Girlfriend, By Keely Flynn. Oh Wait, That's ME.

Lately, I've spent a bunch of time reviewing and promoting some terrific shows around town. But there's one very important show opening in previews tonight...

'Cause it's mine.

Girlfriend is the story of Anna and Caro, two twentysomething gals who have been friends forever and ever, Amen. As they attempt to navigate the ups and downs of functional adulthood and the Chicago theatre scene, they also redefine friendship- and just how heavily you can lean on those pals before you drag 'em down with you.

Sure, this may be one of the more biased things I've ever blogged, but Girlfriend is a really funny show. And- honestly- not just 'cause I'm the playwright. This cast is quick and sharp and bitingly funny. They're also adorable and fun and completely root-able. There are bits and pieces of people I've loved in Chicago- and more than a few glimpses of folks I'd like to shove off a bridge.

But, I assure you, it's a comedy. A wicked awesome one. Because Amy Buckler, our director, is smart and savvy and really good at coaxing a storyline out of a blocked playwright. And 20% Theatre Chicago is an amazing group of artists who rock the heck outta new works.

Speaking of tips o' the hat, I'd really be amiss if I didn't give a big shout out to my husband P.J. (Like, a twenty gallon tip o' the hat.) This is the guy who found me at my desk, shaking from my 10th cup of coffee, and having a draft-related freakout to end all draft-related freakouts. And this is the guy who took my laptop out of my twitching hands, plonked me into a bathtub, and yanked the rest of the story line from my brain (not entirely unlike how the Egyptians removed brain matter from their mummies).  He also maintained our kids and pets and meals and made sure I drank water during this whole creative process. So, yeah. Wicked big thanks.

And I'd like to dedicate this show- my part of the show, anyhoo- to my Dad. As many of you know, Dave Flynn is undergoing some serious chemo for some serious cancer. But through it all (and since I started writing in the 2nd grade), he's been one of my staunchest supporters.

Dude has every playbill and poster in which I've ever been featured on the walls of his recording studio. That's a lot of shows; some of which should've been shoved off that ol' bridge as well. But there they stay, reminders of how proud he's always been of my work.

So Dad, happy 62nd birthday. I can't wait to tell you about how *your* show went. (And you better make it out here for the next one, yeah?)

Girlfriend
April 25th- May 19th
Zoo Studios (4001 N. Ravenswood, Chicago)
Previews April 25th & 26th, pay what you can!

Thurs-Sat, 8pm Sun 2pm
Industry Night Mon, May 6th, 8pm
www.brownpapertickets.com
(if you'd like to pay cash at the door, email boxoffice@twentypercentchicago.com)

Snow, Enya, and Confusing Friends & Family Since 2008.

So, Midwest: This snow thing. Come on. There's been a slight disconnect lately between anticipated snow and the subsequently unwarranted freak-outs. Having been a resident of Chicago for over a decade now(!) and being in the [poorly plowed] trenches for the majority of those winters, I'd like to remind my neighbors of what snowfall is. And four inches of ground cover within the city proper wouldn't even have been a blip three years ago.

You call this snow?

For example, during the blizzard of February '11, our fair city was downright pummeled with a whopping two feet of snow. Chicago Public Schools were closed for the first time in decades. And Nora sported her first wicked awful fever (upwards of 104 degrees) and it was so gross outside that we decided to take our chances at home instead of the ER. (And for all y'all first time parents, you KNOW that's some serious weather outside.)

But this? This week's pre-cancelled classes and fear-mongeration which caused hordes of people to hunker down and wait out the storm with walls of canned goods at the ready? Sure, last March's temps that soared into the 90s may have caused temporary winter amnesia, but...FOUR. INCHES.

People.

Unrelated/semi-anticipatory-cabin-fever related: The girls were absolutely wild this morning. Like, they would've given the screaming banshees something to really scream about. So I opened Spotify on my computer. Culled every single Enya song ever penned. Caribbean Blue. Orinoco Flow. The whole shebang of The Celts album. And then I watched as the girls blinked at me, gathered their lovies close, and begin to gently spin around the kitchen- not entirely unlike a few parties I attended at good ol' Hampshire College. And they [my kids, not the burnt-out hippies] looked at me, like- what IS this magic?

Enya, I benevolently informed them. It's just Enya.

Second tangent: Peej and I chose the theme from Far and Away to be our wedding recessional, written by- you guessed it- Enya. (And played by a myopic organist.) It was, for our Catholic-wedding-attending guests, confusing and awesome. Confusome. But go download that track right now. Because it'll change your day. It will change your day.

Our processional, for the record, was Boston's More Than A Feeling, which surprised literally no one on my half of the guest list. And inspired the the rest.

Except for the myopic, rather sleepy, organist.

Whom P.J. feared had kicked the bucket during the ceremony.

And for which scenario he wanted to leave the altar to "go take care of it."

But that's more of another feeling.

Why I Should Never Travel Alone; Ghost Story Edition.

And now, filed under Things Which Make Me Question/Hate Myself:

The other morning, as I made my way to the train- laden with bags and more than a little guilt at leaving my children for the weekend- I thought about my parents, whom I was excited to see. My kids, whom I already missed. The amount of work which might never see the light of day. My imminent flight sans children or [non-psychological] baggage, and the pressure I was putting on myself to just enjoy this, dammit.

So yeah, I was a little distracted.

By the time I was was seated on an orange line bound for Midway Airport, I was in a better place. (Mentally. The orange line is a little questionable.) And I looked up from my nauseating self-reflection (and YouTube videos) to see a man, seated across the train from me. He seemed pleasant. He had a nice smile.

And he had a hook for a hand.

Now. My mind went in all sorts of places- most embarrassingly the Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark, Volume Eleventy-Billion where the dude has a hook for a hand and it ends up on the car door handle and people are afraid.

And that is horrifying. For. I am a 32 year-old adult with a mortgage and children and a dental appointment already set up for six months from now. And not only should I be able to contain my immediately fearful response to cheaply penned ghost stories, but I'd also hope that I could maintain an appropriate facade in the presence of folks who clearly have bigger fish to fry than a gal emoting wildly before a solo weekend.

But the dude had a hook for a hand.

And it looked like a functional hook, the kind that could grip things and be a useful tool and scritch scritch scritch through the roof of a parked car-

I never claimed to be a good person. Or a sane one.

I am, however, extremely well-read.

February Date: Bowling Night (Sans Bowling).

Because my husband is so incredibly crazy about me-

And because he was rapidly running out of time for a so-called February date (for the newcomers to this date thing, catch up on the whole bizness here)-

You can tell I'm on a date.
I am wearing a tie.

He asked me out this past Tuesday for a wild evening of bowling and deep conversation in a dive bar-like atmosphere. I accepted, even though I'm not a "bowler," overmuch. Except. Our first stop- Waveland Bowl- was booked up solid because "Uh, it's league night?" Our second stop- Lincoln Lanes, the one actually closer to our house (P.J. had a plan. I was not privy to it, but he had a plan)- was also booked up for the following hour, and did we want to wait? And since we had told Angie (thanks, Angie!) that we'd only be gone for an hour-ish (livin' LARGE), we opted for beerz and poolz.

Seriously, there is not much difference between Bowling Date and Pool Playin' Date, Tuesday Night Date-wise. Especially if both parties are wearing hoodies and looking vaguely like unwashed teenagers.

Sharkz.

P.J. ran half the table as I watched and casually drank my beer- Okay, it was cider, I drank an imported cider. (I am the worst dive bar-goer ever.) Then, as I so often do with a goodly part of a drink in me, I became a pool shark. (Hear that, Ma? I learned from the best.) And I schooled him. Kinda slowly. But I won.

And then he promptly beat in the next game, but since I was still buzzing from my fierce win (and my one imported cider), I graciously congratulated him. And then it was time to go home because a) our neighbor is pregnant and shouldn't have to be out late because her friends are bowling/playing pool, b) Chicago was in the middle of a swirling snowstorm, and c) it was a Tuesday.

But obviously there was time to get milkshakes at Susie's Drive-In, the best 24/7 milkshake emporium in the history of ever (in a rather scary looking shack-like place); coconut for me, caramel cappuccino for Peej, both in styrofoam cups as big as our faces.

There was also time to sing Whatta Man alongside Salt n' Pepa on the drive back down Montrose.

And there was just enough time to finish up said milkshakes on our living room couch- holding hands, feeling lovey...

...And simultaneously checking our mobile Facebook accounts.

Winter Games. (For An Hour.)

On Saturday, we took the girls sledding. In case you're curious, here's what sledding in Chicago looks like. Careful, it's pretty extreme.

First, you bundle your offspring within an inch of
their lives. It's cool, they love this part.

There are zero chair lifts. But that's fine, it's good
for them to learn how to walk at a 10 degree angle uphill.

There will be snowflake eating. (A few sticks, too.)

"Lemme tell you about Chicago weather, Zuzu..."

Braving the elements. 

And if you're wondering what the actual "sledding" looks like? Behold. Pretty sure this is why people used to think that the world was flat.

January Date: Ice Skating (And Nary A Trip To The E.R!)

If I had to choose something I loved more than my husband, I'd have to say Re-enacting Scenes From My Favorite Movies. (If I HAD to.)

Even the Russian judges liked us.

This past Saturday, I didn't even to pick between them. Because P.J.'s Christmas present to me was twelve months of Chicago dates. You know, the place where we live and of which we continuously extol the virtues but rarely have time to a) date in b) Chicago? He gave me twelve note cards, each one with a different activity carefully thought out and/or pasted on the back.

January's date was ice skating at Millennium Park. There was the promise of cocoa, as well. (Because everyone knows that cocoa is P.J.'s- er, Keely's- favorite beverage.)

Our darling friend and neighbor Angie watched the girls for a few hours while Peej and I day-dated, feeling like wonderfully negligent parents. ("Oh, you left your kids on a Saturday? Was there an emergency?" "No, we needed to ice skate. We needed to.")

Apparently, a lot of other folks needed to as well. We arrived to see hordes of teetering folks impatiently watch the Zamboni makes its rounds. We rented skates ('cause, you know, my professional ones are in the shop) and promptly exchanged mine for a smaller size. And then promptly regretted it, as the smaller ones hurt in an entirely different manner than the roomy ones had. But shame kept me firmly lacing up those skates. (Peej's experience was exactly the opposite. Ol' Wobble Ankles and his sidekick Pinchy Toes McWhinesalot!)

Then...we skated. A lot. Kinda...not so fast. We gripped each others' hands (for love!) and shot eye darts at zooming five year-olds (who, like, are really gonna hurt someone, it's not a flipping race). We got better. P.J. swapped me over to his other hand and skated faster. I told him I really hoped someone had seen that move. Pretty sure it was what had gotten Kate and Doug the gold in The Cutting Edge. P.J. skated backwards to take a pic of me (and only kinda fell once). I took a picture of him- while I was gripping the handrail, thankyouverymuch.

By the end, we were skating pretty fast- almost like regular, non-geriatric scarecrows- and I informed P.J. that we had just made Nationals. I asked him to lift me. He said no. (Some people fear romance.)

After we returned our skates- and waited for the return of feeling in our feet- we hobbled over to Caribou for cocoa and accepted an invitation to write our favorite movies quotes on their chalkboard.

On our way home, we happened to meander into the Chicago Cultural Center (the most gorgeous building in the history of ever) and caught part of a guided tour for Preston Bradley Hall and the Tiffany stained-glass zodiac dome...and I was in Lovely Things, Nerdy Heaven.

Kinda like my relationship with my all-too tolerant, all-too awesome husband.

Who won't even yell "Toe Pick!" at a showing-off, spinning fifteen year-old girl.

We all have our limits, I guess.

Peej took this pic as he fell onto the ice.
This is my Supportive Face.

Public Drinking And Abject Coveting. (Christmas!)

I hear you're the guy what haz the toy access. Pay no mind to the baby,
she's just a baby. She's not In The Know.

This past Saturday was the annual event that pretty much tops all other Chicago events for me: The Christkindlmarket in the Daley Plaza. That's right, the kitsch fest that contains every German ever to carve an ornament (and some of their Mexican and/or Ecuadorian compatriots with vendor stalls of their own- it's an equal opportunity kitsch fest) is the reason why I love Chicago so hard.

Yes, there's exceptional theatre here. Sure, our transit system is [generally] admirable. And absolutely, the tamale lady on my corner warrants her own spin-off show. But once a year, there exists a square wherein I can weep over miniature glass animals, force my children to be kind to Santa Claus, and drink mulled wine FROM A BOOT.

Now, some of you may recall how I am still recovering from the loss of my glass menagerie. It still stung, what with seeing my M.I.A. collection's brethren and sistren on full display for all of the shove-happy drunkards to poke and potentially break...but I was strong. For the children. (And I got a baby deer! And Nora chose a whale! And Zuzu quickly got a teddy bear! Because by the time we got to her choice, we were really in danger of being stampeded!)

But even though I haven't fully given up hope that I'll find my little glass guys in a shoe or something, I'm happy to be rebuilding my collection. Because I'm an obsessive eight year-old girl.

On a happier note, this was the year that Nora decided Santa was her friend. A good friend who brings her stuff. And all she had to do to get this prize was to be civil (and potentially cheerful- no promises) to the bearded guy. And sister, did she deliver! Unfortunately, (we found out later) Susannah was coming down with a slight cold and wasn't her usual, I Want To Hug The UPS Man self. But hey, one daughter beaming at Santa pretty much beats any other record we've ever set.

And that whole mulled wine in a boot thing? Yeah, it's still pretty much the greatest secular Christmas tradition ever.

Like, ever.

The Boss Continues To Be The Boss.

Back before our view was obstructed by The Giant and Giantess.

On Friday night, I fulfilled the childhood dream [of every single ex-boyfriend of mine, ever] of seeing Bruce Springsteen in concert. (Some have- ahem- seen him at least 20 times. So I'm catching up. Slowly.)

And I went with my current boyfriend- who also, conveniently, is the father of my children and the husband of, well, me...so there was very little awkward explaining to be done. But it wouldn't be one of my stories without some sort of horrific grossness leading up to the event, SO: Here it is.

A few hours before the show, I was out running errands with the girls. On the way home, Susannah began coughing and gagging in the backseat. I pulled the car over just in time to see her puke. Three times. A LOT. Nora, horrified, kept screaming that something was coming out of Zuzu's mouth again and again and again...and why was she doing that? And is she going to do it again? And can I get out of the car? Susannah, for her part, finished yuking and immediately began to clap and laugh. (And put every book and toy within reach directly into her mouth.) I attempted to bathe her with the packet of baby wipes I keep in the car, resulting in one Not Very Clean But Very Wet child strapped in her seat...and one very bored preschooler who had already moved onto her next book. (And for those of you worried about the gagging baby- i.e., my Mom- it's totally fine. It was a large piece of freeze-dried apple which had apparently been hanging out somewhere in her mouth/throat for the previous twenty minutes. No big. Note to my Mom: I am watching her!)

Once we got home, I had to choose how to best carry/help the children indoors. Nora was on her own, and Zuzu was held in a football hold as far from my shirt as possible. Because, in honor of the concert, I had already showered/put on a cute tank top during the girls' naptimes. This raises the questions of- why did I get dressed for the evening with so much messiness still left in the day? Why do I only have one good Goin' Out tank top? And why do I still consider a cute tank top the height of Goin' Out clothing? Ponder.

Anyhow, once I held my child as far away from me as humanly possible, bathed her in the same manner, and declared my kids to be as cleaned/fed/ready for bed as I could manage- we went to the concert. Did I mention it was at Wrigley Field? And it was very Wrigley Field that evening. Crushes upon crushes of people (which P.J. informed me was just, you know, a concert), all geared up for what was to be A Big Storm. (Which never came. So guess who rocked the show in rain boots and a hoodie? This fear-monger.)

The dude sitting to the left of me was a fan. A super fan. A mammoth super fan of crazyawesome proportions. He began chatting me up when it was clear the show wasn't going to start on time. (45 minutes late. I was told that this happened in Louisville, once. In '84.) And I was shown some sweet cell phone footage of a show a few years back in Florida. Finally Springsteen came out- and began playing the '78 live version of Prove It All Night, OHMYGOD I CAN'T BELIEVE HE'S DOING THIS, CAN YOU?! (Direct quote. I fear that my response and lack of frenzy was wholly inappropriate for the situation. I mean, it was great, but I was a little unprepared.) I texted SuperFan Dave- of the Seeing Him 20 Times variety- and was texted back with roughly the same level of enthusiasm. So clearly I was seeing something awesomesauce.

And the crowd was something else. The level of enthusiasm The Boss inspires can only be compared to Christian rock concerts. (Lots of shrieking, arms in the air, swaying, and emotional tears. I am not joking around, here.) Of course, I could be wrong. My view was frequently blocked by what must've been the tallest couple in existence. He was at least 6'4. She was pushing 6'. I am 5'4 and, even with my placement in the stands behind them, could barely see a darned thing. So I buddied up to SuperFan John and swayed into his sightline a few times. I feel no shame.

We screamed along to I'm Goin' Down and Badlands and Thunder Road and a bunch of stuff from his latest album, too. I waited oh-so-patiently for Rosalita...and it never came, but that's okay because he did a positively electrifying version of Trapped. So I forgave him for the lack of my song. (And She's The One never came either, but we really can't have everything.)

So, I love Bruce. Always have. And was enjoying the heck out of each song and the atmosphere of the whole thing (I mean, dude is getting on in age but he DOES NOT LET UP) when suddenly, my world was rocked. Because I saw a familiar silhouette come onstage and heard an unmistakable gravelly kinda voice...and before I knew it, Eddie Vedder was playing guitar and singing with Bruce Springsteen and I was totally there and got to see it and 14 year-old Keely was SO HAPPY she almost puked into her hoodie. And Tom Morello showed up, too. And then they all played together and it was like a magical unicorn land of gingerbread divinity.

An even bigger highlight? In the middle of Bruce's Waitin' On A Sunny Day, the camera scanned the crowd, focused in on a little girl holding a sign with just those lyrics- and so Springsteen invited her onstage to sing by herself. And then he picked her up, spun her around, and danced with her for a bit. Eventually he returned the grinning [and shell-shocked] kid to her [equally grinning and shell-shocked] parents. And Peej and I felt our hearts swole. We're suckers for awesome things like that.

By the end of the seventh song in the encore (during which time I deemed Morello and Vedder to be the awesomest Pips to Springsteen's Gladys), we were completely astounded by the level of Bring-It-tude that Bruce brought. Dude's shirt was completely drenched in sweat, save for his collar and cuffs. I guess that's what makes him The Boss.

Or maybe it's his ability to do it again the very next night, while I'm still reeling from dancing/having three Bud Light Limes.

We all have our strengths.

Sweet Home Chicago.

Goodness, she's young. Also, a little cold.

Tomorrow marks my 10th anniversary with Chicago. That's a long time, especially with my track record. (Don't be alarmed, Peej. I'm different now.)

What should've been a one-season stand with a city (I had my eye on you, Los Angeles, and you sure turned my head, NYC- but we weren't the ones for each other) turned into a full on crushfest of epic proportions, later mellowing into a comfortable, long-term love. The kind that feels like Saturday mornings in Fall, or a cozily faded hoodie. But one which can still pleasantly surprise you and make you wonder what else they've been keeping under wraps all these years.

Chicago, thank you for your system of streets on a grid. You can't possibly know what a mess I was before I met you. I mean, I moved here from Boston. Boston! Even for someone good with directions and/or the space/time continuum, Boston is tricky. But with you, I can count blocks in my head and know that I'm getting roughly towards where I ought to be. (As long as I know that the big ol' body of water is East. Always East. Never changes, not even that one time when I was sure it had.)

Thank you for Edgewater, where my first apartment was and I was able to have my own beach. Mine! (And the rest of the block's!) Yes, the water was freezing cold and the lifeguards weren't that interested in guarding my life...but it made me less homesick. (Because any lake big enough to have its own tides...well, that goes a long way for a girl used to the Atlantic.)

Thanks for the amazingness that is downtown Chicago during the holidays. The Christkindlmarket was what got me through my first job here. Which I will not name. (Because a bar and grille that requires 14 hours of work, face time with slimy staff and patrons, and a payout of thirty bucks a day doesn't deserve free advertising.) But walking through the Daley plaza (amidst glass icicles and a sea of mulled wine in boots) and elbowing my way down a lit-up Michigan Ave restored some of my good will toward [poorly tipping] men.

I'm grateful for Wrigleyville. Because everyone should live there at least once (if only to say to oneself- "Hmm, Sports. Yeah, I'm good.") Wrigleyville is like Chicago's Sorting Hat. And it eventually scurried me over to Roscoe Village, my neighborhood Happy Place. Chicago, thanks for Roscoe Village, with its outdoor eateries, street fests, and my old backyard with the strawberry patch.

A high-five for Chinatown and its availability of 4am fried rice in a pineapple. On that note, thank you for 1am char-cheddar dogs at The Wiener's Circle (and a healthy dose of verbal abuse from its staff) and midmorning tamales verdes from the gal with the rainbow umbrella.

Because of our love, Chicago, I was able to drive past Indiana cornfields and Wisconsin cheese castles, marveling at the beautiful foreignness of both.

Thanks for the families for whom I've nannied along the way, and the eleven children who've hung upside down at the playlots with me.

And thanking you for your theatre scene is a little like thanking my childhood home for having floors...but I'll thank you anyway. The ability to live and breathe and eat and drink shows (after I had tipped out, of course) cemented my decision to be an actor forever and ever (until I didn't want to anymore). The famous theaters. The accessible ones where a newcomer could actually work. The troupes that were started in someone's living room with a group of college friends. The ones who put up my first professionally produced plays as a playwright. And the one that brought me my husband.

Thank you, Chicago, for shoving P.J. right up against me. (And you'd tried for years; what with the job interviews at Fizz, the New Year's Eve we both had tickets to Gunther Murphy's, the seat next to me at the Kevin Spacey talkback- which P.J. had, at the last minute, given to a friend in his stead...)

Chicago, if you and I hadn't met, I'd never have started this gorgeous life with P.J. And we wouldn't have our two daughters. (Nor this ramshackle house, but on a sliding scale of cosmic importance...)

When you and I started our little fling, Chi-town, I forged friendships with a group of newcomers, all trying their hand at this theatre thing. They've since scattered to all points east and west (with the last pal trekking her way to the Pacific Northwest in short order) to become lawyers and teachers and medical professionals...and I've surprisingly become the last holdout. Me, the one you could've taken or left when we first locked eyes.

So thanks for changing with me from confused 22 year-old actress, nanny, and Northside renter to 32 year-old writer, wife, mother, and Northwestside homeowner. You're an incomparable town with attributes I haven't even begun to list (transit/ book fairs/ world class restaurants/ museums/ miles of parks and forest preserves/ the three ice cream men on my block alone) and I can't wait to see what else you've got up your big sleeves.

Happy anniversary.

Love, Keely

Free Day At The Adler Planetarium!

...Well, at least it was for us. We got the elusive CPL Adler free pass ('cause seriously, that thing is never there. The only available passes are usually the ones with free admission anyhow...or the museum of surgical science, which I'm gonna take a pass on for my Under-3 set, yeah?)

Ain't it always the way? You trek across town and all
your kids wanna do is play with the Planetarium's blocks.

"Mom! They have BLOCKS!"

Okay, they have a riding moon rover, too.
That's pretty boss.

...And we definitely don't have a rocket simulator
in our house. Yet.

Blurry for three reasons:
1) She's a baby, perched precariously on a rocket launcher.
2) The rocket launcher shakes.
And 3) OMG SO EXCITING MAMA AAAAAH!

Nothing But The Best.

It's official- Susannah is a Chicagoan. Not because she's been to the lake or complained about the heat or had deep dish...but because she attended her first Parking Lot Carnival. 

And she really, really liked it.

Yes to everything!

Nora, quite the daredevil lately, happily fulfilled her longstanding dream of "CAN I DRIVE THE CAR IN THE FRONT SEAT AND HOLD THE STEERING WHEEL?!" (This was surprising for two reasons: 1) She eked by on the height requirement. I think she was actually stretching. And 2) Not ten minutes prior, she had clung to me on the carousel, telling me she didn't like her horse any longer.

I am still somehow in the backseat! 

Nora and I waved at the townspeople (like the toothless chain-smoker who offered me parenting advice and the girl selling the four dollar corndog). I liked this ride. It made me feel like a giantess.

Hi, townspeople.

And Nora eventually really liked the carousel. Because- come on- it's a carousel. And this horse is bringin' it. (Also, are you shocked at how many pictures I'm featured in?)

The horse is shocked, too.

Zuzu had her first corndog. Don't let the sleepy eyes fool you. She and I "shared" one. I got maybe three bites in before she almost ate my hand.

No, really. Take your bite. I'll wait.

And we brought this guy, too. We let him do that all-too-male thing of plummeting to the earth for no discernible reason. Boys. 

I'm pretty sure this voids our policy.

After a weekend like that (oh, who am I kidding, it was two hours), I'm ready for a rest. Maybe a corndog. Corndog first, then a rest. 

Happy Monday.

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.

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.)

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.

Dragging Kids About Town.

The past few days have been great.

Unless you ask my children. Then, the time has been rotten.

For starters, we rocked Nora's world with the trifecta of terror: Santa, first haircut, and meeting new people.

We thought she'd dig seeing Santa, seeing as how she's been obsessed with all of the classic Christmas movies and telling everyone how KIND she's been. (Saturday morning she excitedly told me that Santa would even give her a treat because she's been so KIND.) But no. After standing in that line and being greeted by a positively dour Mrs. Claus, she lost her nerve. Zuzu was placed in Santa's arms and Nora reluctantly sat on his lap.

Nooope...

"Hi there!"

Waaaaaaail. She bolted. Susannah stayed put and even blinked happily up at him. He offered to take a picture with "the little one." (I'm sure she was a refreshing drink of water after the terrified children of the morning. By the way, Nora and Susannah were the tenth kids inside Santa's workshop that day. Poor guy.)

As we exited, Nora told me brightly- "I met Santa!" And then a moment later. "I was scared."

Frightened by the person behind me.

We remained at the Christkindlmarket because we had yet to get our mulled wine in a boot, obvie. Even when it began a torrential downpour, we stayed the course. For we couldn't find the booth with the miniature blown glass animals. (Never did find it, actually, but that sure as heck didn't stop us from trying for a goodly while.) Susannah was in the Bjorn and Nora in the backpack- 'cause that scene doesn't exactly encourage the stroller set. And nothing says the Advent Season like a fever brought on by one's mother's quest for the cutest glass frog.

Nora ate her lunch in the car so as to prevent her from falling asleep. Did I mention we kept her up past her nap for optimal Santa meetin'/crowd evadin' time? And the second she woke up from her later nap, we whisked her off for her first ever haircut? Good afternoon.

Is this what you wanted, Mom?

We went to Pickle's Playroom in Lincoln Square, because a) it looked cute, and b) I feared my own ability to not give my daughter a mullet. She chose to sit in a pink car and watch an episode of Dora for her big shearing- as you do. (It still felt wrong to even be cutting one lock of her hair- she was a cueball until, like, last Christmas. Why am I mocking the gods?) She was unsure of the spray bottle, the comb, the scissors, and especially the blow dryer. But when she found out that the haircut came with a free half hour in the business' stellar playroom, she was totally on board. So, ten minutes after the haircut, she was fine.

And now she has bangs. Which are completely adorbs.

After the trim, we stopped by a lovely Christmas party at P.J.'s coworker's home. So Nora got to meet new people- which, surprisingly, she was really rather good at that evening. (It helped that they had a good under-7 crowd.)

Naturally, she went to bed an hour and a half later than usual and- shockingly- slept until 10:30 the next morning. It was SO crazy that we actually got nothing done...because we spent way too much time announcing how CRAZY it was that she was still asleep.

Look at us smushing our children.

After breakfast for lunch, we went out to Home Depot and picked up what may have been their last Frasier Fir. (Place was seriously picked over. "Had a busy Saturday," they said. No kidding. There was our tree, some Charlie Browns, and a trail of mutilated garlands leading to the parking lot.) That said, our tree is boss. Made even more so by the fact that Nora carefully helped me decorate it- taking the time to first organize ornaments by shape and color on the floor (I am so proud). The smallish cup of "warm cocoa" she had ingested made her a little more forceful than normal whilst placing the decorations on the actual tree, but the overall effect is still pretty nice. And those suckers are ON THERE.

While we mangled the tree, P.J. magnificently Daddified the front yard with garlands, lights, wreaths, windows boxes, and power strips.

And where was Susannah during all of this? She was doing what she does best- just being. Being in a bouncer seat, being in a sling, being in our arms, smiling all the while. Pleased as punch to watch Nora bodyslam the tree, stoked to be bundled into the freezing cold, happy as a clam to sleep against me during her sister's events. She's just a bucket full of Christmas goodwill.

I'm fine. No, really. Fine.

All of which I squandered this morning during her two month checkup and the battery of four vaccinations. Nothing like watching a sweetly shy smile turn to despairing pain and betrayal.

I have quite a bit of trust-rebuilding to do this week.

Nora thinks I should say it with waffles. She may be onto something.

My kinda town. And beach.

My youngest sister is in town!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know, the stuff that makes living here worthwhile?

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

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

I love summer.

I call dibs on this weather.

Okay, the whole "dibs" thing really needs to end. Like a week ago. For those not in the greater Chicagoland area or not aware of the debilitating bonkertude that a day and change of snow can inflict, I am not speaking of those delicious chocolate covered ice cream wonders. Those are permitted.

I am speaking, of course, about every single one of my neighbors and their household furniture. Holding parking spots. Ones that they'd shoveled. TWO WEEKS AGO. Sure, I totally get it. Some people couldn't even see their cars after the Great Snow. And I agree, if you spent the three hours necessary to undo the damage that a blizzard plus a snowplow digging a single file lane down the street by way of coating your vehicle with more snow, then sure. By all rights if you run to the store, it should be waiting for you when you come back. The next day when you return home work? Okay, fine. I'll give you that. Maybe you had a hard day and your arms are still screaming at you from the previous day's workout. But to expect that "your" spot stay available through the weekend? Dude. People need to go to brunch. Sometimes that involves parking. You may have to move the stroller/folding chair amalgamation that is currently marking your domain like so much pee.

And now? Two weeks later? It's 60 degrees. There are rivers of melting snow washing away your grandpa's walker. (Doesn't he NEED that walker?) Put your questionable belongings back into your foyer and let's all pretend that we don't know how many laundry baskets you own.

No one pities your inability to find parking on a damp street.

Onward. My darling daughter Nora went out yesterday without a hat. For the first time since she began walking. (This is true- she took her initial steps mere days after she turned one. The next day? Whomp. Frostbitten baldish head.) The mild temps shocked the both of us on our jaunt to Cermak Produce, so I whipped off her whimsical animal-eared cap and encouraged her to let some breezes tousle that tuft of hair. Maybe take some deep, cleansing breaths- but not towards the alley. Or Montrose.

She reacted the way any stoic Chicagoan would after a particularly bitter stretch of winter- she began to laugh. And squeal. (Sure, the baby noises o' happy are reserved for a special group of smallish person- not necessarily Chicago At Large- but she embodied what I was feeling as well.) After a few moments of joy, she stared mistrustfully at the clear sky and sunshine, wondering Just What Was Their Game. She then jolted and peered over her shoulder each and every time a gentle wind would tickle her ears.

Perhaps the abrupt (and temporary) change of seasons has made her more than a little crazy. Perhaps her parents' decision to live in the Midwest has given her a lifetime of nervous twitches.

But just wait 'til Real Spring and...dare I jinx it? SUMMER. The ability to run around barefoot- in specific locales- and watch [fewer] outdoor films and eat unhealthy stick foods at street festivals and splash in the positively frigid lake waters... Oh, I cannot wait. And dearest N.J., you're gonna forget winter. You will. It'll be like the last ten months didn't grate on your nerves like so much rock salt on the floors.

It'll be fabulous. Maybe we can even built a sweet fort from all the Dibs debris.

I call the ironing board.

***

And I gotta do one final blogesque plug: this is the last post before The Bloggies voting closes. Go! Go now! I promise not to say anything too meaningful in the last couple of sentences.

Truly. You're only missing this one bit.

And this. Okay, I think we both know that I can just do this all day. Be the bigger person, please.

 I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Beyond Thundersnow.

The beginning of the end (for the patio furniture.)

The Snowpocalypse is very real, people. So is the seemingly improbable "Thunder Show." (Two men enter, one man leaves. That man is very likely my husband, shoveling out the neighbors' walks and making snow angels.)

We got pummeled. And there's nothing quite like seeing Mother Nature make your one-way street a hilly snow tundra (complete with a light show to rival Pink Floyd's) to make you thankful for heated ceramic tile in the basement. (The only intact part of the house two years ago, oddly enough.)

And what will we best remember from the 20-inch Snowmaggedon of '11? Is it the buried cars and stranded buses on the defunct Lake Shore Drive? How about the fact that Chicago Public Schools closed their doors for the first time since 1999? Nope, what we're really gonna think of is our 15-month old's raging fever of 103.1.

I've been a nanny for almost ten years. And a mother for almost one and a half years. And an accident-prone, ER-friendly miracle of science for three decades. However. Nothing- not even that time that I locked infant Nora inside our home- has ever made me feel more helpless. (And hey! It's almost that event's one year anniversary!)

Staring at nothing.

Anyway, the fever. There was the head-lolling. Refusal of food and baths (my kid would choose a waffle and splash time over me on some days. Especially together.) The moaning of 'Dada' and 'thaaaaaat'. It was equal parts The Exorcist and Firestarter.

So we dosed her. And tortured her with cool washcloths and mango Pedialyte. We watched four hours of Pingu. WE ONLY OWN TWO HOURS WORTH.

Last night we put her to bed at 7:30...and we headed in at 9:30. (That's p.m., people. Back in the old days of crazy snowstorm pre-baby revelry, that would have read A.M.) And when I awoke to check her temp and change her sheets at midnight (we did force a grove's worth of juice and the 'lyte on her innards, after all), I was way groggier than that normal hour would usually warrant. (It was, however, better than two night's ago when we stayed up for an embarrassingly late viewing of Three Men And A Baby on cable. A few side notes on that one: a) the movie has aged remarkably well, b) it's quite different now that I have a baby, even if only with one Man, and c) that cardboard cutout/ghost boy thing gets me every time!)

Back to Nora. This morning she's totally fine. She went over to the cabinet and asked for a bowl of oatmeal- she housed the entire thing in under three minutes. She's been bossing around her toys with the aplomb of a seasoned dictator. I've never been so glad to have someone shove a plastic bowl of fruit into my eyeballs and a My Little Pony up my nose. (Never!)

It's good that she's on the mend, however. She needs to brace herself for the -11 wind chill of this week.

Get used to it now, Sugar. You're gonna be attending one of those ne'er-closing, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Snowdays schools in a few short years.

(Okay, now I need to be dosed.)

  I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

We Won't Go Until We Get Some.

I am not remotely done with the Christmas songs.

Whilst in the car the other day, Nora and I heard the cheerful lyrics of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. This is one of those songs that, for me, is so completely ingrained in my mind and memory of Christmas that I have fully stopped noticing the words. Until the car ride. Can you imagine if actual carolers came to your door one night? (This sort of merriment may occur in more refined and neighborhoody places- but if someone rings the bell in Albany Park after 8pm, your left hand's on the door and a Louisville Slugger's in your right.)

Okay, with me so far? It's late at night (yes, 8pm is LATE) and people are non-violently in front of your house. They are singing at you- which, as anyone with a schoolyear birth date can attest- can be rather awkward.

And then they want snacks.

Not just any snacks.

Pudding.

Figgy pudding.

(At this point in the song I'm wondering if 'figgy pudding' is the kind of treat that these folks are used to in the comfort of their own homes, or if they're just hoping to hit the snack lottery. Like if I went to my neighbor's house and screamed "Mussels fra diavolo!")

All of the aforementioned is weird, right? Especially towards the end of the song when they start outright demanding it. Give it right here. Merry Christmas.

Side note- (Also, did you know that 'Side Note' is the actual title to this blog?)- ever since my scree on Dominick the Donkey, it now plays no less than four times a night on our XM radio. P.J. can back me up on this, since it's usually he who sprints to change the channel.

And on the topic of radio stations, does anyone in Chicago listen to Lite FM's Christmas Wish shebang? (That is not the real name, I was just feeling jaunty.) Basically, people call or write in with their big Christmas wish and the radio station grants them multiple times per day. (I have tried to figure out a rhyme or reason or schedule for these free-for-alls. I cannot.)

Early in the season, I briefly entertained the idea of writing and begging for a Vespa or a closet with a shelf or two and a lightbulb. Then, once I heard the wishes being fulfilled on the air, I realized why I could never ever ever go through with my paltry demands.

These folks that get chosen? They have STORIES. Most of them have lost their jobs, someone in the family's always ridiculously sick and/or has died, the Mom has run off in more than a few of the cases, and no one has socks.

The only thing we really have in common is that I do not currently possess an abundance of matched, non-holey socks.

And they want one present for their kid. Or something to make for Christmas dinner. This one woman the other morning was the sole breadwinner for her son and his kids ('cause the mother had run off and her son had lost his job.) She was 72.

These stories always make me tear up and make me feel like the spoiled, white, middle class kid that I am. They're wishing for a special meal and I'm whining about carbs.

So to add to the mother guilt and Catholic guilt and American guilt...I can now safely acknowledge my Christmas guilt.

So I donated to the Arbor Day Foundation. (Yes, I am a card-carrying member, thankyouverymuch.)

And I gave to St. Jude's Children Hospital. (I CANNOT handle the St. Jude letters. Ugly cry x a million.)

And we adopted a family for Christmas presents.

We over-tipped our paper route kid and mail carrier and cat sitter.

Basically, I am trying to be generous and thank those around me and attempt to atone for the fact that, the other eleven months of the year, I am a horrid human being who does not eat bread crusts and instead throws them away.

I will strive to be less awful in 2011.

Anyone have any favorite charities that I haven't even realized I should acknowledge and fret over? Please list them below. 2011= Philanthropy Year!

Peej is gonna love this one.

December 6th...that day sounds familiar...

Happy Feast of Saint Nicholas!

Just what I asked for!

Here is how we celebrated this morning:
 -One of us filled a miniature boot and two normal-sized boots with candy, advent calendars and a rubber reindeer duck.
-One of us peed through one of our jammies/bedding/lovies/sleepsack.
-One of us spilled coffee on ourselves whilst trying to eat a Snickers bar shaped like a Nutcracker.

I'll leave it as anonymously as that.

Okay, so now it's fully and terrifically the Christmas season. We've got two of the major checklist items already notched; the tree and the Christkindlmarket boot.

The tree is courtesy of Home Depot (thirty buck tree and they tie it onto your car? Boy, long gone are the days of me having to heft the thing with P.J./whine about it until he threatens to cancel the holiday.) And boy oh boy- is there any more 'Dad' thing than the whole tree endeavor? I'm pretty sure it's one of those events that automatically straps a Bjorn onto your chest and peppers your temples with grey.

The choosing. The turning. The "helping" the guy attach it to the roof. Lugging it inside. Standing it up. Adjusting it. Adjusting it. Adjusting- (Keely, it's fine!) Watering it. Adjusting it. Looking in the circular for a cheaper holiday greenery coupon. Having remorse. Being convinced that all of the needles are falling off. Hoping you got a fresh tree. [Taking a break to listen to NPR and Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.] Going outside to hang the lights. Coming back inside and muttering about the needles. Admitting a balsam does smell best. Emoting at the string of non-working lights. Randomly announcing that they work, you just saw them work. "Helping" your wife hang ornaments- if she lets you. Setting the timer for the Christmas lights and staring them down, as if into submission. Bed.

Nora wants one, too.

And the Market is a must for a true Chicagoan...who doesn't mind hordes of pushy crowds and overpriced mulled wine in a smallish boot. This year it's red. The boot, that is. (The crowds were multi-colored on their outers and crabby on their inners.) The newly redesigned boot (more of a heel and a narrower toe- like a city boot) is going to join his brethren on our kitchen countertop for the holidays...it's like an elf came and lost his footwear every year from 2006 'til now. And there's a mug from '02- how boring- and, inexplicably, nothing from '03-'05. (Anyone have those years? I would happily swap it out for another mug in my collection- perhaps one with an ironic saying? Let's not forget Elsie the cow.)

This jaunt to the Christkindlmarket was the very first time that I cared more about the line to meet Santa Claus as opposed to the line to get the mulled boot. If that's not indicative of something, then...I don't know what is. Maybe something else Nora-related. But if I was gonna force Nora to interact with someone whom she probably wasn't going to enjoy hugging, I really didn't want to stand outside in the cold with her for an hour beforehand.

But I needn't have worried. The North Pole beneath the gigantic tree had it together. We were in line for less than ten minutes. Mrs. Claus let us inside. (We got a picture. Nora is warily eyeing The Missus.) A few minutes later- the big guy himself! And he was the real deal. Kinder and gentler than I would've been at that point in the day. And even when Nora shifted from concern to outright doneitude, he patted her arm and told her what a good job she had done. Or maybe he was talking to us. Either way, he made our first Santa visit a screaming success.

Now Nora and I are off to celebrate the rest of my half birthd- Feast of St. Nicholas. I imagine that there will be a lot of "patpatpatting" of the lower tree branches [Nora] and a bit more chocolate-nabbing [me.]

Maybe some sheet-washing and boot-emptying.

'Tis the season.

3...2...1...

P.S...See that 'Vote For Me' box up there on the left-hand side? If you click it once, you'll give me a vote. (Of confidence.) Basically, they've restructured their site- yet again- and I've lost all of my votes. I miss them dearly. One click- reduced from two!- and no emails, etc., needed. Do it every day! Or...maybe just today?

Okay, I love you, back to the candy.