This Whole Vending Machine's Out Of Order!

I object.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The attorneys addressed us all as a group:

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

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

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

I was home by lunch.

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

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

[Denied] Jurrrrorrr.

Green Means Fun, Darnit!

Sorry, Zuzu, it's picture time.

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

Because it was ninety degrees outside.

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

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

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

Boden hugs the Zu. She approves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Powered by the remaining tiramisu in the fridge.

Hint- If You Give Nora A Sip, Don't Expect It Back.

We're heading back to Chicago in a little bit- and you'll all be thrilled to know that I forgot only the barest minimum of necessities. We made do. (Although Nora might beg to differ, as one of the forgotten items was her hair detangler spray, and Miss Nimbus had to suffer through plain ol' conditioner and combing and yelling.)

As time is of the essence, the car is not even remotely packed, and I'm not entirely certain where Susannah is, I'll just post a smattering of my fave pix from the weekend (so far).

There was a dance party on Saturday night with seven aunts and uncles, seven cousins of Peej's generation, nine cousins of the next generation, (and even two yet to be born cousins- not mine, oh no, not mine- calm down, interwebs). This is a rough count, mind you, and I don't even have pix of this stompy li'l affair. It was too bizzy.

There was a Mardi Gras parade downtown, slightly dampened by the fact that Nora was a) overtired, b) cold, and c) terrified of the clown-like dancers. We left a little early.

But, as always, there was way too much great food, and no shortage of loving arms for Nora and Zuzu.

I even got a nap.

Which will always render any weekend a roaring success.

Malt? Don't mind if I do. (Mini P.J. strikes again.)

Baby Greta and Baby Zuzu- two months apart and holding hands.

Hannah holding the babe- best Mother's Helper EVER.

Stay close, Dad. Those clowns might come back.

Now you're thinking about the taco spoon, aren't you?

There's something quite special about waking up on a Monday morning- and feeling like you're already way behind. Here's the problem: On the weekends, I like to play this game called I Have No Responsibility. It's true. I don't know where this bad habit came from. I've never in my life had more to do on the weekends and have never been better at disregarding it.

It's strange. Most weekend mornings, Peej and Nora let me sleep in 'til the 7 o'clock hour (= Disneyland n' puppies n' sunshine) and he gets to be the one covered in all things breakfast. Sometimes he puts her down for- not one- but two naps! You'd think all of this would free me up for things like cleaning, preparing meals, maybe writing? Nooope. While he's wrangling the Bitsy, I can usually be found lying on the living room floor, balancing my second mug of coffee on my chest (I hope someone out there is enjoying the benefits of my half-caf experiment, for my system sure isn't) and whining about how much I have to do. And then not doing it.

And then P.J. works on the yard. And I follow him out to kick at the dirt and ask him what he's doing. Over. And. Over. It's almost like I expect this sudden help/freedom to immediately equate an 8 year-old's summer vacation. Take away the mad rush of stress and I am utterly useless.

P.J. suggests that I go rest or read. I snap at him that he's trying to make me go away.

P.J. [carefully] states that I sure have been wanting some time to write. I'm not in the Right Mood, I tell him. Obviously. (I kinda wonder if he thinks that Right Mood needs to go hand in hand with a sparkling clean house, a fully caffeinated beverage, and a foot rub. At the ocean. With someone else recording my thoughts. And a small but respectable crowd applauding politely.)

And then Nora wakes up and I snap back into Busy Mode. Because- and this has always, always been the case- our summer weekends start booking up in March. Not because we are popular. Oh no. In fact, most of our friends dislike us greatly for our inability to hang out- so we make one on one plans with them. On the next free weekend. And when someone has a shindig or a non baby-friendly event (totally their right- sometimes I feel downright PG-13 myself) we try to ease the sting of our lameness by giving them the NEXT free weekend after that. And, because we're a couple between the ages of 20-45, this is "wedding season." Making it sound like people are shooting at married people. (Which, being one, I also totally understand.) On top of that, P.J. and I have a combined seven siblings, five sibling in-laws, four parents, and ten nieces and nephews who do really fun things like a) get born, b) vacation in boaty places and c) like to see us on non-holiday-esque weekends. (Which, when the others' hear about these jaunts, they join on in. Making it a holiday-esque weekend.) And THEN- oh then- on weekends when we could feasibly stay in the place where we toss all of our savings (Home Depot), we hear about Festivals That We Love.


And here's a little secret about Chicago. In the summer, you can't win. There will never be a weekend where you can enjoy one great event and not completely miss out on another. The weather is so rotten here for so much of the year that the city decides to cram as much amazingness as possible into ten short weekends. ("Please stay one more year," they seem to implore.) This past weekend, for example, was the Folk and Roots Festival. Which I missed. Because the Roscoe Village Garden Walk/Burger Fest was going on. (Hint- if you ever wish to locate the Schoeny family, check out local Garden Walks. We cannot resist them. Also, burgers.) 


We got to give in to two of our favorite cravings yesterday; street fair food and pretending we still live in Roscoe Village. Nora had her first cheese curds yesterday. Not surprisingly, she dug them. (Actual overheard conversation at a vendor: Girl returning her cheese curds- "Uh, this is just fried cheese!?" Vendor- ..."Yeah?" Points to sign: Fried. Cheese. Curds.) 


Also, I love that Nora chows on grilled bok choy and sautéed rainbow chard during the week...and eats like a frat boy on the weekends. (Although I did bring her a baggie of peas which she much preferred to her Stilton burger.)

I tried to bake yesterday morning- even though baking requires precise "math" and usually, my eyes glaze over when I try to follow detailed directions. But there was this fabulous-looking recipe for lemon and sour cream muffins in Parade magazine (Pah-rahd) and it seemed simple enough for a preschooler to follow. Perfect. Sure, the sour cream had been compromised (a taco spoon had been dipped- oh, maybe two weeks ago) but that sure wasn't gonna stop me. And yes, the magazine forgot to include that pesky little detail of how hot to make the oven, but- those two details aside, they came out tasting like MUFFINS!  P.J. and Nora each had two. I had four. Which brings us to...

...Last night I went to Pilates, bringing my non-Wii workouts for the past two months up to...once.

And last night, after the obligatory (for Peej) viewing of True Blood, I experienced the manliest channel surfing experience ever. Alien vs. Predator/The Godfather (Part 1)/Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Some thoughts:

a) Could this be the bloodiest three hours of television ever viewed?
b) What about the last one makes it a "requiem?" That sounds like an awfully fancy way of saying "we did it again."
c) Why was Appollonia never again acknowledged by Al Pacino- or anyone else in the movie- in Sicily, America or otherwise? This hampered my movie-viewing experience. Then again, the baby being carted around in The Hangover had a similar effect. (It was WAY too long for that kid to not have eaten/napped/been in the shade.)

So. Right. Monday.

From the hours of 6:30am to 8am I fed Nora, cleaned Nora, mopped the floor (not out of any virtuous desire- I was kinda stuck to it) and did a load of laundry (same reasons). Played with Nora's toys- she did, too- and read a dozen animal books, making appropriate sounds. Got packed up for this late morning/afternoon's work and, realizing that Nora had a nose full of boogs- wiped it on my shirt. (Why? Why do I do this? And not even on her shirt- mine!) Started another load of laundry.

In short, I got more "done" around the house in an hour and a half than I did all weekend. There's gotta be some lesson or moral in here.

And I'm totally gonna think about that.

After one more muffin.

Sigh.

Sundays are fabulous. Sunday mornings at my house are a study in perfection. Seriously. A glimpse, if you will:

7:45am: Nora rolls to her side and pokes me in the face until I wake up. (Yes, DCFS, she still sleeps with us in the mornings. Please do not remove her from our home- she has tons of things here.) When I do wake up, she gives me an appreciative grin that makes me wonder why I didn't wake up hours ago to anticipate this moment. It's that good. And I used to HATE waking up.

8am: Changed, cleaned up and semi-dressed (one of us, anyhow), Nora and I head into the living room with a cup of [cinnamon hazelnut] coffee and prepare to read The Paper. P.J. has already separated it into the most helpful of piles. His= the Target circular, the Jewel circular, the Cermak circular, Real Estate, and World stuff...and then he grabs from my pile. MY lofty pile= Parade Magazine (pronounced Pa-RAHD, the funners, the Trib Magazine and the Arts section. You must MUST must start with Parade as you're waking up. There is nothing better to get the neurons firing than inane celebrity questions and "health" articles. ("Secret weapon for 2010? Flu shots and leafy greens!" Thanks, Parade!) Don't even get me started on Ask Marilyn: "If I have eight friends and we want to divide a bill equally by fives and only pay in PENNIES, which way should we be facing?" Shut up. Also, I've wondered for YEARS who these morons are that actually take the time to mail in a question in the hopes that it'll be published- someday- on the inside cover. And why do they always have a 'steak dinner' riding on the answer? People make a bet, write to some "expert" in Parade...and then wait! My sister Kate called to inform me of a similar Dear Abby recently; "Dear Abby, My husband and I are having a dispute. He says you screw in a lightbulb clockwise. I disagree and say it's counter-clockwise. Which of us is correct?" Kate had two problems with this letter- a) Erica in Alabama decided to write to Abby instead of testing out an actual light bulb, and b) "Abby" decided to publish this burning question. (The answer is clockwise, by the way, the same as turning a lid on a jar. All part of the service here, folks.) And an actual question this week from Parade- "Do the 2010 Winter Olympics really have a sasquatch as a mascot?" One word. GOOGLE. Do not waste a steak dinner on this bet. Google this question on your BlackBerry and pretend you knew the answer the whole time. And pick up some Del Monico steaks at Jewel- P.J. can give you a coupon. (And the mascot's name is Quatchi.)

8:15am: P.J. hands me a breakfast sandwich on a heart-shaped plate. He makes exceptional weekend brekkies, with maple bacon the star of the show. He then turns on the stereo and we listen to one of three things: the classical station (Nora likes it), NPR, or Survivor's "Vital Signs" on vinyl. These are the only options. The third is still in constant rotation (and by 'rotation,' I mean it stays on the turntable for months at a time. We have a collection of hundreds. It doesn't matter. This album is SO good. And earnest!)And, if I may, I'd like to quickly piggyback (whee!) on the Embarrassing Music post: Enya. Why must I feel shame? I LOVE Enya. Sure, sometimes she takes liberties with rhymes that are positively Kanye West-ian, but good God can that woman EVOKE.

8:30am: (Or thereabouts- I rarely have time to check the clock in the mornings because a) I don't want to, and b) Nora will let us know when it's time to do things.) Nora, for her part, has been chatting away in her bouncy seat with her pals Jacques the Peacock (from Auntie Annie!) and Starfish, the droll Starfish. Occasionally she will demand couch-time, only to squirm her way back to the bouncy seat. We read aloud from Mutts, Frazz, Non Sequitur, and, inexplicably, Pickles. We make a point of snubbing Dick Tracy, Brenda Starr and Raising Hector. (Ever wanna hear P.J. go on a tirade? Talk about this week's panel of Raising Hector. We haaaate Raising Hector.) Nothing, however, will ever top the despising of Zippy the Pinhead. Thankfully they do not publish such garbage in Chicago. But they have, errantly, discontinued Scary Gary. Why? It is the reason why the medium was invented. Bring it back, please.

8...45ish...: The Tribune Magazine is great. Excellent interviews, snapshots of far-flung Chicago neighborhoods, recipes I may actually use (not like that Parade drivel suggesting I cook eggs in the shape of a heart for Valentine's Day) and interior design stuff that inspires me to move the furniture around. Except THIS week, some over-eager guy on the printing team decided to slice the margins a full inch into the side of each paragraph. For shame, Trib Mag. Now I will have to GUESS how many teaspoons, cups or bunches of sage to put into my dish. I'll probably just go with a handful and that will most likely be WRONG.

Sometime around the vicinity of 9: A shower! An alone shower! My my, how the lofty goals have changed!

And then later on the morning (or the evening, if I take that class) brings Pilates at Flow Yoga (Natalie has saved my physique from becoming a sad warning and Janine is like a hug in yoga form) and I get to enjoy a solitary drive followed by an hour workout where no one needs ANYTHING that comes from or around my body followed by another drive. Sundays are boss!

The rest of the day can be filled with a rotating cast of pleasant activities: a nap with Nora starfished out on one's chest, Important Projects (P.J. finished the first floor bathroom and I made Valentines by hand- serious stuff) a movie or two (yesterday's was The Invention of Lying- cute, and a good choice for multiple pauses due to laundry, diaper-fails, etc.,) and meals that are chosen under the guidelines of I Don't Wish To Cook. Yesterday was Chinese food!

Last night's plans included the Super Bowl- not usually a big night on my calendar, but I do love a good party and new commercials are always pretty fun. We headed out to Niles to see some TUTA company members at the Artistic Director's house (side note- their current show, Bertolt Brecht's The Wedding, is getting ridiculously good reviews. You probably couldn't even get in to see it if you tried. But you SHOULD try.) Nora was a little on the exhausted side (we all went to a glorious dinner party the night before- Nora wore tights and held court) and decided to show her displeasure by yelling at us. Apologies to Jackie, Helen and Alice who held a crying baby and said she was cute anyhow. We didn't stay long, sadly. We DID, however, get to see some Super Bowl highlights. Namely, the commercials.

And I'll be among the first to say it. WHY, in the new Alice in Wonderland movie, does Johnny Depp look like Madonna? I've never cast her as the Mad Hatter in my mind before, but there she is! Wide, eye-shadowed lids and gap-toothed smile! I'm gonna put money on the idea that this was done purposefully.

Also- the Halftime extravaganza. What a light show! And that hot new group...The Who.

Our third quarter consisted of bundling an angry little cub into her car seat, then into a sleepsack (with cap and mittens), then singing her to sleep in our room with the cats helpfully laying on our feet, then half an hour of Mario Kart.

But for now, it's somehow Monday again. Nora and I must zip up our hoodies, grab our safari blankies and about thirty diapers...and head to work. Kids ain't gonna nanny themselves.

Even if I AM having a case of The Sundays.

And The Springtimes.

And The Wealthys. (Hey, it's MY fantasy.)

And The Leggy, Lithe, Size 2s.

Happy Chicago Winter Monday Sweatpants, everyone!