Travel Tips.

Our [sandy] nomadic days have come to an end. We've eaten and road-tripped our way up the Eastern seaboard and here is a smattering of the things I've learned:

-Outdoor showers (while totally amazing-feeling) never quite get one fully clean.

-For that matter, no matter how many loads of laundry one does while staying at the beach, one will find a veritable desert of sand in her washing machine at home.

-Even though my mother purports to hate a fuss being made over her, she'll cry with happiness at each new surprise partygoer walking through the door (with a combination of joy and anger that I'm going to go ahead and term "janger." Example: "This is ridiculous. You did not have to travel all this way to see me," she exclaimed jangrily.)

The birthday girl with her favorite daughter.
Also, an epic photobomb by Rachel.

-The new Trivial Pursuit Bet You Know It game is incredibly fun but- like any other game which requires placing bets against other players' knowledge- is incredibly detrimental to a marriage. (One of us may have thrown a wedding band against a couch.)

-Susannah does not want to leave the water, whether the ocean is in Massachusetts or Maine. So don't even try that junk anymore.

-Nora has eaten all of the chocolate munchkins on the East Coast.

-My Dad has purchased for Nora all of the chocolate munchkins on the East Coast.

You missed a crumb there, kid.

-Lobster should be Maine's chief export. (Is it?) Or maybe it used to be, before I ate it all.

-Watching Olympic gymnastics makes me feel a) patriotic, and b) like maybe I could have actually participated in Olympic gymnastics.

-If, for example, one nannied for a family for nine years, extreme shock will occur upon the realization that the eldest is almost as tall as the nanny and the youngest is quite good at walking around with the nanny's baby.

If they're this grown up, that makes me...close to nineteen years old. 

-Vacations with one's children are not as restful as traveling without one's children (but a thousand and two times more restful than traveling with someone else's children).

-And finally: if the traveler has the childlike sensibilities of sheltered ferret, it will take roughly one week for the traveler to not bolt upright at every little sound on their godforsaken street at 3am, wondering whose bed/cat/baby is in the room, and inform her husband that ocean sounds "a little weird."

However, if the traveler's husband is anything like mine, he is no longer surprised by anything the traveler says or does, nor is he alarmed by the possibility of a weird ocean.

Which makes him a key element in future travel plans.

"Weird ocean? Sure thing, honey. I'll take care of it."

Somewhere On The Eastern Shore...

Here are a few of the reasons why I'm not so awesomesauce on the posting/responding this week... (Please forgive. I'll save you a drink.)

The ratio of people/faces turned towards the camera is astounding.

Squnch.

Gleeful sandbarring.

Totally could surf on her own.

Think she digs it.

We Opened The Vault.

Due to the fact that I'm vacation, being plied with various liquors, and have nothing original to say, here's an oldie but goodie from July of 2008.  Nothing has changed in the least. (However, apologies for my formatting issues. Maybe it's because of some weird Time Cop issue.) Enjoy.

This is the closest I came to standing still.

Seeing Boston in concert was truly a religious experience. Sure, I'm a Catholic and I go to mass and all that...but I can also worship at the [tasteful] altar of Tom Scholz. It was incredible. Not so much the fend-for-yourself seating- there was a line to get "into" the roped-off outdoor seating area, plus security people had no idea where seats were, nor did they care to help you. And when I tried to muscle my way through the hundreds of people standing behind the "seating area" to buy a tee shirt, I was stepped over, shoved aside, kicked in the ankle and pinched without mercy. Once at the stand, however, I discovered that they only take cash! Seriously? Thirty-five bucks for a [rad] tee shirt and you expect me to just have cash? Oh, okay, I'll just muscle my way up a hill, also crowded with people from the backwoods of Wisconsin (do they have backwoods? I truly don't know) to pay a three buck service fee from an unnamed ATM. It may have just been a dude sitting inside a box. But he gave me cash, so that's nice. I squoze my way back down through the crowd, back to the stand, got my [rad] shirt and wiggled back up and around the crowd to get back into line to squeeze into the seating area. Styx had already begun but that's okay. "Renegade" sounded good, though.

So, throughout Styx's set I was bouncing around with impatience. Seriously, I thought my heart was gonna implode from the sheer awesomeness of finally getting to see Boston in concert. (Keely's dad in 1986 after refusing to let her go see Boston/Black Crowes: "There's plenty of time to see them when you're older." Sure, I was six...but whatever.)

And then: "Are you ready for some rock?"

Yes! Yes I am!

And oh my goodness, perhaps I was not ready for some rock. Their guitars (and my heart) soared with the ferocity of a jet taking off. I punched P.J. in the arm and asked if he could believe it. He could, he answered. (Poor Peej. I may have broken his ribcage in my moshpit of one.) But they played "Cool the Engines!" That's a B-side from Third Stage! And "The Launch!" That's the song that my Dad would play for us in the Aerostar, pretending the volume didn't work. He'd turn the volume up and up and jokingly say "Oh, I don't hear anything," but we knew that the slow build of the bass would inevitably make way for a van-shattering celebration of guitars and fist-pumping chord progressions.

The set list was fantastic, comprised entirely of songs that I readily screamed along to, even if the majority of the audience didn't recognize half of them. Posers. They did a nice tribute to Brad Delp, another song from Third Stage called "A Man I'll Never Be," and everyone whipped out their cellphones (the new lighter). At the end, however, Michael Sweet (former lead singer of Stryper) pointed up to the sky. And a blue spotlight appeared on Michael, as if Brad himself deemed Michael a worthy replacement and this was Michael's way of accepting that great responsibility. It was a bit much, but I didn't mind. People ate it up. Again, posers.

However, ending with "Party?" For a second encore? Please. If I may be so bold, that is the LEAST awesome song ever, written by Boston or otherwise. It's up there with "She's having my baby." (Not written by Boston.) But these fools dug it so much that they were up on folding chairs and high-fiving each other. Seriously? You don't wanna end with, oh, "Let Me Take You Home Tonight?" Or perhaps "I Had a Good Time?" Heck, play "More Than a Feeling" again. (Please. And did I mention that I walked down the aisle to an organ version of "More Than A Feeling?" 'Cause I totally did.)

But whatever. It was still in the top three shows of all time for me. Tom Scholz' guitar solo (followed by his synth solo- yes, a synth solo) was jaw-dropping. The man can play so fast! And on such Boston-sounding instruments! That he invented! Even if we kept getting shoved back into the aisles by the positively moronic security guards (Why the hell are you in the aisles? Clear this aisle! Are you dancing? Sit in your folding chair!) it was a crazy amazing concert.

And definitely more than a feeling. Something clearly more tangible.

And Now...We Sleep.

There is so much. There is always so much. Will you remind me of this in the dark days of early Chicago March when I want to chew my own face off with stir-craziness/no one returns my phone calls? (I had never previously believed those two items to be related. I now see the error of my ways.)

The last handful of days can be broken down into three very specific events:

We're not leaving, are we?

End O' The Cape (For Me, For Now).
It was hard to leave the mammoth vacation "cottage," the pre-made coffee (and brekkie) in the kitchen, the eighty extra sets of hands to tend to Nora/unwedge me from clearly too-low beach chairs, and all the nightly games- even if there were multiple cheaters. (Cheaters!)

It was extra super-duper hard to leave the beach where I played as a kid. Especially since the water was so warm and the waves were so gentle and and and...

Nora felt much the same. She thoroughly enjoyed what she termed "potato chip" waves. Meaning they were salty. Meaning she digs salt. Shocking.

I feel secure, however, in the knowledge that P.J. knows exactly what type of property (and things to fill said property) he needs to procure within the next- oh, five years to make me completely happy. I'm not pushy. I can wait.

Then, since Schoenys do not believe in dead air, that brings us to:

The Yard Sale To End All Yard Sales (Please).

This was Nora's way of helping.

In which, despite crazy planning (on my part) and crazy manpower (on Kate and P.J.'s), we made a WHOPPING TEN DOLLARS. But Keely- you ask- wasn't the fee to participate in the neighborhood yard sale that exact same amount? T'was. I suppose the ten dollars went towards the three red balloons that popped in the sun (an hour into the sale- AUSPICIOUS) and bus fare to keep people out of our 'hood. That's only a guess. I even Craigslisted the sale, but somehow even the mention of all of our interior doors for sale didn't entice. (Whatever, yard sale losers- they are awesome doors.) And even the rock bottom price of ten cents for any single thing (or a bag full) didn't draw the crowds. For there were no crowds. None. We had a few folks walk by and scoff at our perfectly nice items that we really didn't want. I almost yelled at someone that I was sorry I couldn't offer him money to take my things. But I didn't. That would be bad for business. I'm just kidding- there was no business.

Guess what, Salvation Army? Happy birthday. Enjoy your espresso grinder and bag of shoes.

Bringing us to...

Tomato thief.

Lyle Lovett Plays At Ravinia For Keely.
We had missed the show for the past two years- the first being when I was pregnant with Nora and had inexplicably passed out in slumber on the kitchen floor an hour before we were supposed to leave, and last year when he played at the Morton Arboretum. And besides ticket and parking prices, we were expected to buy a day pass to the Arboretum. And drive for like eleventy billion years. Nosankyou.

But this year, flush with our yard sale pennies, we took Nora and enough food and activities to start a camp for hungry toddlers with attention disorders.

On the way we got to say an all-too-brief hello to Molly n' Lucas n' Peyton, a lovely fam for whom I used to nanny. (I started with Luke when he was two weeks old and now he's starting second grade, making me... about twenty three years old. Yes.)

And there are few things as lovely as sitting with one's fam on a cool summer night, surrounded by lilting music and too much food, snuggling with a crazy tomato-fiend of a toddler and a really cute husband pretending to pretend to sleep for the benefit of said daughter (but sneaking in an actual muffled snore here and there). And when you add in the visual of that toddler feeding herself cookies off of the nose of a Beanie Bear (and then tucking herself into bed under the low picnic table) and later dancing with one's husband (complete with toddler in backpack) to the final encore under a starry sky...well, that adds up to one pretty decent life you've got goin'.

Even if no one wants my darned Kenneth Cole messenger bag.

Just Beachy.

I am still on vacation. And it is great. Despite monsoon-like rainstorms for the first two days and near frozen bedroom conditions (due to a super eager a/c system and more than one family member with a predilection towards extreme body temps), we've had a stellar time. And so have my Mom and Dad and sister and her husband and their three kids and my sister and her boyfriend and her friend and my sister and her friend (and various day trips) and my mother-in-law and my husband's cousin and her daughter and my Dad's brother and his son and my sister's godfather and some family friends and some other family friends and lots n' lots n' lots of food.

But since I care about everyone, I won't make you all wait to hear about my most embarrassing of moments until after I've returned home to Chicago. Oh no, I will list two of them here.

Twice today I've had to be bodily helped out of my beach chair. This is because, in order to soak up as much of the elusive sun as is humanly possible, I've repeatedly positioned my chair (in the waves) towards the actual sun. For much of the day, this meant I was facing backwards, leaning into the actual, sloping sea. And wet sand- as it is wont to do- grabs ahold of flimsy beach chairs and sucks them downwards. And backwards. Couple that with very little abdominal strength (and a center of balance that is questionable at best) and you've got the makings for some pretty decent slapstick.

That visual not enough for you? How about me, curled in a fetal position, atop an inner tube and under a [baby's] beach umbrella, (with a towel rolled up to support my belly on the sand), sleeping with an open mouth and burning tops of toes? Throw in my red gingham maternity suit and I am a CAUTIONARY TALE to promiscuous teens everywhere. Or, more specifically, on the beach of Gray Gables.

And on that note- some pictures.

Seafood and faux hawks.

Safety first. Always stay close to shore.

That's right.

Sure, I'll try a Newton.

Come ON, Nora.

Schoenies Go East

On vacay. Back soon. Havin' a great time. No, really.

Love, The Guy Getting Up With The Toddler Each A.M., The Bitsy Who Is Not Sure About Those "Tides," and The Gal Who Leaves No Food On Trays.

Brefft.

That's like 'bereft,' but with less syllables and more f's. Which makes it more powerful, obviously.

Also- the iPhone and I are having words about things that are not actually words. ("Beets? Beef?" "No- brefft." "But that's not real!" "I know." "IT HAS TO BE A REAL WORD.")

Anyway, back to brefft. 'Cause I am. Last night, in the swelty Chicago heat, as I showered off the near 12 hours of planes, trains and automobiles- and then stepped into a pile of cat yuke- I wondered where my cool ocean breeze went. Or my sun-kissed skin. (Sun-kissed. Not attic-fried.) Where were the hordes of adults to watch my baby as I wrote/swam/napped on the couch?

Pretty sure breakfast is supposed to be included here as well. Where are my parents? Where is the food parade? Where is my bacon?!

And what about this view? Quite certain I signed up for three separate windows facing low tide. There are no car alarms in low tide. Nor are there pumpkin vines threatening the very foundation of the house in low tide. This is the worst ocean ever!

My daughter is thrilled to be back in her cozy bed- as opposed to a pack n' play closet wonderland- but she's only ten months old. Her sense of j'accusity is not as fully refined as mine.

Speaking of NJ, her tenth month was celebrated in a variety of towns- while she was mostly facing the wrong way. Those seatbelt laws are the meanest. This trip also coincided with the day that she decided to sleep the least sleep, ever. Ever ever. She had a decent chance of falling asleep on the flight back to Chicago- until the onboard computer decided to die. Then we had to swap planes- or, rather, sit in a new boarding gate until something happened.

Some said a plane was coming from Baltimore. Other attendants said nothing at all. My favorite of the bunch waited until we were back on a plane and Nora had dozed off on Peej's shoulder- and that's when they decided to have a loud convo over Nora's head. For a good fifteen minutes. Three of them. Loudly. About how FUN their gay coworker was. (Isn't he FUN? He always makes me laugh. SO MUCH FUN.) They had the whole plane on which to not work. The only way they could have been closer to her eardrum is if they had been braiding P.J.'s hair. And not that having a baby means that everyone has to be quiet- which, uh, it does- but you know that if Nora had stayed awake and was a cranky hot mess, they'd be the first to Evil Eye us and apologize to other passengers.

And we couldn't say anything. 'Cause, you know, Jet Blue and all.

That said, we're home. Safe n' sound. Nora's beside herself with recognition/joy at all of her possessions. And now  we're off to work.

The dust bunnies (cat bunnies?) will have to wait. As will the unpacking. And foodstuffs. Also- the nap. And the floaties in the ocean.

And my Pimm's shandy.

Although, with one trip to the corner store and a well-placed travel mug...Mama can keep this vacay going until at least Thanksgiving.

Then we switch to cider.

Total amount of sun= two hours. So far.

I am heading down the steps to the beach in a few minutes. For the first time- in direct sunlight- on this vacation. Sure, you say, an overcast patch in your Cape Cod wonderland? Poor things.

Except.

It has been positively Noviembre in general amount of clothiness and blanketude. Non-stop sheets of rain. Temps hovering around 60 degrees- if not lower. No sun-kissed naps here...you know, the kind where you awaken with glowy skin and sparkly mermaid hair? (I know you do.) Nope- the naps taken this week have been the grumpy hibernation type. We've been waking up and squinting into the half light, eating something carby and then wrapping a blanket or towel back around our faces to lay on the couch and challenge one another to yet more games of online Scrabble.

That said, we've all been taking naps. That's a definite vacay plus.

And we've been forcing Nora to better acquaint herself with the ocean- although I can't imagine she's forming any lifelong bonds with rocky, subzero shorelines. She also raged at me when I removed large rocks from her mouth- she thinks they taste like French fries. I think they taste like orthodontics.

In addition, the irony has not been lost on me that we've been using a noise machine in our daughter's corner of the room- set to rain. Against floor to ceiling windows. Being battered by rain.

And those windows were reflecting a crazy amount of harbor lights last night- to combat the foggiest of fogger fog- coming from at least five different lighthouses and beacons along the canal and bay. This, in conjunction with the snoozing light from one Dell, one HP, one iPhone, a Verizon flip phone and a dying Blackberry Pearl, made me feel like I was in Tron.

But this morning we were greeted with a stunning sunrise from our bedroom- the one that possesses three separate ocean views. (Yep, just now realized that.) It's gonna be a good day. Freckles will be frecked. A boat may be liberated. I will probably eat more shellfish than is wise. There is speak of a taco fiesta for dinner.

This is the exact definition of my happy place, even before the tacos. They're just the icing on the [key lime] cupcake.

I am now starving. Okay- pit stop. Snack first, then freckling, then boat-liberating, then snack. Maybe a nap. And no more technology for the day.

For at least an hour.

And Peej may or may not have sunken a dinghy.

It is currently a balmy 63 degrees in Cape Cod.

This is strange for so many reasons:
a) We are at the beach. It should be well over 100 degrees.
b) All summer long- in Chicago, mind you- it's been well over 100 degrees.
c) I only packed halter tops. For Nora.

That said, our digs this week are a stunning "cottage" with three floors of window seats, wraparound porches and mind-boggling amounts of alcohol. Even more mind-boggling is how quickly the supply will be decimated with three sisters, two parents, two husbands, a boyfriend or two and a plethora of pals. (There's also four kiddos, but they aren't hitting the stash yet. Overmuch.)

Nora, for her part, has been chasing her big cousins, shoving objects (sand, shoes, mini front-loader trucks) into her mouth, and passing out each night with a sleepy giggle. She has effectively been aired out.

My new obsession: looking up real-time star charts and pretending to see them in the cloudy sky. P.J.'s? Listening to an CD he found in the TV room called "Angela's Bachelorette." The gentlemen residing here initially hoped for a DVD. No such luck.

I also have my new gadget to keep me outta trouble: a refurbished iPhone 3Gs. This a big deal. A really big deal. I've been a loyal, tried and true Blackberry Pearl user for the past four and a half years. I love the Blackberry Pearl. I love it. Sure, it has a limited capacity for web browsing, memory storage and camera speed. And absolutely, the trackball tends to implode, rendering the entire cell phone a useless mini brick. (But it's so cute!)

Regardless of its shortcomings, I've come to acknowledge the BBerry as a general extension of my right hand. I am disgustingly good at texting on the thing. I ask things of it that it cannot possibly deliver- accurate GPS, an updated blog, etc.- yet, somehow, it does. Slowly, but it does.

But the other day, the trackball on the phone died. Again. Stuck itself so far inside the phone that it became a pebble. And about as helpful as one. Suddenly, I was unable to make calls, answer calls, look up numbers or addresses, text, email, take or receive or view pictures, or do anything generally associated with an actual phone. It became a lovely object with which to thwack things- precisely the activity in which I engaged for the full day I was without any means of communication.

And I was embarrassingly inept at dealing with this. Could. Not. Handle. It.

So I needed a new phone- pronto. Peej thought that I could do without a cell- smart phone or otherwise- for the week we were on vacation. He was sorely mistaken...and won't be making such inane and unhelpful assumptions again any time soon, I promise you this.

And we looked at comparable phones on T-Mobile (which I love) and found that even the nicest ones were iPhone ripoffs- for about two hundred more dollars. So we contemplated the iPhone, even though:
AT&T Has Terrible Reception In Chicago, and
We Don't Need An iPhone, and
The Data Charges Are Crazy, and
It Is Trendy.

But it turned out that it would be cheaper to get a refurbed phone (named The Furb) on a comparable data plan with a phone that- get this- allowed me to ask waaay too much of it, media and communication-wise.

Which is good. And bad.

And very bad.

But I'm in good company. Nothing says Family Time like six Flynns and their various family members attached to a laptop and iPhone apiece. We've actually played word games in person (on paper) and across the room (on Facebook.)

As soon as the sun comes back out I'm sure it'll be a little different.

At least outfit-wise.

Better than what it usually smells like.

For one brief moment, even before I opened my eyes, I thought I was at the beach. Sure, it was 6am in muggy, slightly overcast Chicago- but the air had that heavy beach quality.

Nora clearly felt it, too. That's why, when she joined me in bed, she fell back to sleep. The sea air does that.

All morning long, even as I looked into my backyard and peeked around to Kedzie (most definitely not the bastion of seaside quietude), I could not be convinced that it wasn't a "beach day." I could even smell the salt.

Perhaps something has happened to the Morton salt factory downtown and that is certainly something to look into- but for now I'll just pretend that I am a coastal being. And not a landlocked Midwesterner tendin' the Back 40. Don't get me wrong- I really dig our lake. And I never knew how hard I'd fall for a small, Wisconsin town and kayaking in its picturesque waters. (Also- apropos of nothing water related- I really and rather inexplicably adore Indiana. That was surprising as well.)

But nothing compares to a body of water comprised of salt. Maybe I just like to be buoyant.

And speaking of the Back 40, we've [P.J. has] spent a ton of time priming the yard on Troy Street. He's seriously so good. Of course, he'll tell our friends and family that we work out back and we've figured out where to place such unruly beasts as the Hosta plant (seriously, they're a bit intimidating)- but he's just being a good sharer. As I've told him many times, the garden is his. But the yard is mine.

It's like that part in Dirty Dancing: "Our Baby is going to change the world." "And what's Lisa going to do?" "Oh, Lisa's going to decorate it."

I'm the Lisa to his Baby.

And baby, can he garden! So far, he's managed to keep alive the following: lilacs, roses, hosta, lilies, tulips, azaleas, holly, clematis, peonies, strawberries, raspberries, tomatoes, peppers, grapevine ivy, lavender, geraniums, petunias, impatiens, a pear tree, a birch, a maple, a slew of decorative grasses, and a jade plant. But the jury's still out on that last one. It looks like it went a few rounds with a Hosta.

And me? Oh, I pretend to garden. I am excellent at pretending to garden. Gimme some gardening gloves and potting soil and I will poke, water, and stomp around the backyard like a true [five year-old] professional. I have no green thumb. I have a black thumb. Really, a black stump of a hand. (Which sounds terrible.)

I over-love. I'm taking copious notes on my gardening style, because these are traits I fear will transfer over to my parenting skills. Really. I just can't leave the darned plants alone. If Peej asks me to water them (which he has sorta ceased doing, lately), I'll waterwaterwater them like it's my sole mission on Earth. Or- I'll forget about them. For weeks. (Which I can't imagine reflecting on my parenting style, overmuch.) Or I'll prod them. And move them. And smother them (with love.)

P.J. is kind. He tells me that I'm a GREAT gardener, that I'm doing JUST FINE. He gave me the job of potting some flowers in the backyard...and now the yard is covered with more potting soil than could ever be in a planter. And potting soil is NOT cheap. (Nor are any of the materials that I squander with my over-loving.) But I needed extra soil to get the darned plants to stand straight! They kept giving up and flopping to the side like wilty little children having tantrums. I showed them! (Some lost their heads. This was unavoidable.)

I swear I am good with kids.

I was, however, clutch at placing backyard-y type furniture. That black, wrought-iron glider between the trees? That was all me. The big, stripey hammock (thanks, Nat!) swaying by the back brick wall of  the house? Yep. As was the fabulous patio set with green paisley umbrella that may be in the mail as we speak. (Thanks for nothing, Home Depot. I don't mean that. I love you.)

And just wait for the fairy lights. And the Tiki torches. And the miniature Enchanted Forest's worth of garden creatures: the bunnies, the frog prince, the helpful gnome, the decapitated turtle (always a big hit. P.J. has promised to "see what he can do" about that one.)

After all of this "gardening," I was fully covered in potting soil, poorly applied sunscreen and a few other questionable substances. So I took a shower with the windows open and lights off. I pretended that it was the outdoor shower in Cape Cod- the one we'd look forward to all day, to rinse off the salt and sunshine and stickiness, the one that was a private oasis of cool water, ocean breezes, heavy scents of roses and food being placed out on the deck. The shower in which you were rarely alone- swimsuits on, of course, this IS a family blog- and would have to fight one's sisters for the Dove shampoo and the single towel not covered in tree bark. It was so pleasant an experience that sometimes we'd finish a shower, jump back into the ocean and then barge into someone else's shower moments later.

My shower at home was good. Not as good as the one in Onset, MA. (But very few nouns are as good here as they are in Onset, MA.)

I'm grateful to be going in August. And I'm thankful for the lovely home we're creating here in Chicago. And I'm indebted to those who protect all of these special places...

...And allow me to live the kinda lifestyle where I get to blog about the difficulty of potting soil.

Which is seriously still everywhere.