit quietly (and sans aaaanything to do) for the next half an hour.

Finally, a judge, some attorneys, and one extremely suspicious-looking guy entered the courtroom. (Later found out he was the clerk.) Then, the two dudes involved in the civil case entered. (So much for a juicy murder trial or demands that people Look Into Their Hearts.)

Of the 18 people on the panel, only 12 were to be interviewed. The judge randomly selected 12 of us to sit in the jury box for the next round of questioning- guess who got the 12th seat? (And no, in case you're curious, having the same first name as the prosecuting attorney's last name does not excuse you from serving. Just a reminder.) I was excited for some hard-hitting questioning. Serious "make 'em sweat" stuff.

The attorneys addressed us all as a group:

"Has anyone here even been party to a vehicular accident?" (Okay, so they're ramping up.)
"Do any of you recognize anyone in the courtroom?" (Aside from name recognition, nope.)
"If selected, do you promise to carefully review all of the documentation?" (What?! How do you answer that one? Uh- nope. I can't promise I'll read. Can I recuse myself now?)

And that was it. I was alarmed at the lack of severity. I had hoped to be challenged, have some bit of top secret info revealed, been made to cry at least a little. But nope. The judge then chose six of us- at random again- and I wasn't among them. Ten minutes later, they handed me a check for my day's services (17.20- thanks, Illinois!) and was thanked for my work. Goodbye.

I was horrified. Where were the hours upon hours of solitary time (surrounded by hundreds of other Chicagoans)? I hadn't even checked my Twitter feed, yet! No one had yet held me in contempt! What a joke.

I was home by lunch.

Peej could tell that I was sad. (Probably because, when he answered the phone, I was sobbing.) He reassured me that I'd get some good alone time in the near future. Also, that I was probably an exceptional juror. He's a nice guy.

And that was that. I served, I deposited my sweet paycheck, and happily added another title to my growing list:

[Denied] Jurrrrorrr.

10 Ways Kids Are Like Ravers.

High on life and/or fruit leathers.

Terrifyingly off-the-wall party or simply an afternoon hanging out with the kids? You be the judge:

10. There is definitely someone with an oral fixation next to you who keeps trying to eat your bracelet.

9. At least one person is completely naked for no discernible reason. 

8. Someone is babbling about getting some food. Again.

7. There is a girl, standing alone, sobbing uncontrollably about nothing of consequence. (We will get you another lollipop!)

6. You're fairly certain that the same track has been playing for the past twenty minutes. Or maybe it's a different one. They all sound exactly the same. 

5. There is so much touching.

4. I'm sorry, did that dude just wet himself? And what's that mess over there?

3. You start laughing so hard at someone else's dance moves that you might actually pee. 

2. There's a moment where you contemplate calling your mother and asking her to come get you. (She always said there would be no questions asked...)

1. And, exhaustingly enough, you have a sinking feeling that this party's gonna be in full force at sunrise.

*

Like this post? Then you're definitely gonna want to check out these:

Shiz Moms Say To Other Moms

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

Bravery.

We Still Got It.

Abandoned.

We had another whirlwind weekend in Cincy. (And really, aren't they all whirlwinds? Every darned last one of them. Especially the ones where you're hurtling down the Indiana Turnpike for six hours at a time. That rather zips the time along.)

We had a great time with family. P.J.'s aunt had a lovely 60th birthday shindig (wherein my eldest child ate nothing but black beans and blue frosting and my youngest ate everything not tied down). There was a jaunt to the pool (wherein I realized that my eldest was fearless...and my youngest ate everything not tied down).

And after that pool trip? The extremely amped girls- after a teensy bit of coaxing- proceeded to crash hard into naptime. P.J.'s parents offered to hang out with them if we wanted to go do anything.

After the slightest bit of demurring, we locked eyes, grabbed the keys, and hopped into the Passat.

We rolled the windows all the way down, opened the sunroof with nary a thought of how much wind was rushing into the backseats, and cranked the music. Really. Loud.

And the playlist was full of completely inappropriate music that should really be called No Children Are In This Car.

The sun was shining, the wind was whipping, and we were screaming along with Super Mash Bros. It was awesome. This unencumbered-arms euphoria was made all the sweeter with the knowledge that a) the girls were fine, b) the girls were sleeping, and c) we were almost at the Gap Clearance Store in Hebron, Kentucky. (I really don't think this should diminish our cool cred at all. Besides, who among us doesn't require affordable tank tops?)

Some people just really don't let the whole "having children" thing affect their swagger.

And I'd like to meet them someday.

You Don't Tug On Superman's Cape.

"...And then, the King smote all of the princesses' suitors..."

Let me paint a little picture of heroics for you.

The four of us- Peej, Nora, Zuzu, and myself- were sitting and having a lovely dinner. Well, "lovely" might be a loose term. In fact, it had gotten downright stressful, due to the fact that Nora was bouncing around her chair like a pinball and Susannah was laughing like a loon at her sister's antics.

"Where is her booster seat?" P.J. wondered aloud, less than calmly.

I reminded him that it was still in the backyard from two nights' prior, when we had a [fantastic] barebecue with friends. It had been sitting out there, just waiting for someone to remember it and return it to its rightful kitchen chair. (But nope, we're that lazy; we'd rather repeatedly scold a two year-old for not sitting still than walk outside and spend the fourteen seconds hooking it back up inside.)

Eventually, Peej capitulated and went to get it. Nora was fastened. Susannah was subdued. Dinner was finished and P.J. excused himself from the table. After he left the room, I cleared a couple of dishes to the sink. Coming back, I saw that Nora had already begun to disentangle herself from the booster's buckle.

I also saw a spider.

A gigantic one.

The thing was a mere inch from her back and neck and had crawled out from the underside of the booster seat while I watched in horror. Now, I'd never say that I had a crippling fear of spiders, but this hitchhiker was mammoth. No exaggeration, its body was roughly the size of the top joint of a man's thumb.

And it was fast. Really, really fast.

I swallowed a scream (MUST'NT SHOW EXTREME FEAR IN FRONT OF THE IMPRESSIONABLE YOUTHS) and choked out a wimpy "P...J..."

He came bolting back in (with his sonic Spidey Sense that his wife's bravery had- once again- faiiiiiled) to find me gasping and flailing at Nora's booster seat.

"What, Keely, what?"

I stuttered and pointed to her chair. He leaned over to see what was wrong and unwittingly placed his hand right next to the hairy, beastly thing.

"OH MY- P.J., NO- THE CHAIR, THE CHAIR, THE THING ON THE CHAIR, YOUR HAND!!!"

And P.J., glancing down, did a neat shuffle step and made a sound that, while not a scream, was pitched slightly higher in his register than normal.

Nora, still struggling with the buckle, looked up in confusion. "What're you doing, Mommy/Daddy?" (Her time-saving nickname for the both of us.)

"Take her, take her- while I..." P.J. inched closer to the thing with a piece of scrap paper (which, admittedly, was way smaller than the spider.) I fumbled with her buckle like I was rescuing her from the path of an oncoming train. P.J. grabbed at the spider, only to find that it was still moving. Really. Fast.

I stood back with Nora in one arm, blocking the blissfully unaware (and still happily eating) Zuzu. Meanwhile, P.J. was having his own dilemma, being the barefoot hippie that he is. You know, the whole "live and let live" thing? But, adding to that mantra was the knowledge that- "Keely, it's jumping! It's JUMPING! IT'S JUMPING! Is it still in my hand?! It's getting away!"

So he acted fast. And. He. Crushed. It.

I was- and am- stupidly impressed. Because I cannot imagine that killing with his bare hands was on that night's agenda. But- and here's the crucial part- it could never be on mine.

Peej- You just keep leveling up in this video game called 'Being A Dad.' And I'm grateful.

Because, seriously, the girls and I would still be sitting there just emoting at the spider. Well, except for Susannah. She was really hungry that night. But in the future, we'll regale her with tales of that night's bravery.

(Happy Father's Day.)

Just Watch Where You're Stepping.

We live in a pretty gritty neighborhood. 

I mean, we're not talking The Wire-esque Baltimore, here, but it's not exactly Mayberry. 

Even still, we have moments and places of utter loveliness within throwing distance of our humble (and breaky) abode:

Our neighbor's Koi pond. The girls sometimes think this
is the Aquarium. Even though they've been to the real
one, I've yet to properly correct them.

We live four blocks from Manor Playlot, the manicured little park
that's right down the street from Blago's old house. It's quite
lovely there, even with all the corruption nearby.

They do okay for city kids. Zuzu can even be barefoot around here.
Even if she can never, ever, crawl on the ground of this park. 

Four Years Young!

Not a single thing has changed. (Enjoy it now,
you ridiculously well-rested fool.)

Lollygag Blog turned four years old yesterday. Which means that it's now bossy, energetic, and decently good with the English language. (Up to a point.)


What started out as a writing exercise to keep myself motivated for plays/diverted from checking my Facebook status every three minutes has turned into a cheerful time-suck of epic proportions.


Let's take a look back to what we were blogging about during that first year, shall we?


Here's one, dated October 1st, 2008- and it's a slice of life at the Schoeny household, sans kids, sans house, sans anything except unfettered late twentysomethingitude:

An excerpt- "The next thing Keely knows, the movie is indefinitely paused, P.J. has dismembered the coffee grinder, and he's asking her to look up the manual online. He calls out the product code from the other room. (Keely wonders where he's getting the product code from and hence doesn't pay attention to her typing. Her fingers are cold, too.) She gets it wrong. He repeats. The manual comes up and they discover that the grinder isn't intended for flavored coffee beans. (Attention KitchenAid: If you're telling me that I can't have freshly ground cinnamon hazelnut coffee each day then I don't wish to live in your America.)"

Okay, sure, life back then was pretty swell. But just the next year THIS was going on in the baby prep department:

"Last night was our first Great Expectations class at Northwestern (do they mean for the class? For my Expectations are only Meh) and what a time was had by all! Eight to ten couples eyeing the other eight to ten couples with these actual inner monologues: Guys- Does he make more money than me? Is he younger than me?/ Gals- She best be delivering after me. She is ridiculously tiny. I don't think she's really pregnant."


By 2010, there was a new sheriff in town. She was very tiny, but very, very loud. And our leisurely evening routines had changed...


"However, as we got Nora ready for bed (jammies, sleepsack, sleep hat, sleep mittens- it is chilly in her bedroom- two books, five songs, sponging of her gums under the guise of toothbrushing, monitors on, humidifier elephant on, mini space heater on- it is COLD- and noise machine on (her room faces the Kedzie alley, woot woot!), I noticed that Peej was extremely tired. His rendition of Corduroy was, shall we say, sleepy. By the time Nora fell asleep in her crib (I think the bedtime routine wears her out, frankly), P.J. had also faceplanted on a giraffe blanket, a copy of Goodnight Moon, and one of the cats. Boy, I was peeved. So peeved that I downed a Newcastle and half a box of Girl Scout (no court in the land would convict me) and watched the show. By. Myself. Peeved. And faceplanted into a pile of towels, a monkey blanket, and a fleece with ears before the show ended." 


And by last year? Well, even with an uber-active Nora and another of my signature crazypants pregnancies, I was still managing to keep it all together in the form of once a month Wii workouts: 


"I decided to hop on the ol' Wii Balance board- with Nora in tow. (Side note- try working out with a toddler if you ever want to feel like you're living the good life.) Right off the bat, the Wii's all like- Oh, HI, Keely, been a little too busy for daily workouts? I responded that I've been too busy for daily showers AND she should feel lucky I'm squeezing in a workout between liverwurst sandwiches at all. They are not programmed to receive sarcasm (regardless of the inherent truth). But boy can they dish it out. "Seen P.J. lately?" "Yep, we high-five before bed." "I haven't seen him in a month...how's he looking these days?" Choosing the on-screen option for 'more toned,' I remarked that P.J. had been training for various races. I swear to God the thing smirked. "Well, I suppose anything's possible," she shrugged. THAT put me in the mood for a good workout. Insult my husband!"


And that brings us roughly up to date. Sure, a few other things have happened (we met Miss Zuzu, our house imploded, etc.), but by and large the same themes are present: 


P.J. continues to be a good guy. Nora keeps on bossin' on. Susannah beams at people. The house pretends to be a livable abode. The cats still contemplate running away from home. I nap whenever possible. And lovely people continue to read and comment and re-post and validate this completely unexpected obsession of mine, furthering delusions of blogging grandeur and inspiring me to post things forever and ever, Amen. 


(Thanks for reading.) 

Keely Pals Around With House M.D.

"Doctor! The patient is flatlining! I shall click on her."

I'll admit it, I get to do some pretty cool things via this blog.

For instance, I get to play all sorts of new Ubisoft games, like the new House M.D.: Critical Cases. And it's fun. Really, really, fun.

It hooked up through my Facebook account and I was ready to go- once, that is, I picked out new features and accessories for my avatar. (Anyone else play Facemaker back in the early '80s? No? Well, ever since then I've had a thing for getting to choose features.)

The game sorta tosses you into the middle of the action without too much pre-information or rules. And actually, I really like that. That's sorta how I fly. No Knowledge Flynn, that's me.

It placed me smack dab in the middle of House M.D.'s stomping grounds, Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital. Right off the bat I got to diagnose a stroke victim simply by turning over squares on a board to match images. Turns out, I could've been a stellar doctor. I ROCK at Memory.

My first day, and I even got to use the defibrillator on someone. I saved his life, no big deal.

I spent a goodly bit of time wandering the hospital, picking up items in the pharmacy (for later use, obvie), and randomly treating patients in the clinic. This is definitely a game that you figure out as you go, and I can see how easy it would be to get hooked; skills and levels keep building, and it's super fun to unlock new rooms in the hospital.

"Keely, we don't give amphetamines to five year-olds."

I did get a little annoyed, however, at the fact that you need a certain "energy level" to keep going- and energy can be bought. With real money. (Which I don't do.) Or you can earn energy by completing offers from outside sponsors. (Which I also don't do.)

On top of that, I wasn't able to treat a walk-in patient (who had a runny nose) with meds until I gave her an MRI. What kind of hospital are we running, here?

But, bottom line, it was a fun diversion. Nora liked helping me click on the arrows, and she wanted me to keep poking people to see what they'd do. (Which, full disclosure, is also how I play games like this.)

Want to try this free, fun game for yourself? (I know.) Give it a go here: http://ubi.li/A357z 

And look for the sassy young doctor with sweeping bangs and a stylin' blue labcoat.

I'll be the one giving the itchy poison ivy victim a bag of heart meds.

Thank you to Ubisoft for sponsoring this blog post. Please click here to learn more about Ubisoft. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective. All opinions are my own. #UbiChamps

The Big Reveal! Kinda!

Now, for your voyeuristic/cautionary tale approval, I give you: 

Two Of The Five Gutted Rooms, All [We Hope] Done. (Forever And Ever, Amen.)

Shall we jaunt back down the stinky, depressing, covered-in-tears Memory Lane? (Please forgive the iPhone photos. Why yes, I do have a camera so advanced it could land a jet...but I think it's in storage. So, no flash it is!)

First, the bathroom.

The cesspool that started it all. Good God, that thing
looks like the beginning of a horror film.

The bathroom, all torn to shreds. Please note, however,
that the toilet paper stayed intact throughout. WHY?!

The beginning of the end [of the walls].

New floor! And some sorta prep work for the walls. That took
3 weeks. (You really don't wanna rush these things.)

But- oh my stars- what a shiny new bathroom! (If you disregard
the janky blinds! Which we clearly did!)

Someone is happy with her new mirror/
sconces/shower tile. Okay, it's me.

Now, the family room!

Old family room, looking towards the hall and
stairs. Not pictured: a Precious Moments fan pull.
Very pictured: Miami hotel tile, circa 1963.

Same view, but new wood-grain porcelain tile!
And new Buckwheat Flour (?) walls!

Aaand, full of our stuff again.

Same room, to the lefthand side.
Nora refuses to leave this room.

Old view of the family room, looking out onto the street.
Sweet bell peppers, that floor was awful.

New floor! New walls! New- hey wait, why did the
contractors put ALL of our stuff on that couch?

Ah, that's better. Nice and jammy-packedy.
And it's not dark at all- in fact, it's so bright that my
iPhone cam couldn't handle its luminescence. 

Stay tuned for rooms 3 through 5! Nora won't be in those pictures, however. She's not moving from the train table.

Because you never know.

Ten Years Old! Plus Twenty Two!

In honor of my own birthday, I'd like to revisit a stellar Birthday Past. Join me, won't you? 

This is my tenth birthday. June 6th, 1990.

There are so many things that I love about these two photos:

I had a serious love for cropped tops/wearing cute outfits way past their intended levels of appropriateness. However, at the moment that this photo was being taken, I knew for a fact that I looked incredible. (And a kind Thank You to my friend Angela for ensuring that my sister Chelly did not ruin everything. Although you can totally see that Emma was ready to make some sort of move towards the cupcakes.) There is a flower in a Clearly Canadian bottle. I'm donning a neon orange scrunchie. My Dad has a "concern face." 

 

Can you see what I'm proudly clutching in my right hand? Oh, that'd be a brand spankin' new cassette tape of Step By Step, by New Kids On The Block. (Rachel is nonplussed. Callie is excited for me. Kate is feeling blurry.) I'm exuding joy, pure and simple. 

And isn't that what's it all about, folks? For my birthday wish, I hope that each and every one of you has  your own personal I'm-Holding-Step-By-Step-And-Wearing-A-Fruitacular-Crop-Top-Because-I'm-Double-Digits kinda moment today.

Whatever that means for you. 

Or you can just borrow my definition. 

If you're feeling fancy. 

Piercings, Birthdays, And More Drinking.

Stealing Bethany's drink/getting a picture with it while she
was in the ladies room because it was funny/delicious.

I have some news.

No, not that. Not that other thing, either. And it doesn't even involve my gloriously fallin' down house.

I have recently removed my tragus piercing.

Now, before you get all creeped out and feel the need to excessively Google, I shall explain; the tragus is that bizarre flap of skin on your ear right before the ear canal. And I had it pierced when I was twenty years old.

It was a random piercing, in an even more random locale. I'm not even entirely sure why I wanted to have it done; I wasn't particularly [at all] punk. I wasn't at risk of being described as "edgy." And I had a crippling fear of needles. But I did have the need for something new and rather different, a car to take me all over Amherst and surrounding towns, and a modmate who encouraged me to either get the piercing done or stop yammering about it like Rain Man.

And it hurt. Good God did it hurt. I had a feeling that it would hurt as soon as I spied the deadly hook that was supposed to filet a chunk of my ear. However, I had finally made up my mind. I had already paid the cash. And the guy wielding the hook was sporting a red bandanna, making him look like a ridiculously hot pirate.

Decisions have been made on less.

However inconsequential the beginnings of this relationship were (the ring n' me, I mean- the pirate never even gave me a second glance, probably because I screamed directly into his face that he had mutilated me), I soon became quite attached (ha ha) to this ring with its ball bearing. I took it out on very rare occasions; surgery and my wedding day being two of the most prominent. But immediately afterwards, back in the ring would go. I wore it for so long that I began to forget that I was wearing it. I wore it as a nanny. An actress. A writer. A new Mom. Hangin' out with the inlaws. Just me...with a random piercing. 

But the other morning, nearly twelve years later, I looked at P.J. and announced "I think I'm gonna take out the tragus ring." He blinked. Thought for a second. Tentatively spoke.

"If that's what you want. Should we have some sort of ceremony?"

I pulled out the ball bearing. Slid out the ring. Placed it on the counter.

"Nah."

And you know what? It was totally fine. Because it was no longer something that I needed. It was the final vestige of the arbitrariness of my twenties (even- ahem- when I was 31 years of age).

The other night, P.J. threw me a surprise birthday party. (Stick with me, here.)

What had started out as a surprise was revealed a few days early due to extenuating circumstances with an extended family member's memorial in Cincinnati. (Keep sticking with me.)

I had suggested that we drive down to Cincinnati with the girls, cancel the dinner for two we had planned at Wildfire for Saturday evening, and reschedule sometime later in the month. P.J. did not like this plan. Loudly. When pushed, he irrationally yelled that PEOPLE HAD BEEN PLANNING TO SHOW UP TO MY SURPRISE DINNER FOR MONTHS AND OH MY GOD WHY DID I JUST TELL YOU THAT?!

I was touched, concerned for the very real possibility of more yelling, and unsure how to proceed with my husband's obviously fragile state of being. So I put on my Agreeable Hat.

Long story extremely short, we drove back home to Chicago on Saturday, arriving home with a couple of hours of preparation time to spare. (Read: we got to shower.) A [wonderfully wonderful] co-worker of P.J.'s stepped up to the plate and babysat for our sleeping children, as that day we had found ourselves in an unexpected babysitting bind. (There's a special place in heaven for friends who save the day like that.) We arrived at my "surprise" party to find some exceptionally good friends waiting for us. The kind of friends that I always want to see, but who frequently have shows, need sitters, or just possess completely opposite schedules from P.J. and me.

And we enjoyed the heck out of our time at that Golden Age supper club. Martinis were made out of desserts. I ate things off of gigantic spoons (some say they were for "serving," but the jury's still out). People let me try things off of their plates and sip things out of their glasses- not just because it was my birthday, but because I have really nice friends. (Good Lord, this paragraph makes it sound like I was raised in a barn, table manners-wise.) The point is, I had lovely conversations and felt truly lucky to be surrounded by so many great people.

And I kept glancing over at my husband, this guy who felt that I needed to have a special birthday celebration. (After all, nothing says "surprise party" like the big 3-2. It's not a milestone birthday! Surprise!) I loved him a crazy amount at that moment, this guy who wanted to help me pretend that the last two months of household insanity hadn't mentally snapped us in half.

I so totally don't need a tragus ring to define me. P.J. unwittingly let me know that I'm defined (and am continuing to be defined) by our life together. Our daughters. My writing- for which he clears paths and spaces and wrangles some quietude. Our impossibly constructed house. The family members both near and far-flung. The friends who consistently show up and remind me, Yes, you're generally awful at "getting together" and "keeping in touch," but we love your face and general looseness with the English language.

So I'm ready to turn 32 in two days. Because, as saccharine as it sounds, each year just keeps getting nicer. P.J. has shown very few signs of being done with me. Good things are promising to happen, writing-wise.

And, finally, because it means that I will never- ever- have to be twenty years of age again.

I'll toast to that.