Full Disclosure: I Am Not A Contractor.

I'm with you, kid.

There are many things that I just know:
-The vocal lineup of most classic rock bands since 1972.
-An innate awareness of when a ladybug sticker is being placed on an item of good furniture.
-How to fall asleep on any surface despite exterior influences.

And then there are things for which I fall woefully short:
-Being able to relax/move on with my life when things are out of order.
-Apologizing first.
-And anything having to do with the putting-back-together of my house.

That last one has become painfully clear during this past month. I have been asked- nay, expected to answer questions [correctly] about the how/when/why of my home's implosion. Why was this house built on a cesspool? (Cheaper real estate.) Where's the shut off valve for the mitochondrial rotator cuff? (That isn't a thing.) Does this pipe run up to the third floor/were you insane for buying a short sale? (Yup.)

And I kept it together (kinda) for the first few weeks. But now we're in the home[ish] stretch. And there are choices to be made. Shower tile. Floor tile. Faucets- with correct backings. (Did you know that they let you buy incorrect backings? They totally do.) A sink. Laundry room tile. Lighting that works with the wall spacing. A mirror that's wide enough for the vanity- but not that wide. (That's too wide.) Paint paint paint paint paint.

I thought I'd be good at this. I am not. We fell in love with the first sink/vanity we found. (In LOVE, I tell you!) But then it went out of stock. So we ordered the bigger size. But it was waaaay too big. So we found one that was- nice. It would do. Then I chose some backsplash tile that was clearly the best tile ever: tan and cream and white glass bubbles on a neutral background. But (as P.J. can probably tell you), I have expensive taste. That shower would end up being more expensive than my wedding gown. (By about fifty bucks.) So I decided on a mosaic glass in Moroccan colors. Which was the wrong absorbency level for a shower. (Would be great in a kitchen, I was told. Sadly/happily, we are not gutting the kitchen just yet.) I picked a third tile in brown glass- which, again, was not the right level of water resistance. (Clearly, I was meant for designing kitchens.) I finally ended up at a tile warehouse one night, pointing at a floor display and asking if that one would work. (It wouldn't. But they could find something close.) And that what's being installed today. The "close" one that "would work." (It'll be lovely.)

Picking out tile that would work a) in a family room, b) over radiant heating, and c) wouldn't cost more than my college education was next. We chose wood-grain tiles made of recycled materials and porcelain that would look kind of unassuming yet warm. (I should write ad copy.) There was a pricing war between our contractors and the flooring guys- of which there were no survivors. (The flooring guys didn't seem too interested in my business, however, as they actually shut the lights off on me and almost locked me in. "Oh hey- we didn't see you in our store for the last forty-five minutes.) I'm pretty sure it was a front for something illegal. A front with really nice flooring options, but still. The color and width of my choice changed about five times- and not because I had any sort of crazy stake in it. I originally chose teak. But that one "wouldn't work." So oak was installed yesterday. (It'll be lovely.)

I had to choose how I wanted the tiles spaced. ("Like...that.Yes. That's how I'd like it. Leave them there. Now everyone go home.") "Is 3/16th of an inch okay between planks?" ("For sure. That's how I always do it, anyway.") "Which grout would work- this one or this one?" ("Whichever grout will make me the least aware that I'm looking at grout. Sure. That one. I simply love it.")

Then I got a call last night telling me that the grout I wanted wasn't going to work. Now, there are many things that "I want," but grout doesn't even crack the top twenty. So we went with the other one.

The paint colors I had chosen were no longer available. The floor isn't level enough for these types of planks. You shouldn't be wearing patterned pants with those hips.

It feels like every single tiny detail that I have to decide upon is inevitably the wrong one. Every hardware and decorating choice I've made in the past few weeks has inevitably been scrapped. Because here's the thing: I have no idea what I'm doing.

It's like I'm expected to solve an Encyclopedia Brown mystery without knowing how many Tigers were actually at the baseball game. I simply don't have all of the information.

But it'll be okay. Eventually everything will be done and everyone will be out of our house. The girls will regain another level of the home in which to fling their toys and I'll be able to flop onto pleasantly grouted tiles while waiting for the third load of laundry to cycle through. Lights will turn off and on, painted walls won't show a trace of uneven plaster, and there won't be even a whiff of sewer gas anywhere on the premises.

It'll be lovely.

The Dirtying Machine.

I am airing my dirty laundry.

Right now, an entire floor of stuff has been absorbed by the other parts of the house. Like a sponge. Like a big, bloated, no-more-room-for-knick-knacks sponge. 

And by "knick knacks," I mean wool coats. Books n' books n' books n' books. Upended tables. At least two cats.

We're like the beginning of a Hoarders episode- with no hope for an hour-long resolution. 

The guys currently digging up the lower level were sweet enough to warn me that there might be dust. And a lot of noise. Which is just adorable. 

And in We've Really Angered This House news...

We've really angered this house. Part 17:

The other day, feeling way too confident about my abilities to keep this house running smoothly and (relatively) cleanly, I decided to do a load of laundry. The contractors had worked a half day and the afternoon was looking open. After I cleaned some clothes, I figured I'd take the girls to the actual out-of-doors when they woke up from their naps. I was thrilled by the prospect of potential freedom. 

While the washing machine was starting its cycle, I began the process of re-packing and moving stuff from floor to floor for phase 2 of the demolition. After about ten minutes, however, I heard...something. 

It sounded like a geyser. And being that my home is not currently on the register of any sort of national wonder (yet), I fervently hoped that what I was hearing was not a geyser.

As I turned the corner into the laundry room, I sorrowfully discovered that- yes- it was a geyser. Water and lint and mud shot straight from the washer, splashing the ceiling and shelves and floor. And me. Especially me. 

I am totally embarrassed to say that I stood there for fifteen seconds, just wondering what the heck to do. Count fifteen seconds in your head. That's a stupidly long time for inaction. Finally I ran into the melee and popped the washer button out. It stopped, and for a second all I could hear was the drip drip drip of pooling water and failed dreams.

Once I felt brave enough to open the lid, I discovered what had happened- sorta. The blanket which had, only the day before, been sequestering one floor from the concrete dust and sewer gas of the lower level, had completely disintegrated in the wash. Like, down to its atoms. I have no idea how this happened, since (generally) blankets don't just explode. However, since it did happen, it meant waaaay more work for that afternoon.

There was the half hour of fishing out fistfuls of gritty lint from within the murky washer in order to properly drain the machine. Same goes for the utility sink, into which the lint-laden hose had been attempting to spill. Then there was the hour long session of hand-washing each item of clothing to remove the lint and gritty residue (which, as it turns out, was the inner layer of the blanket) that was already staining the clothes- most of them Susannah's. 

It was an ugly, pathetic, process- which may not have resulted in actually clean clothing. During this time I had a [momentary] mammoth snap with reality, whereupon I began to yell at the house.

I yelled at the potential ghost.

I berated the previous owners. 

I [loudly] assured everyone involved that I was a good person and I was trying to treat this &$#@* house with respect and my baby kid did NOT deserve pajamas covered with mud and broken blanket.

I like to think that the house and I came to an understanding. 

As in- I understand that this house has really been a jerk to me and it understands that (being a house), it holds no actual responsibility for my happiness. 

It's a start.

Looks clean enough to me!

Keely Comes Unhinged.

At least SOMEONE'S sleeping like a baby.

This house has turned me into a Nervous Nellie and a Doubting Thomas.

Whenever something new is opened up (the floor, a pipe, a line of credit), I fully expect that something "surprising" will happen. A rat's nest will be exposed. We'll all discover that there is actually no "foundation" to this place. Little things like that.

And when people estimate that a job will take two days ("three days, tops"), I no longer believe them. Besides, if each person lining up for their turn takes the allotted two/three days, I'm pretty sure we'll be playing Contractor-Go-Round well into the girls' adulthood. Because I do not believe that this home will ever be done with exploding on us.

"Homes are never really done," Experienced Homeowners frequently tell me. And I realize this. But I'm pretty sure relative "doneness" doesn't usually equate with major house catastrophes.

And I no longer want to be the Blue Ribbon standard for worst home ever. It sorta hurts the morale, you know?

We had a really nice weekend with P.J.'s sister, niece, and parents for Katy's 11th birthday. It was actually pretty terrific to get to take the weekend "off" from sporadically mopping/moving/sobbing and get to play tour guide. I did feel pretty awful, however, about the fact that our home stunk like an outhouse and the downstairs bathroom may as well have had crime scene tape across it. (I swear I am a decent wife to your boy, Schoenies.)

The jackhammering currently shaking my computer (and Susannah's chubby cheeks- sorry, Zuzu) punctuates the fact that my brain is full of irrational little marbles. It could also be the lack of sleep, however. I keep falling asleep only to wake up each hour with those annoying little half-awake nightmares.

Susannah fell down under the house in one.

Nora was covered in sewage in another.

The cats were- inexplicably- on the ceiling, making it all too Trainspotting-y for me.

In each scenario, I am completely unable to save anyone or help anything. And it doesn't take Freud to dissect the anxieties behind these dreams- but it does make for an exhausted next day. And when I'm tired, I cry. And when I cry, contractors feel UNCOMFORTABLE. And then I stay up late feeling anxious about how I'm stressing out the contractors. It's a vicious cycle.

But- to the best of my knowledge- this is not the end of the world. Sure, a huge chunk of my house no longer exists, but the girls are healthy. (Covered in concrete dust and breathing in methane, but healthy as smallish horses.) So far, our insurance has decided to play nicely with the whopping costs that keep piling on. And P.J. has not yet left me.

It could be a lot worse.

It could smell a lot better, but it could be a lot worse.

Easter Is A Full Contact Sport.

Those are some pretty special-looking eggs.

I spent a good part of last week preparing for Easter with the girls (and Peej).

We made paper Easter bunnies and plastered them to our front window. We braided traditional Armenian cheoreg biscuits to consume on Easter morning. Eggs were [carefully] dyed. We even unleashed the girls onto a wealthy neighborhood's egg hunt. Everything was in place for a cinchy, relaxing, and nice Easter morning.

Even though P.J. wanted to go to 8am mass at our church (to beat the crowds!), which is precisely two hours earlier than the usual mass that we attend/stroll into five minutes later. No worries. Because everything was set.

And even though Nora woke up at 3:30 in the morning, laughing like a loon AT NOTHING, we didn't worry. She'd fall back to sleep and be rarin' by 6ish. And when Suzy woke for the day at 5:45am- roughly an hour and a half early than normal- we still didn't fret. RELAXING, RESTFUL SUNDAY MORNING, that's us.

The girls discovered their Easter baskets- and indeed, Nora found Susannah's first and had to be pried away from it to continue searching for her own- and settled in to play with their pinwheels, Where's Waldo books, and new sippy cups. (For the allotted ten minutes before breakfast. Did I mention that we had to leave the house at 7:45?)

Nora actually went willingly to the breakfast table- perhaps fueled by an extra kick of sugar along the way- and was thrilled about the imminent egg wars. (My sisters and I have always thwacked Easter eggs against each others' eggs. The one whose egg comes through unscathed is declared the winner forever and ever Amen.)

She picked up a vibrant teal egg. I chose my trusty cherry red creation. She came at me with her egg.

It exploded.

BECAUSE THE EGGS WERE STILL RAW INSIDE.

Why? I have no flipping idea. It's not rocket science, nor is this my first rodeo. I've boiled eggs before. Like, on every Easter prior since I've had my own apartment. (Also, any time I want egg salad.) So I know how to play the game.

I was now covered in splattered egg whites and, by the time that I cleaned it all up, my allotted five minutes for breakfast was way beyond up. So I devolved into what P.J. would kindly term "a mood." He offered to scramble some eggs. I bit off his head and yelled that there was NO TIME. So I proceeded to re-hardboil the eggs, stripping them of any remaining lovely colors. P.J. attempted to help me walk away from the eggs, just walk away, but I was beyond reason. So I added a bunch of food coloring into the boiling water- all of the colors, in fact.

During this time, Nora and Susannah ate their [remaining] breakfast slowly, watching me with more than a little trepidation.

The result was a batch of weirdly purplish eggs, most of which cracked on their way to the pan. They were also entirely too hot to consume. Eat up, kids!

By now it was 7:30 and we needed to leave in fifteen minutes. I ran upstairs, gesturing wildly/rudely at my husband, and tossed on some semblance of non-wrinkly appropriateness. By the time I came back downstairs, P.J. had dressed Suzy in her starched white dress with blue trim- and it promptly wrinkled itself into oblivion. (Thanks for nothing, STARCH.) I wrangled Nora into her dress and attempted to take a sister picture of my two Easter bunnies- while Peej announced that he needed to go shave. (What? WHAT? If I had known we were taking the time for personal grooming, well then, I would have added another step or two upstairs, friend.)

The picture-taking was an abysmal failure. That's all. Just- abysmal.

A cross-section of the mayhem.

And we left the house at 8:02.

When we got to the church, it was jammed. We were led upstairs to the choir loft (which, okay, initially I was stoked about because, you know- I got to play in the choir loft!) But the view was terrible (except for an occasional glimpse of empty middle rows downstairs, come ON), and ridiculously poor audio...until P.J. turned the speakers on.

Followed up by a little boy turning it off again- ha ha! Great game! Another lady allowed her kids to run around and play video games on her phone. Someone behind me was snoring.

But Zuzu slept on me, filling me with a sense of peace (and also longing for some sleep of my own), and Nora happily placed ladybug stickers all over everything. Peej and I held hands. The sun was shining. And- despite everything that had happened in the morning and the fact that we could not hear a thing- it was a lovely service. We decided to hit the reset button on the morning's craziness and enjoy the rest of the day together. This cheerful proclamation filled us with a renewed sense of purpose for our morning.

And it lasted until we all stood up and realized that the fly on P.J.'s suit had been down the whole time.

When Mom's Sick, We're ALL Sick.

Hasn't been changed in weeks.

Over the course of the past week, I experienced my first full-on Sicky since becoming a parent. We'd all been ping-ponging the same sniffles and such back and forth, but on the rebound I apparently caught them straight in the jugular.

I woke up one morning freezing cold, achy and bruised, swollen and stuffed o' face, and not really "awake" at all. The kind of sick where you can't even imagine sitting straight up, let alone going to put on some Day Sweatpants. The beginning of the kind of illness where you weep in the general direction of blankets and chairs- or really even the floor- all day long.

I felt awfully sorry for myself, the way I've done in the past whenever feeling Godawful.

Except this time, I was in charge of a perky infant and a toddler already in the process of dumping the entire contents of her closet onto her head. And apparently, they needed food. Something to drink. Maybe a diaper change. And another diaper change. And a third- COME ON, GIRLS.

I spent that first day in a sort of incredulous stupor. When was someone coming for these children? I could barely manage holding my vibrating head still- there was no way I could handle anything other than batting at the Wii mote to start yet another TV marathon on Netflix.

I'm not gonna say that Nora watched TV all day...but it's a fair bet that she knows the entire catalog of PBS, short of Masterpiece Theatre and Antiques Roadshow.

The next day was worse. I couldn't remember if I had nursed Suzy. Nora had oatmeal in her sticky-up hair until she was changed out of that day's pajamas into that evening's. P.J. fielded phone calls punctuated by snarfy deep sighs and unrestrained sobbing. We ate bland mashup dinners, seasoned and microwaved by a gal with no ability to taste, smell, or stir. I couldn't even handle being inside my own skin, so I felt an overwhelming amount of guilt over not being a good parent to the two healthy Littles in my house. (Heck, I was barely being a parent.)

And I felt guilty for getting sick. Like I had let everyone down. We ended up staying home from Nora's gymnastics class- sure, she had been up from midnight to 4am for no good reason and had completely overslept anyhow, but the weight of that still fell on my [melodramatic and achy] shoulders.

We'll never leave the house again, I thought.

I'm relegating the girls to a life of Emily Dickinson-esque confinement, I bawled.

There is food on the floor yet none in the fridge, I whined.

The Fischer-Price people are attacking my face, I fevered.

But I got better. By the next day, even. Because, after barely two days of drowning in an abyss of chills and delirium, I realized that This Was Utterly Ridiculous.

So I mopped the floors. Cleaned the bathrooms. Built a block tower. Found the last puzzle piece. Made some salmon. (For Lent.)

Bathed the children, bathed myself (twice), cleaned the bathrooms again, finished some completely overdue writing...

...And put the darned TV back on.

Itchy, Itchy, Ichabod.

We almost had ourselves a regular Situation this weekend.

My Mom's CRAZY!

It started out innocuously enough; I felt a little itchy on my belly on Friday afternoon, but promptly forgot about it due to the two miniature people demanding things like warmth and sustenance. That evening Peej had his holiday party at work (returning home in time to tuck in the Norabug, obvie- what a rager), and I ran out to get some groceries-

-Making a quick, super-secret stop to pick up THE BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT EVER, ohmigod I've said too much-


-And then met up with Kat for some seriously awesome Grouponed Tank sushi in Lincoln Square. Came home at a reasonable hour, kissed P.J. and Zuzu, checked on Nora, and went to sleep.

I woke up two hours later in a bit of pain. My hands seemed to be on fire, and were completely raw from the fact that I had been scratching them non-stop since I fell asleep. (Apparently. Either that, or someone awfully mean was scratching them into bloody stumps for me.) I went to the bathroom to find some hydrocortisone or something with which to prevent them from falling off. Happened to look in the mirror on the way out.

Saw, rising up past my tank top straps, ugly red welts spreading up my shoulders. Panicked.

I ran downstairs to find P.J. asleep on the couch and shouted something about how I was being eaten alive by a virus. Or something. Peej, for his part, woke up in a panic, thinking he was about to get reamed for falling asleep on the couch again. Panicked even more when he saw that I was a) not angry, but b) potentially dying.

But being the helpful guy that he is, he checked me out for other hives (who says romance doesn't exist after kids?) and went to get the hydrocortisone that I had flung in my rush to find him. Went to rub some on my shoulder blades. And saw that there seemed to be a bit more of the rash. He lifted the back of my shirt to find that in the past fifteen seconds, hives had appeared on my back and belly. Also, there was now one on my jaw.

And my hands were still puffy from my Claws Of Death.

P.J., who becomes even cooler during times of duress (as opposed to my regression into flailing toddlerdom), started a bath for me, got out some baking soda and oatmeal, and ran to the 24/7 Walgreens. Not caring much for "directions" or "amounts," I dumped in roughly three cups of each, and proceeded to immerse myself into a salty and dense bath o' gruel.

I'm not gonna lie- it didn't feel good.

At this point, hives were appearing down my arms and legs in fiery lines. I leaned out of the tub to begin Googling things on my phone; "rapidly spreading hives", "itchy (bloody) hands", things like that. I highly recommend a late-night Google session like this. It really calms the panic, especially since terms come up like "Ebola." (People never post things on the internet when they're feeling coherent and logical. It's just like Yelp- no one ever posts things like "It was a completely middle-of-the-road experience, one that was just fine. No complaints. No excess praise, either. Just nice." I don't know why I expected differently from medical postings. You're either imagining things or you may already be dead.

By the time P.J. had returned (less than seven minutes later), I had mentally revamped my will (I think my beneficiaries will be pleased with the changes). I then got out of the bath to take some Benadryl and actually gasped at my reflection. The welts on my legs had joined together to make eight-hive-wide snowflake patterns. These were now SupraHives. P.J., stoic as he was, could not completely mask his shock/horror/disgust(?) at his wife's condition.

It seriously looked like I had been beaten by a rusty chain.

So we did what we do best: We talked it out for about an hour. Should we go to the ER? Do we call our neighbors to come stay with the girls? (You're welcome, Angie.) Did I really feel it warranted immediate attention? Did you notice that my right arm is now completely crimson?

In the end, we [I] decided to just go to bed. After all, if I was still breathing okay (and nothing makes one think that there's breathing trouble like continuously asking oneself if one has trouble breathing) and had taken an antihistamine, I'd most likely end up just needlessly sitting in the ER for about five hours. Also, I deeply feared getting a cortisone shot. Sure, I had just [extremely recently] been the recipient of a spinal, but cortisone? NO SANKYOU.

I went to bed after checking on the girls, feeling nothing but sorrow for Susannah's nonexistent memories of me, and even moreso for Nora, having recently baked some so-so cookies with her slacktacular mother. There were also a few moments of absolute surety that my throat was closing up...quickly amended when I realized that I had been holding my breath. P.J. promised that he wouldn't let anything happen to me- then promptly snored.

Woke up three hours later with nary a welt. Feeling one thousand and two percent. With no idea what caused it or how to prevent future outbreaks. (Like in "Outbreak".)

So, apparently there's something out there that I really should not be touching with any part of my being. But I have no idea what it is. So I'll just continue to...not touch anything.

Cinchy.

(Happy Monday!)

Boycotton 2: The Drawstring Strikes Back

It's fully been a week now of this whole Put On A Pair Of Pants Like You Mean It (And For God's Sake Maybe Comb That Hair), a.k.a. my attempt to not be Mayor McGrubbington.

For a solid week (actually, since last Wednesday- "counting" has never been one of my strongest suits) I've chosen a decent-ish outfit, sans sweatpants or hoodies, and attempted to style my hair and face. And here's what the past week has shown me.

I'm clearly bats**t crazy.

My hypothesis was that getting borderline purty all week would have an effect on my energy levels, my work ethic, and my ever-dwindling sense of self. Which, you know, it may have...if I weren't eyeball-poppingly tired from [being blessed with] a newly newborn from ILikeTheNightlifeVille.

Which explains my previous penchant for sweatpants. It's a vicious cycle.

But I did it. I completed the week. Every morning[ish] I would don my nicest pair of non-maternity pants that are not yet my pre-pregnancy size (it's a smaller pool from which to choose than you might think) and find a terrific shirt upon which to have someone yuke. Sometimes there were earrings. Generally wedding rings. (Occasionally I get dermatitis under one of the bands and- oh, we don't have time for that story right now.) My hair would be done in some mash-up of styles I think are cute right now and hairdos I know were cool back in '92.

I would have a fabulous- and yes, sure, drowsy- day with my two teensaroo daughters and then momentarily high-five my husband before we face-planted in a pile of Frog & Toad stories and tiny socks. In other words, no one really saw this glamorous transformation.

It got all Eleanor Rigby up in here.

My writing work output remained roughly the same, but I think that was less because of Professional Attire and more because of Blinding Terror Of Failure. (Also, I'm pretty sure I have a chapter that consists entirely of the phrase "The thing is..." over and over again. Word count ain't everything, folks.)

P.J. was kind, of course, and made every effort to compliment that day's Look, but he's also been known to insist that I don't need makeup. So, obviously he cannot be trusted.

As for makeup, that may have been the hardest thing about each day. Not so much the "putting it on" in the a.m. But if I have a sec to brush my teeth and change for bed between Suzy's clean plates at the all-night buffet, I want to make the most of it. Having to remove makeup has actually made me yell COME ON into my own reflection. Especially since I have apparentlyfound the most stubbornly water-resistant mascara ever to be created. (I am not a deep sea diver. I might need to think about downgrading the degree of elemental resistance.) But not taking off the makeup is a no-go as well; neither wrinkles nor raccoon eyes are exactly things that add to my overall hope of appearing well-rested. (And productive!)

So I'm back to my cozies today. I admit defeat. I am not ready to rejoin the race of Folks Who Look Awesome On A Daily Basis. (Okay, at best, I was a visitor to their ranks. Maybe a pre-frosh.) I did, however, pick up a new pack of hair combs for which to attempt hair-wranglin'.

And yes, I'm aware that I might be the only person who still uses hair combs. But they [sometimes] work.

They're made by Scunci, whose tagline "Effortless Beauty" is something I can really get behind.

Especially since that's exactly the amount of work I'm willing to put into it. Effortless. No effort.

They should have me as their new spokeswoman. Their tagline's tagline could read: Hey, At Least She Showered!

(Yesterday.)

Effortless Beauty.
(Hey, At Least She Showered!)
(Yesterday.)

Boycotton. That's Right.

Rainbow stripes are slimming.

And now, a half-week update on Boycotton (a term I've just now thoroughly invented to define my week-long ban on sweatpants):

I continue to not wear my cozies- excepting, obviously, those occasions wherein it is not only acceptable but expected; bedtime, early evening viewings of Jane Eyre, etc., etc.- and here is what I've found.

It is difficult. Because nothing fits. Nothing. I am too small to wear my maternity pants (you so rarely hear the upside of gestational diabetes), but haven't as yet been able to smoothly transition to my normal jeans. The operative word being "smooth."

And yes. I am temporarily boycotting sweatpants but have no issue with the denim.

So. Thursday I wore ill-fitting jeans and a sweater. Upon which Suzy promptly spit up, but which I continued to wear. Because I am fancy and was able to hide it under the baby sling. I wore makeup and brushed my hair. P.J., who reads this blog and was intensely aware of this project, told me that I looked "nice." (And when I announced that I was going to put on my pajamas, he gave me a look that I SWEAR asked if I wasn't already wearing them.)

Friday. That night was Neil's going away party, and I dressed up the gals- and myself- to have an early din out on the town. Because nothing says FUN like taking a toddler and a newborn to a pub by oneself. (Oh, the looks.) My pants and top were no match for my elder daughter's self-picked outfit of a sweater dress, skinny jeans, and shiny red Mary Janes. Hipster. (Susannah wore a clever hat and a baby sling. I wore Susannah.) I'm pretty sure that I did something different with my hair. I might even have used a styling product. Today's experiment went entirely unnoticed except for the Under-2 set. (Nora, for her part, has been amazing throughout this endeavor. "Mommy, are you wearing stripes? Is that an orange shirt? Your hair is pretty! Can I wear that shoe? There's a sticker on your leg!")

Saturday. I looked awesome on Saturday. Layers, boots, showerliness, all of it. We all looked really good. Why? Well, we had to jaunt over to our pals' home for the birthday party of their two year-old, Elijah. Which...is actually next weekend. (Sorry, Cassie.) And did I mention that they just had a baby and Saturday was their first day home? Yeah, we're that family.

On Sunday we went to Mass, so I wore an entirely different sweater and pair of bizarrely fitting pants...but paired with the baby sling (holding the zonked-out baby) it only served to bunch up the sweater. Causing me to look like a lady wearing an ill-fitting afghan and bizarrely fitting pants. I had put my hair half up but, due to the crazy gales of wind, I looked like Don King. In an ill-fitting afghan and such.

When we got home I gave up and put on my Hampshire hoodie.

Which is the new subtitle of my memoirs.

Daylight Savings AGAIN?!

Out of sorts. But not Emo malaise.

It has come to my attention- and not for the first time, either- that the institution of Daylight Savings is a terrible idea. Truly awful.

Lemme 'splain.

1. Neither I, nor anyone in my immediate family or scope of reference, has now or at any time been A FARMER. I care not about an extra hour of crop harvestin'. Or an hour less. (I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHICH ONE IT BENEFITS.) All know is that it is now getting dark at 4:30pm. And my internal clock has no idea when Jeopardy should be on.

2. Babies and/or toddlers have no respect for this time change. They still get up when they get up- except now it can happen as early as 5am. Naptime has the potential to blend with lunchtime, sometimes rendering both events nonexistent. You know what's better than a two year-old who has forgone eating and sleeping?

Absolutely anything you could list. Anything is better than that.

3. There is the distinct possibility that you'll forget to change at least one crucial time-telling device in your home- sometimes it's the car- leaving one with an awfully Twighlight Zoney feeling (at best) and gut-clenching panic at one's own tardiness (at worst). Or it can manifest itself as a vaguely uneasy confusion every time one checks a clock. I readily admit, this could just be me.

4. Even an hour difference makes me feel like I've just taken the red eye from Brussels. And jet lag without even getting served international airline food is not any jet lag worth having, thankyouverymuch.

I like my hours ordered the way they're supposed to be. 7, 8, 9am- I like those hours to look like those hours and feel like them when I see my phone display. 4, 5, 6am- I don't like those hours, overmuch, but I'd prefer to not be shocked by them.

Well, no more shocked than the startling realization that, between those hours, I've become a veritable 7-11 for the snacky newborn set.

But that's a different Letter Of Great Concern.

Let's Leave The Stick Out Of It.

She IS part Celt.

Today we're gonna play the game called Highlights, Lowlights, and Jheri Curl. (Okay, there's no Jheri Curl. Except for Nora's. But she can't help it on account of the humidity.)

Highlight: My blood sugar and hemoglobin are both good for this week. Which is awesome, since I wasn't aware of anything remotely connected to my hemoglobin, and would have no idea what "bad" hemoglobin is.

Lowlight (Low point? Lowlight sounds fancier): The positively ancient and nearsighted endocrinologist was the one doing the four blood draws. At one point I was fairly certain he was sniffing the inside of my elbow- nope, just looking for a vein. Can we get an intern or some high school kid in here, please? He was also fond of announcing HERE COMES THE STICK before each blood draw. Which is...unnerving.

Jheri Curl (Maybe there is one): Since my blood is normal this week...I get to come back every two weeks as opposed to each Tuesday. Which is great. But still sorta lame. Hence the Jheri.

Highlight: Nora painted for the first time yesterday on an easel we'd been keeping in the garage. Just in case. After stripping her down to bloomies, I gave her some watercolors and let her have at it. She was elated and I felt like a creative, hands-on Mom.

Lowlight: She realized it was way more fun to paint her own belly and feet with the darkest shades available. Requiring a forty minute bath and much harder scrubbing than your typical toddler normally needs. (Which is, to be fair, still a lot o' scrubbing.) There were repeated entreaties of "All done, Mommy" and the piteous "Mommy, no."

Jheri Curl: My daughter's belly is still a faintly Smurfish blue.

Highlight: This is my first full week home with NJ, facilitating such things as frequent playlot trips, My Little Pony picnics, and Smurfing our bellies.

Lowlight: I have already done seven loads of laundry, and it is only Thursday morning.

Jheri Curl: The amount of cleaning and laundry has not changed, only the frequency in which it is being done. Which is a depressing yet productive thought.

Having nothing whatsoever to do with the Jheri Curl.

But the category for which shall remain until I tire of it/no longer find it funny.

Which could take a while.

But Nothing Will Stop Me From Over-Sugaring My Toddler!

Pos'sicle.

This weekend was nuts.

Not because we left Chicago during rush hour- which we did- to spend a day and a half in Cincinnati, allowing ourselves the privilege of multiple hours along Indiana’s most scenic of highways (also true).

And not because it was our first free weekend without overnight guests since early June- which was also strangely true. (What is the allure, people? We have no central A/C and are asleep on the couch as soon as NJ heads to her crib. At least 11 people who might have previously thought we joke about this point have since been bored to sleep in our guest room.)

What made the weekend truly wacky was the unsettling phone call I received at 10am on Friday morning from my Baby Doctor. (Very different from my Baby Daddy, the reason why were traversing to Cincy in the first place.)

The Baby Doctor told me that all of my fasting and glucose challenging and bruised-up inner arminess had yielded a result much worse result than those three individual moments of awful; I had been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Which is confusing and sucky and rather difficult to handle on a road trip.

And since I have yet to visit the newly required endocrinologist and nutritionist, I HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO EAT. Oh sure, I could easily avoid Slurpees and Whoppers (sigh), but which Subway bread is okay at the rest stop? Can I have tomatoes? And did anyone actually hear me order a tall, iced, half-caf soy latte with a shot of sugar free hazelnut? (I would’ve spit in my own drink, if I had to serve me.)

I ended up eating a lot of whole wheat English muffins this weekend. And- inexplicably- half a tub of sugar-free Cool Whip. (I’m sure glad they set this baby’s dietary habits back on track.)

I did take advantage of a relatively quiet Schoeny weekend by napping when Nora napped. Hydrating every time someone offered a glass of water. Letting others chase Nora down the hill. And back up it. And down once more. And whenever someone suggested that I elevate my feet- I would actually do it. And guess what? It was pretty great. Nothing fell apart while I laid low. Sure, Nora hasn’t been truly “bathed” since Thursday night, but she seems awfully happy.

So maybe the unexpected benefit of this diagnosis is that I’ll actually take a little bit better care of myself. Eat a tad healthier. Heck, let someone else make me a snack.

Maybe even something beyond English muffins and/or tubs o’ The Whip.

My scurvy-ridden baby thanks you in advance.

The Only Thing To Fear Is A 20lb Baby.

Abandoned.

Pregnancy dreams are rotten.

For the past two nights, I've had some doozies. Now- granted- I've been having extraordinarily vivid dreams since I was a little kid (they used to be nightmares, but now that I've "grown up" and kinda had FEAR redefined...the dreams just seem harmlessly freaky in retrospect. Although the recurring one I've had about someone screaming at me in train tunnel- since I was four- still qualifies). But these are pretty nitro.

Two nights ago, I had what seemed like an eighteen hour-long dream wherein P.J. left me. Rather rudely. He passed me off to a friend, telling him what I liked and didn't like, habits, food preferences...and oh- how I was seven months pregnant. (Why the friend didn't know this seriously leads me to doubt the magnitude of their friendship.) And did I mention that this leaving took place in a hospital cafeteria? Not even a decent one, like at Prentice.

And why was he leaving me, you might ask? He needed to go study abroad, obviously. His theatre career needed...something...and he had to make a clean break. Sure. He explained this to me on our walk from the cafeteria to the Loews Cineplex where he forced me to sit in the front row and watch Scream 2. Firstly: I hate horror movies. He knows this. Secondly: Scream 2? Thirdly: That movie is not even showing anywhere right now. I have checked.

The next night's dream took place in the delivery room where I was undergoing a c-section. They were mighty casual about it, even letting me walk around during the surgery. (Medical advancements are CRAZY these days, people.) I even got to hold Nora. Which is less What A Treat these days and more Typical. Do I Have To Do Everything? Anyhow, had the kid. And this conversation went down: "Mrs. Schoeny, how big was Nora?" "Six pounds, fifteen ounces." "This one's a little bigger." "It would be hard not to be. How much bigger?" "He's twenty pounds."

That wouldn't have bothered me as much if not for the fact that they went on to tell me that they had nicked at least five major organs (and perhaps a few minor ones) and unless they gave me another spinal I'd probably bleed out. But since I was still holding Nora (typical!), I had already lost track of my son. Whom they had- obviously- placed on the ground. We found him crawling around and stuck under a chair, which I'm told is normal for toddler-sized newborns.

It was, however, pretty cool to have two same-sized children, even if one was a full two years older.

And yeah, it's pretty obvious what these pregnancy dreams say about my fears: my movie-going taste is deemed inadequate by my husband and I would ignore a fat child.

Obviously.

It might be time to curtail the late-night snackin'.

But I think we all know I'm not one for rash decisions like that.

And no baby classes this time, either!

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

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

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

So, yes. Brain teasers.

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, not much.

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

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

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

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

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

I like The Monkey a lot.

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

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

No change needed, here!

The sun'll come out...in August.

Not only not recent, but not even ME.

I am le tired.

Perhaps it is the weather- this eternal just-on-the-cusp-of-March drizzle with twenty minute long bursts of quickly disappearing actual light- that makes me want to jump out a window. Except that my first floor is a half story up and the top level not high enough to really make a dramatic impact. (But maybe- just maybe- that's the kinda window jumping I prefer.)

(And then I remember that a goodly bit of the nation is having a WAY worse time of it, weather-wise. And I feel badly for wanting a consistent amount of sunlight at the end of May.)

Or perhaps it's the fact that I am still reeling from the smackdown I received from the LIBRARY two days ago regarding my wallet theft. No, they were not the first call I made (didn't even make the top ten), and no, I would not be filing a separate police report for the sole item of the library card, but yes, I will try and be more conscientious in the future. (I hate them.)

(But then I remember how lucky I am that the worst of my wallet-thievery is a bruised ego at the Sulzer branch of the CPL.)

Or it could be the recent development of this blog's traffic exploding to nearly eight times its usual weekly numbers...but because of an odd tracking glitch wherein no one can tell just where the numbers are coming from, I'm getting [monetary] credit for an less than an eighth of it.

(And yes, yes, yes, First World Problems. I'm extraordinarily lucky to be getting anything at all for babbling about...whatever it is I usually babble about. But the potential to earn more than a dime a day is rather tempting. Especially when the numbers are there. Unless it's a mistake. Or a bot. I LOVE robots. But only the nice, non-enslavey kind.) [Side note- Nora hates ALL robots, including, but certainly not limited to, our Roomba Wally.]

Maybe it's how I'm feeling ginormous and am one day away from being halfway through this pregnancy. That's right, this show's about to get bigger. We're not just taking it on the road, I'm BECOMING the road. And the nearby counties. And Peej is no help, as he says I look good. Great, even. But I am seriously beginning to doubt his ability to discern, as he has never once told me that my butt looked big. And I've worn some awfully big butt-ed pants.

(And this one stings the most, because we really, really wanted this pregnancy- and uh, still do- and the fact that I'm becoming an orca is a decent sign that we'll get a healthy baby and and and...)

And I hate whining. And whining about hating whining. It's a vicious cycle.

My point is, I'm tired. And batting incoming household/money/fatness issues away with Toddler Tantrum hands. (Can you picture it? Some of you have seen this.)

I promise to chin up.

While I still have a single chin.

Which is a rapidly closing window of time.

Just sayin'.

Sick. But not the way the cool kids say it.

Go lay down, Keely.

Who didn't see this one coming?

I got le sick.

Nora so generously gave me her cold- and it mutated into a special blend of adult yuck, fatigue x a trillion, and the whinies. I know that, in the past, I've made fun of certain gentlemenfolk and their inability to a) be sick, and b) empathize with those so afflicted. (And it still stands. 'Cause it's really, really funny and so often true.) Nevertheless! I've outdone myself with the denial, full body ache, and impressive pitch of voice.

I pretty much only get sick once every two years. Here's my immune system theory: The kids for whom I nanny each have their own school and outside activities. Nora and I get around town a fair bit. P.J. takes the train each day and has a work atmosphere that consists of eighty twenty-somethings who leave for the bar when we're heading to bed [7:30pm]. That means that, between the three of us, we're exposed to the personal germs of nine thousand people each day. (Yes, I did take Algebra three times. Why?) I figure my immune system is like a kindergarten class rolling around with a bunch of muddy puppies. In a positive way.

Except that the day after Snowmageddon- and Nora's raging fever- I started to feel a little sluggish. "Maybe you're tired," P.J. suggested. "MAYBE EVERYONE JUST NEEDS TO LEAVE ME ALONE," I gently replied.

I didn't exactly have Nora's temps- but a virus fighting a twenty pound body needs a lot more heat than a virus fighting a...slightly larger body. And here's a little secret that I just this weekend learned about myself. Here are things I can handle:

-People whom I have birthed yuking on me.
-People of that same category peeing on me- as long as it's accidental and there is a minimum of snickering involved from all parties to whom I am married.
-C-sections, spinals, blood draws, sleepless nights, and toes broken on the corner of the radiator.

And things that I cannot handle?
-A minor cold.

I rarely demand acknowledgement for the multitude of things I accomplish in a day; for the house, the kiddo, the writing, the questionably clean clothing...but give me a case of the chills and it's Self Pity City.

I actually lamented to myself that I had managed to brush my teeth and no one even CARED.

This is probably not true. My husband, who has yet to leave me, most certainly does care. He must have missed the toothbrushing memo, though, because he was too busy offering to make me tea. After I spent the hours of 2-4am hacking directly into his ear and muttering that I WAS FINE. ("Well, if you're up...")

He then spent the day shoving Vitamin C beverages, hot drinks, and complex carbohydrates into my mouth- most likely to quiet the hive-like buzz of my whining.

But all is well today. Nora's back to her tornado method of play (the Nornado- how am I just now coming up with this?) and I'm feeling [almost] well enough to fold the mountain of laundry that I consistently piled into the washing machine. I'm not entirely sure why I expected it to Willy Wonka itself into the dryer, but in my fevered haze I just kept on trucking and adding more water and soap.

Also, the detergent cap and dispenser has somehow gone missing.

I'll bet wherever it is, it's super squeaky clean.

Maybe even folded!

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

On The Town With Keely.

Have you ever injured yourself in a really embarrassing way? The kind of OW that you'd rather no one know about- yet that you CANNOT keep to yourself? Like, despite your shame at your own awkwardness, you really need someone to ask if you're all right? Except, when they do, their query is disproportionate to the amount of sympathy a body-ending pain like yours warrants? And when they ask, sighing, if there's anything they can DO, you respond that- No, you do not need an ambulance, but maybe, just maybe, an acknowledgment of the potential severity of the catastrophic near-miss that just occurred would make the death knell ring a little more softly. Maybe. Or perhaps a moment of silence would help.

No? Never happened to you? Me neither.

And now, in Costco news:

Things That I Have Seen-

An elderly woman elbow me in the neck for a spanikopita sample...

A guy fondly ask his friends- Remember when I ate ALL of your almonds?

A couple acknowledge to each other that they're "not really into the pot pie."

And a Dad rub his hands together and gleefully announce to his kids that "NOW we shop for pleasure."

Costco, as I have learned, is no place for the casual shopper nor the novice. You will be tread on and crunched down like gravel under the wheels of a semi. And forget asking for help- no one actually WORKS there- they're all "independent contractors" working for various spanikopita vendors.

But I still love it there. A ton. Because there's a kind of [American] fulfillment you can only get by finding a 3-ton box of granola bars. And I don't even LIKE granola bars!

The shoppers there are something else. While at her Costco in Boston, my sis Kate was badgered by an elderly man who wanted her opinion on various track suits. Her reply that she liked them all only aggravated him. There MUST be a winner! I think she pointed to one and apparently he went away. I don't know. He might still be there. In his workout-y finest.

And a tiny, not at all self-incriminating bit of advice? Skip the gelato. Sure, it's dollar gelato. But you know what dollar gelato tastes like? Gelato made for a dollar.

In other marketing news, I've recently noticed in Pilates (while face-planting in various ungraceful positions) that the mats at the studio boast the phrase "The Total Body Solution."

Which is questionable. Sure, it's A body solution. Quite a nice-ish one. But at the time all I could think in terms of body fitness totality:

Lipo.

But whatever. There's something to be said for working out and earning it.

And I absolutely think we should all continue to.

As soon as our bodies heal from the pelvis-cracking baby gate injury that we've recently incurred.

For example.

Hmm. Awfully muggy for "Fall."

Rearranging the dining room.

It is officially Fall. I know this because a) I own a calendar [app], and b) people keep wishing each other a Happy Solstice on Facebook. (What did I DO before Facebook? I'll tell you- I wrote in a paper journal and called P.J. eighty times a day to tell him hilarious anecdotes. I think we can all agree that Facebook has kickstarted my blogging and saved my marriage.)

Also a marriage-saver: Last night P.J. found a mouse that had- ahem- ceased to be in the corner of the garage. Actually, it had ceased to be in any locale. He discovered and disposed of it in the time it took me to ask "What's so snicky?" This is a great skill in a husband. He also reassured me that there were no holes in the garage or the shed, that it most likely snuck in while the garage door was open one night. This bothered me greatly so he amended it, remembering that he had also spied a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's person- so he must have died of old age.

Food for thought- does a mouse have a person? Or is it a 'mouse?' There was a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's mouse.

Nope. Can't use it in that sense.

And have you noticed that a story involving a rat= panic/anger/hatred and a field mouse= confusion/sadness/whimsical storytelling? That's because mice are itty bitty squeakers and rats can suck it. (My mother: Keely! Me: Sorry!)

Back to the Solstice.

I have been feeling so crazypants lately and it's nice to have something new to blame it on. I've been cleaning and rearranging to a ridiculous extent; my office, my desk, the living room furniture, P.J.'s dresser (gave that one up midway through- I can admit defeat when need be.)

P.J. does not care for this. He does not like "change," overmuch. But then again, he wasn't too keen on moving in together four and a half years ago, nor was he ready to have a baby/buy a home/get a car before we had a chance to really thiiiiink it over. For what that's worth.

Besides, I can't help all of this moving things about. At the risk of sounding compulsive, the idea plants itself in my mind and I know the only way to get peace is to physically shift and poke and spin things around. And it works. Because the things- rooms, desk drawers, half of dressers- look fabulous after I tweak 'em. They always do.

And clearly, I can use a change. At the risk of my mother saying I'm being down on myself- I'm falling apart. For no discernible reason. 10pm Bedtime Month is still going [relatively] strong. (I mean, sometimes you hafta stay up late to scope Lamebook while eating PB out of the jar.) So I'm rested. Plus I'm happy with my new work/home ratio. And Nora's the easiest kiddo ever.

But twice last week I fell out of my shoes. All the way to the pavement out. Another time I tripped and, instead of catching myself on anything nearby, I compensated for balance by flinging the baby monitor down the stairs. (I'm fine. The monitor is not. Somewhere in mid-fling the audio wire snapped. Perhaps when it met the ground.)

And the other day while riding public transit, the elastic holding my hair up just sorta...pinged apart. I actually heard a 'ping.' Didn't know what it was. But it kinda felt like someone was poking the top of my scalp- which is not altogether unheard of on the CTA. And the other riders got to stare at me while my hair slowly fell to the sides of my face. Which I'm actually kind of sorry to have missed. (That's like- performance art!)

Maybe this is why the other Moms at the playlot won't talk to me. Falling down, throwing things and personal grooming failures are rather off-putting.

But, you know what?

It's probably just the Solstice.

Nora's well-rested, if that counts.

This past week and weekend proved, without a doubt, that I am in very real danger of early onset dementia. The crosswords and brain teasers no longer stave them off. It's official- I'm demented.

Sure, we've been skipping all over the country, city, and state. And absolutely, sleep has been the first thing to be sacrificed. But seriously, I'm forgetting my middle name[s] at this point.

It began when I confused this coming week of work with next week's. To my various employers. Loudly. I usually work Monday for one family and Wednesday and Friday for my other one. If something comes up, the other two days are always gimmes. Except- one fam has been on vacation for the past three weeks and the second took a day at the end of this past week to make up for the time I'd been away. No big deal, I kept track of that. But this week, I'm working four back to back days. And next week the same. But with reversed families. And I knew this- really, I did. Wrote it down on my computer, the calendar, the BlackBerry and my hand. 

And promptly forgot it. Until one family needed a reminder for this week's schedule and I gave her next week's schedule- ha hah- much to the chagrin of the other family. And so I sent out no less than five emails and eventually got it right. (Please leave me with your children, I know CPR.) 

Additionally, I was wholly convinced that this past weekend was next weekend, and no amount of lookin' at the correct date could tell me otherwise. So much so, that I rsvp'd to two different events before I realized my folly. And forgot. And had to be reminded by P.J. Twice. (See? Dementia!) The junky part is- I'll be outta town next weekend. Happily, it's for a wedding I'm stoked to attend. Sadly, I'll be missing the going away party of a lovely pal and the fly-by into Chicago of two gorgeous friends. 

I am only popular in the summer. In March, no one returns my calls.

My favorite mess-up, though? Saturday morning around 8ish I was lounging with Nora, Peej and a cup of coffee. Had an hour 'til my dentist appointment. Enjoyed the free time. Then it hit me- I don't HAVE free time. What was going on? Checked all four methods of appointmentude. My cleaning was NOT at 9am, it was at 8am. (I even saw an email from the dentist the day before that politely reminded me of the time. And I REPLIED to it!) 

And I gotta say, there's nothing like the combo of being late (I abhor being late. It gives me hives) and the knowledge that you are speeding to the dentist. 

But it's also a little sad that, once there, I enjoyed the "down time." I watched the news and read the back of a package of floss. It was nice.

The rest of the weekend progressed swimmingly well, due in no small part to the addition of my sister Chelly (that's right, this month I'm on a world tour of seeing every family member.) 

I think she's had a good time, what with us dragging her to Market Days and not letting her linger, to us heading to bed at positively daylight hours. Plus, she's had to watch all of my shows. And my kid. 

And this week she gets to be a nanny-in-training- or a tanni. At downright criminally early hours. (Welcome.) 

But what about P.J., you ask? Isn't he in the picture any more? What antics has he been up to? Well, I'll tell you:

-The other night, after we (P.J, Nora, Annie, Chelly and myself) locked ourselves out of the side screen door, my gallant husband scaled the first (and a half, technically) floor to the back picture window. Hung out on the ledge. Shoved the side window open. Almost fell. Got a boost. Yelled the requisite 'I GOT THIS' back to the swooning gals. Scraped the heck out of his hands, knees and arms. I'm pretty sure he fell on one of the cats on his way off the kitchen table. Opened the screen door. (Me, I would've punched a hole in the screen door and unlocked it, but I also have a healthier sense of fear and desire to not make P.J. a single parent. But, you know, diff'rent strokes.) 

-Last night I found my husband mangling a defenseless tube of Crest. Now again, I would have deemed the tube empty and forgotten all about it, but not him. He squeezed the last bit- and perhaps some plastic- out onto his toothbrush and a goodly bit of his arms. ("That's the end of that," he stated in the most menacing and authoritative voice I'd ever heard outta anyone.) When I suggested that perhaps he was going to a lot of trouble, he asked if I'd seen his thing of Razor Defense face wash. Apparently, the cap didn't twist off to allow him to salvage the last eighth of an ounce so HE CHOPPED THE TUBE IN HALF. He's part thrifty housewife and a bigger part The Hulk. The fully green version. 

-And finally, the other morning when I was pretending to do my Wii Fit yoga, the console character asked me if I'd "seen P.J. lately." I told him/her yes. "How would you say that P.J.'s physique is these days? It's been over a month since I've seen him." He looks awesome, I told her. [Back off.] It then went on to inform me that I should be a better workout buddy to my husband and stated that "dogs become more motivated when their humans pay attention to them. Hmmm..." It actually hmm'd at me! And compared my husband to a pet! I was equal parts amused, insulted and shocked. 

But I showed it. 

I turned off the Wii. 

You're welcome, baby. 

Forget the SwaddleMe- swaddle ME.

I am tired.

I haven't been this tired since- well, never, I guess. Which is a horribly constructed sentence. As was that one.

Here's a bit of a confession: I never, not even once, pulled an all-nighter in college. Nope. Never needed to. Most of my classes were tailored towards subjects and habits in which I already excelled; crazy amounts of reading each night, papers about my feelings (like a blog!), projects and presentations wherein I basically got to make 'em laugh, show some shiny objects, and make it home in time for my afternoon nap. Not that I glided, but...I certainly wasn't pushing myself towards the Accelerated Sciences. Which we did have. I've heard.

Sure, I stayed up waaay too late working on shows, a fabulous TV series or two, the occasional layout meeting for one of the school's papers (the awesome one)- but those were fun. And I could sleep in until dinner the next day.

But this- this is new. This kinda eyelids-propped-up-by-toothpicks, accidentally-drooling-on-someone-ELSE's-shirt type of sleepy? Unheard of. It's so outside the realm of my imagination that, for the past few days, I've been absolutely certain I'm coming down with something horrific.

Sure, having a new kid is exhausting. Work also makes one tired. Owning a home? Absolutely. But- as our baby has slept through the night since one month of age (sorry), the kiddos at work have been Super Helpers, AND nothing has fallen apart on the house recently...I was sure that something else was up.

So I Googled my symptoms.

As it turns out, a combination of fatigue, slight queasiness, tiredness (apparently different than fatigue- I was surprised) and body aches could be indicators of the following:
-Pregnancy (I am not. I promise this. Although, cosmically, I do have it coming for joking about it.)
-Juvenile Diabetes (Or Diabeetus, as Wilford Brimley says. This is most likely not the case, however.)
-Apricot seed poisoning (Hmm.)
-Cherry seed poisoning (!!)
-Clubbed toes (I think I would have put "clubbing of my toes" as a symptom, thankyouverymuch)
-Sudden death (This is a disease? Apparently, a warning sign for this is- I am so serious- "truck accident.")

P.J. suggested that perhaps I was just really tired. I responded with a Fatality from Mortal Kombat. (Okay, not really. I keep forgetting to hold down 'B'.)  I then proceeded to microwave ABSOLUTELY NOTHING- for two minutes- and look around the kitchen for where I put a nonexistent bowl for the next ten. I followed that up by demanding that P.J. make some brownies and, when he awesomely did, I forgot that he wanted to have some of the batter bowl, too. Yep, I ate the whole thing. Didn't even realize that I had any until he asked me where it went. At this point, so overcome with guilt, exhaustion and, let's be honest, confusion, I began to cry like my arm was broken AND had just found out that there was no Tooth Fairy. 


I've never seen a guy's jaw drop so fast.


Since then, the past couple of days have been pretty cool. Sure, I'm still totally wiped, but now I have a husband who treats me extraordinarily delicately, kinda like a mental patient. This is not [entirely] necessary, but it has yielded some great dinners- one of which is something we've dubbed "engagement pasta" (nice try, buddy, I'm not falling for that one again)- and some special Jewel trips for yums which contain no nutritional value whatsoever. But make the soul feel good.

Also, when our daughter decided to wake up and say hello waaay earlier than was kind, P.J. went and hung out with her for a bit. This is a) really sweet and b) probably the safer option, as I was swatting at the baby monitor like a wayward alarm clock.

"What is that," I asked, looking for all the world like a stunned, trapped opossum.
"Nora," P.J. said, already holding our diapered and swaddled baby.

Have I mentioned how great he is? He's great.

So today I will make him dinner, pack him a sandwich for tomorrow, do some of his laundry, bathe the child (okay, that last one isn't really for HIM, per se, but she is kinda stinky) and try my darndest to not harm the homestead in any way. It's the little things that make a marriage work.

OH! And before I forget- hahahahaha- it's recently come to my attention that some fans o' the blog (people I'm not even RELATED to!) weren't aware that there's both a Monday and a Thursday posting. It's true. All this- twice a week! My goodness. That's a lot of minutiae and ramblings from a gal who- let's be honest- should really be doing about eighty other things.

Like the dishes.

Or writing something for which she could get paid.

Or- wait a sec- why is the fridge open?

Does anyone else smell that?

First off, a big ol' thank you to the city of Chicago for hosting eighty-seven festivals and events this weekend. (I witnessed four this weekend: RibsFest in Lincoln Square, the Old Town Arts Fair and St. Mike's Festival in Old Town/Lincoln Park, plus we kinda waltzed past Midsommarfest in Andersonville while waiting for a non-existant Damen bus.) That, plus a nice jaunt over to Foster Ave. beach (perhaps sitting a TAD too close to raunchy teens and/or breastfeeding mothers of three-year olds- quite the combo, no?) left me pleasantly freckled, stuffed to the gills with fair food (and that I mean superior corn dogs and the ilk, nothing "fair" about it) and more than a little drowsy.

And a big NO THANK YOU to HBO's True Blood. Which I now love. But have no business loving. (Pushing Daisies just left me- it's TOO SOON.) However, watch it I did (that was very Yoda) last night with Peej- it's so rare to find a show we like to watch together, and rarer still to find a vampire show that I like. Okay, that last part isn't true at all. I love vampire shows and movies. Have I ever told you about my second favorite vampire trilogy, behind the Blade extravaganza? It's Underworld 1, Underworld 2 and Van Helsing. Sure, the last one has different characters, names and plot points, but they rank the same in my mind. Exceptional.

Where does one go from a topic like that?

Random musings.

a) Esquire just had a great article on what it takes a be a real man- it was hilarious, apt, and cliche-free. That said, P.J. and I both decided it would be awfully hard to do from a female's point of view- the ones we've seen have either been in the Sex & the City camp (Being a woman means you can get away with murder- in Manolos!)or the Feminazi school of thought (Men are evil. And dumb.) And while both of these are, [ahem] at times, true, I think they usually do a disservice to the lovely grey (pink?) middle ground. Perhaps I'll work on this.

b) My iTunes has a rad feature wherein it loads the CD cover image when a song plays. Usually it's spot-on, but these days it phones it in when a genre or song has it stumped. For instance, Alice Cooper's "Poison?" [Awesome song.] Why, it's labeled as part of the compilation "Unity" CD for the 2004 Olympics. With the cover art from a cartoon movie called "Doogal." Neither is correct, nor is either choice remotely close to Vincent Furnier's 1989 horror-show spectacular. (And it IS spectacular.)

c) Finally, this morning I kept smelling burnt toast, which as everyone knows is the first sign of a stroke. Or being poisoned. Or maybe that's the smell of almonds. But I was fairly certain something terrible was going down- that is, until I realized that the scent was wafting in and out as I commuted. Sometimes I didn't even smell it at all. And once I got to work it was gone entirely, leaving me to believe...that today is a horrid day for toasting toast in Chicago.

This is all for today. Except for the fact that two-year old Lily and I depleted Home Depot's paint sample supply ("More squares!!!") and that I've finished another section of the play and am doggedly onto the next...and that tomorrow is the 20-week appointment to see Bitsy Baby Schoeny and determine, once and for all, just how many Schoenys (Schoenies?) are kicking me in the ribs. And nether regions. Plus, as I typed this, two more contractors called me back and set up appointments to "fix" the "house," hinging of course on the ludicrous notion that the JP Chase Morgan will ever let us "buy" this "property."

And that is absolutely ALL that is going on.

For the next ten minutes.