April Date: Folk Music And Empanadas And No Falling Asleep.

With all of the madness and world events and still jet-lagged children, I wasn't sure we'd manage a Date Night this month. However, P.J. wasn't about to end his streak o' dately awesome since Christmas- and surprised me with tickets to see Hem at The Old Town School of Folk Music. (Which, if y'all locals haven't managed to see a show there, do it. 'Cause it's the loveliest.)

Hem, a terrific folk band, hasn't toured in about six years and is now promoting their newest album. Which. Is. Lovely. Peej scored a table right in front of the stage, where we snacked on the obvious concert choice of empanadas and tea. (We are exactly one hundred and ten years old.)

Dawn Landes opened for Hem, and played a great acoustic set. She later came back to play with Hem- who played for nearly two hours. They performed some hits and fan favorites like Half Acre, and some new favorites like Identical Snowflakes (a beautifully adorable song about snowflakes who fall in love and decide to fall to the ground together- and which had me weeping like a toddler) and Last Call- a song about reminiscing at an ocean front bar. (Which served to make me want to be a) toasting with cocktails and b) near the Atlantic.) There was even a singalong (and everyone loves that) and P.J. and I were sure we were about to be hired for the rest of Hem's tour as lazy backup singers.

Definitely a chill date night, but one where we held hands and enjoyed just being still for the first time all week. (Month?)

And again, there were empanadas.

Mini Kitchen Makeover, Part 2, AKA P.J. Gets Out The Power Tools.

You guys. Turns out, getting parts of your kitchen remodeled (and then repeatedly walking in and out of said room) is better than waking up to check your stocking or Easter basket or Valentine envelope or birthday table pile (what?) in terms of Immediate Gratification Awesome Feelings. 

Last week we got these ridonk cabinets resurfaced. This week? Oh my word, QUARTZ COUNTERTOPS.

Let's review what we had been working with:

Man oh man, those cabinets are purty. That counter is a little wonky, though. Can we get a close-up?

Yup, that sure is an impossible-to-remove stain. Boy, that must've been a joy to live with!

I can't stop staring at those rad cabinets! But there sure is a lot of that fugly countertop, huh?

Warped, stained, unevenly seamed Formica. Let's hear some offers, boys!

Yeah, it's over there too, offending my coffee maker.

Peej had been fully prepared to use the jaws of life to remove the counters.
Turns out, it's super easy to remove a counter if it's never been attached to anything, ever.

Anyone need a die? Some shelf liner? How about a flat razor?
(What kind of establishment have we stumbled upon?)

P.J. uses a power saw in the kitchen. Sure, he'll chase loud teens from our lawn and threaten
car alarms in his boxers, but a sawing in the kitchen at 9pm? The girls'll be fine. (They were.)

P.J. was pleased/dismayed to find how easy sink removal was.
Because the sink had never been bracketed or attached to our flimsy Formica.
Our cast iron sink was just hanging out on old particle board. Hooray!
(Also, Peej is wearing my Dad's flannel and it makes me wicked happy.)

Yesterday morning, guys from The Home Depot showed up and saw that P.J. had left some nice, neat
holes just right for new quartz countertops to fit atop of. So here's what they left us. (A shiny sink, too!)

Hey there, pretty lady.

It's so clean and sturdy and looks like a real kitchen where people could even live and prepare food!

Here is where there was oh-so-recently a stained countertop. It is no longer.

Let's be in love forever. 

Next up: Backsplash! Water re-connection!

And that fun moment where I never let anyone use the kitchen ever again.

March Date: Sushi And Board Games And Nic Cage.

March's Date Night brought us to Macku, one of my favorite restaurants in Chicago- formerly Kaze, which had the distinct honor of being the sushi joint down the block from our Roscoe Village apartment. (It moved and changed names. Then again, so did I.)

We always get some sort of super white tuna appetizer. We always order drinks- my choice has never strayed from the lychee mimosa, each sip prompting me to implore P.J. to pick up some lychees somewhere- and Peej either gets a Manhattan or a Japanese beer or just water is fine, thanks. We always get "our" soups- they have a dozen fabulous ones, I'm sure, but we always stick to the two we randomly chose during our first time there in 2006. (His is a ginormous urn of spicy sweet potato something-or-other, mine is a carrot and crab puree in the teensiest demitasse cup you've ever seen. It's small because of its utter richness, but I dig using a miniature spoon and feeling like a giant.) We always get a handful of makimono- it doesn't matter which ones, they're all wicked good. And we always get the crazy-goodest dessert we've ever had; a sweet asparagus pudding swirled with chocolate and strawberry dipping sauces. (The first time we ordered it, we were surprised too.)

I love everything about you. (This is to my carrot soup and my husband.)

The meal was terrific, although our conversation never strayed far from the odd argument we seemed to be having regarding the Nicolas Cage flick The Family Man. (Our fight got really heated, despite the fact that P.J. had only seen the movie once and I never saw the thing at all.)

We agreed to disagree and drove north to Lakeview. P.J. asked if he could surprise me with the second part of Date Night. I said sure, fairly certain that he wasn't going to do anything crazy like propose, so I didn't worry about how my hair looked. [Awesome.]

I knew exactly where we were, however, once we turned onto Addison. Since I was pretty sure he wasn't heading into Wrigleyville, that left Guthrie's Tavern. The home of fabulous hot winter drinks and walls and walls of board games. Creature of habit that I am, I ordered the Hot Apple Pie, a wicked combo of cider, cinnamon sticks and Tuaca liqueur. (Peej got some sort of spiked cocoa, surprising no one at all. For I am married to a consistent eight year-old.)

Everyone looks sassy sippin' with straws.

And we played Last Word, a board game for which we understood roughly a quarter of the rules. I still won. Because I don't care if it's a board game, a novella, or a smoke signal- if it's called Last Word, the female's gonna have it.

Which P.J. obviously knew (and knows). Making him the best date ever.

February Date: Bowling Night (Sans Bowling).

Because my husband is so incredibly crazy about me-

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

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

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

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

Sharkz.

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

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

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

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

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

...And simultaneously checking our mobile Facebook accounts.

Writers Are Just The Worst.

Last night, I had a deadline.

More accurately, last Monday I had a deadline.

Now, here's how I generally work on plays:
-IdeaIDEAidea, wouldn't this be fun? (Four months.)
-Plot Out The Things What Happen. Bonus- Add some dialogue which, while not truly belonging anywhere, is wicked funny. (One month.)
-Freak out about character development and scrap the whole thing. (One month.)
-Realize I am left with nothin'. Bring some people/dialogue back. Write more appropriate-to-nothing funny dialogue. (One month, minus two days.)
-Pull two all-nighters and agree that- yes- some semblance of a story can be handed in/comprehended.
(-Extra credit: Do not work on a play for a full calendar year.)

I didn't say that this was the best method, just the one that frequently happens.

But the show for which I'm currently poking out my eyes was due last Monday. (And twasn't presentable. But man, if there wasn't hilarious, out-of-place dialogue for miles!) And this is my fourth rewrite of a full draft since the end of this summer. And I want this play to be awesome, because the company is awesome and the [tolerant/no, don't worry, I won't get used to anything I'm currently seeing in this play] cast is awesome.

And after the latest series of readings, I realized that elements of my storyline weren't awesome. And some character development left me cold. So this month I scrapped a [frightening] amount of the play and determined to piece new plot and reworked old plot and meld it into some sort of refreshing RoboPlay.

Except.

I have two wicked little kids/an elusive muse/way too late of a bedtime/infrequent bursts of time in which to pen the gloriousness which is my opus. Whine, whine, whine.

So. This weekend. I knew the play was [over]due and that the play needed to be in the hands of the actors sitting in a room on Monday. Whether or not I had showered since the previous Wednesday was immaterial. So I began the process of ramrodding my eyeballs into my laptop, and my ever-exceptional husband P.J. took the majority of kid/house/explosiveness that constitutes a normal weekend.

And it worked. Until it stopped, right around Sunday night. And it wouldn't come back. The story, that is. Right around cup nine of coffee, the scenes stopped making sense. The characters wouldn't talk. And it got ugly. Specifically with my tears. Ugly Cry tears. And I got frustrated. Because I had barely touched my children the entire weekend and missed things like movies and snuggles and Good God, they're going to college in like five minutes and I have nothing to show for an an overcaffeinated face and legs that haven't moved in hours and may never work again- I hate this chair, who bought this stupid chair?

It got real. Because there were two scenes left to rework and it seemed like something that should be within my reach. And I felt my heart punch out of my chest and I sobbed to P.J. that they'd all have to mime the play, I was an abject failure, I just needed to see my children, and theatre sucks.

P.J. removed my coffee cup from the premises.

And, without giving away too much of his magic, he Keely-Whisperered me. Patiently. He walked me through plot points and even formatting some of my wonky typing "styles." He gently reminded me that- no, no that isn't something a normal person would say...could we perhaps have something happen here, instead of the abject nothingness that's been going down for two pages...let's add something funny to this comedy, yeah?

This went down for hours. Eventually he went to bed. 'Cause I couldn't handle the a.m. carnage that would be two parents with an hour of rest. And I stayed up a little longer because somehow he had freed the plot and the dialogue and things zipped. I wrote like I was being filmed in a montage. And passed out in a fluttery bundle of exhilarated nerves at 3am.

So long story not that much shorter, it worked. Kinda.

Let you know after tonight's reading.

After I give my husband a three hour-long massage.

4 Surprising Reasons My Husband Is My Favorite Valentine.

My husband P.J. makes a pretty darned good Valentine. The best I've ever had, in fact. Sure, he's terrific at all of the "expected" gestures, but here are four reasons (which may surprise even him) why I'm totally bonkers for him this Valentine's Day:

Circa 2007. Bewitched and be-hoodied. 

-Over the years, I've received all sorts of trinkets and tokens of affection for Valentine’s Day. They ranged from the good (bling) to the ugly (an exit line explaining why he doesn't “do” Valentine’s Day)…but up until P.J., not one person had ever gifted me Valentine Shoes. And absolutely, there’s way more to building a life together than the kind of presents received, but I’d be a wicked big liar if I said it wasn't a major factor in me asking him to move in.

-He knows all of my secrets. For example, marrying a girl of half Middle Eastern descent entails an [impossible to hide] amount of upper lip bleaching, tweezing of various locales, and a downright Costco-esque supply of razors. He has never once shuddered at these things which his eyes cannot unsee. Never once. 

-Since meeting P.J., all of my past dates and relationships have been set in stark contrast. I had been involved with some truly awesome people (although not the right ones for me) as well as some horrible man-children (also not the right ones for me)…but it took marrying the perfect one for me to see that I would've made a terrible vegan farmer’s wife. Or a hipster’s other half, complete with rolled-up skinny jeans and a superior air about home brew. I would've stunk at living in NYC. Or LA. Or in a van. But finding a mate with whom to wear hoodies, unironically high-five over a vinyl Richard Marx album, and fall asleep in bed watching Mad About You? That feels like home. Nerdy, can't-believe-I'm-sayin'-it-on-the-internet Home. 

-Because of P.J., our kids are (and will be!) wonderfully crazy. His tinfoil hat-wearin’ paranoia merged with my hyperactive enthusiasm for whimsy? They’ll be the ones listening for messages in Beatles songs…and then making up a hand puppet jig when they find them. 

Thanks for making my Valentine's Day- and the rest of the year- so wonderfully fun and glittery, Peej.

The glitter could be a byproduct of your daughters.

But I'm pretty sure it's all you.

Sunday Night Funday Night.

Peej sure knows how to keep the excitement going 'round here.

Last night, as we were prepping the gals for bedtime, he acknowledged that the left side of his face had gone completely numb- something that had been growing in intensity since the night before, along with painful ear pressure. (He had mentioned this when he got home on Saturday night, but me- awesome wife that I am- told him to suck it up. He had just flown from Seattle to Chicago and had been riding the Sniffles Carousel like everyone else in the city proper this season. Ear pressure happens. Happy weekend!) 

But it was the continued mentioning that gave me pause, as did the fact that he called our doctor. 'Cause P.J. only brings up medical intervention if his elbow is hanging off of his body at a bloody, 90 degree angle. Or if a piano falls on him. Stuff like that. 

The doctor confirmed the suspicion that- yes- a numbed face was cause for concern. So we called our ever-awesome neighbors to stay with our confused-by-the-pace-of-bedtime children. And even though P.J. said he'd drive himself, I took him to the E.R. 

As we approached the check-in desk, we overheard a conversation between a police officer and two nurses. Something about jambalaya and like, surprise shrimp or something that no one could believe. Strangely, their conversation kept up for the next five or so minutes while we waited behind them. I mean, I wasn't expecting them to Noah Wylie us all up in there and strap him to a gurney, but maybe- just maybe- the shrimp story could wait until someone asked if P.J. was bleeding out? Maybe?

Finally, the cop nodded towards P.J. and apologized to me. “That’s ok!” I brightly replied. Because, if nothing else- I AM SUPER POLITE AND PLEASANT in times of stress. So one nurse asked P.J. what was up and he explained about his facial numbness, etc., etc., and the police officer nodded sagely and offered up “That’s serious.” (I agreed. Politely.)

So they “fast tracked” us a room, where I had the completely inappropriate excitement over being checked out by a passing-by male nurse three times. He even did the showbiz triple take. I tried to high-five P.J. over it, but he was unimpressed. (I mean, I’m sure I was eyefuls better than the cuffed prisoner one waiting room over, but I chose to take it as a compliment.) 

Once they determined that P.J. was not, in fact, having a stroke or a seizure or bleeding out, we had a lot of time on our hands to do stuff like look at the artwork. 

How cute is he? Also, how totally bizarre is that artwork?
I'm not completely sure what's happening there: unwise balancing,
a strange proportion/depth sorta thing...and the sun is reading? What?

Long story kinda shorter; they did a whole lotta weird stuff to P.J., we had the whole Sunday night "time to just talk" that I'm always craving, and the doctor stated that Peej had a) a deeply impacted ear infection, b) a blocked sinus infection, and c) insane pressure from that facial Venn diagram which caused nerve hilarity. 

And, while that was incredibly painful for him, it was a massive relief for me. Because as I told him- I wasn't truly feeling spoon-feeding him rice pudding while draping him with a plaid blanket at the seaside.

Which is how I visualize recovery from a stroke, apparently. 

Anyhow. Horse pills have been consumed, thank-you casseroles need to be prepped, and no one is any worse for the wear. Except for that artwork. 

That thing will be haunting my dreams for years to come.

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

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

Even the Russian judges liked us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We all have our limits, I guess.

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

2013 Is For Nappers.

Kinda like the Baby New Year (and her sister)...but noisier.

Happy Day After New Year's Day! Which isn't a real thing, but I'm still in yelly, celebratory mode from this intense holiday season!

So, I've gotta say, I enjoyed the heck out of my miniature blogcation- which is the last time I shall utter that word, I promise. (But I did.) It's been a kinda crazed past few weeks, and it was nice to be able to [guilt-free] omit something from my daily list.

And yeah, "Re-Cap Hilarity That Was Monday-Tuesday" is on my To Do list for my midweek post. Kinda feels like I'm revealing the ol' man behind the curtain a little, doesn't it?

ANYWAY. I hope you all had a wundy Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Festivus and that you didn't miss me too much. ('Cause I totally missed the heck outta you.) Another reason I felt okie doke with taking a bloggy break was because I know that a goodly cross-section of you follow me on Facebook and Twitter, et. al. (Because, yeah, this non sequitur/randomsauce display of verbal explosiveness/lifestyle wherein I overshare pictures of Nora drawing on Zuzu's head cannot be contained to thrice-weekly postings. I've tried.)

But if you're not a rabid follower (which is totally cool- it can be exhausting), here's whatcha may have missed:

At the risk of coming off as the most maudlin gal around, I helped close out the year over at Families In The Loop with Goodbye 2012, A Year Of Heartache, Loss & Hope.

On New Year's Day, I was stoked to be the first post of Project: UnderBlog for January with my slacktacular list of 10 Totally Attainable Resolutions For The New Year.

Speaking of 2013, New Year's Day was spent wonderfully. Because, as we all know, whatever you do on New Year's Day reflects what you're going to be doing throughout the year. Like a fortuitous Groundhog's Day. The Bill Murray vehicle, not Punxsutawney Phil. (Sidenote: MS Word just attempted to change "Punxsutawney" to "Subcutaneous." Helpful! It's rough when even your word processor thinks you're just batting words at the page like so many bundled gypsy "babies.")

So yes. New Year's Day. According to my January 1st, the entirety of 2013 will be spent sleeping in, reading, napping, taking baths, forcing my neighbors to provide gourmet feasts, playing board games on the floor, removing Play-Doh from Susannah's mouth, calling my family, and ordering Chinese food from up the street. That's a mostly amazing year!

P.J.'s will be spent re-watching Twister.

He did not plan ahead for this one.

Important Vs. Crucial.

Keely: Hey, what do you think about this for Zu's big Christmas present?

P.J.: That's cute...

Keely: And Nora is gonna love this...

P.J.: Thanks for doing all of this.

Keely: How much should we spend on stocking stuffers?

P.J. (leaving the room): It'd be great if we kept it under x amount per person...

Keely (calls into the other room): I was also going to buy some bubble mailers on Amazon-

**P.J. re-enters the room and takes the laptop**

P.J.: Have you compared any? 

Keely: Uh-

P.J.: Lemme check something.

**Five minutes later**

Keely: What are you doing?

P.J.: Reading reviews. 

Trees And Panic And Church. And Drinking.

"I have no idea what's happening!"- Suzy

I've been feeling very behind, rather frantic, and Not. In. The. Holiday. Spirit. At. All.

And as ads (and Facebook) have been reminding me...there's only a few short weeks left to get it all done. And this made me panic.

Until I realized that it's December 3rd. THIRD. Not twenty-third. This is actually the official start to the Christmas season. It's true. Think about it: When you were a little kid and read (or watched) aaaaaany story that concerned Christmas...did it take place in October or November? Nope. It was somewhere smackdab in the middle of December. (And generally somewhere smackdab in the middle of the Midwest. I don't know why these shows always concerned families residing in Indiana or Illinois, I just remember that they did. Maybe I'm thinking of John Hughes films.) 

Anyhow. I'm trying desperately hard to enjoy this season. We got our tree this weekend (at the traditional Home Depot tree lot) and as we pulled into the parking lot I had to reassure myself that there would still be "good" trees. On December 1st. (There were.) Nora was stoked beyond belief to choose a tree that "wasn't too thin." Susannah was rather confused but determined to enjoy herself. (And P.J. did that Guy Thing with the tree man where they spun the tree and banged the trunk officially.) 

That night, the girls were positively vibrating off the ground with tree ornament excitement. Zuzu's job was to walk across the room with larger ornaments, hide them under a shoe, squeal excitedly at them, and then fling them in the general direction of the tree. Nora's job was to carefully suspend nine ornaments on the same branch, roughly two inches from the floor. They did this for an hour and a half. And honestly? That was magical. 

Everything you need to know is
going down in this very pic.

The next day we went to the 10am mass, which was being said for my Dad. (Thanks, Kris!!) P.J. was actually the one who got to say the intentions for my Dad, which was rather special (even though, at the time, Nora was attempting to raise and lower the kneeler onto the pregnant lady next to us and Susannah was preoccupied with peeing through her outfit onto my shirt). But being there made me think of the Christmas stuff I treasured doing with my family growing up- and especially my Dad. Like getting the tree. Hanging the lights. Watching the favorite TV specials (over and over and over). Having him read The Night Before Christmas to the four of us girls. And then the four of us girls and the five grandkids. Having a cordial glass of peppermint schnapps on the rocks in front of the fire (which, as he's repeatedly told me, is the perfect Christmastime drink). 

I would so love to be sitting in front of the fire drinking something with him right now. I'm sure he'd dig that, too.

Because I am his favorite.

But for now, I'll try really hard to slow down and not feel the Christmas Panic every morning and night.  I bet a schnapps would help. 

Maybe just a [singular] schnapp. 

Over The River And Through The Woods...

We could've saved a ton on beds. 

Early Saturday morning, the four of us took off for my folks' house in Massachusetts, a roughly seventeen hour drive. (Because a 2k pricetag to voluntarily drag my kids through holiday week airports didn't quite compute.) My brain, spine, and eyeballs have yet to fully recover (from things like stopping three times in the first two hours)...so for now, here's a few key highlights of the journey. 

-Adding to our Thanks A Lot, Ohio, list: We were pulled over for doing a bit more than sixty in a sixty zone. Which P.J. erroneously believed was a seventy zone. (But it was even a slight bit more than seventy.) Double unfortunately, we were seven hours into the drive and the girls had just fallen asleep. P.J., fearing that his wife would divorce him over the potential for their crabapple children to awaken, whispered to the state trooper and asked if he could step out of the vehicle because of his sleeping kids. The trooper wasn’t impressed. Told him to stay in the car. Seemed disproportionately annoyed. And handed out a whopper of a ticket.

-Checked into a Red Roof Inn in Erie, PA. P.J. and I took one bed, Nora [happily] took another “stretch out” bed, and a pack n’ play for Susannah was shoved between the two. Which would’ve worked out fine, if not for the fact that Nora WAS SO EXCITED until about midnight (roughly two hours after her father began the Dead To The World snore) and Zu was curiously peeking over the side of her crib like a concerned meerkat every half an hour throughout the evening and morning. Let’s just say that, if this were The Little House On The Prairie, Livin’ In A One Room House era, we would’ve lasted precisely one night.

-Entering into New York state and immediately seeing picturesque trees and shadowy hills, all encrusted with fairylike frost. P.J. and I excitedly pointed out the new landscape to the girls…who were wildly unimpressed. Nora purported to see “nothing.” Susannah grunted unhappily and filled her diaper.

-Shortly thereafter, I was humongously unprepared to see a deer pass us in the righthand lane. Quite dead. Strapped to a bicycle rack, posed in a questionable Superman position. I informed Peej that I needed a bit of warning for that type of peripheral ambush, but he didn’t share my dismay. “That deer is flying like Superman! He is having a great time!”

-We stopped at a recently renovated McDonalds in Owego, NY. The reopening of this establishment had been written about in the Pennysaver, and apparently caused the whole town to come out and wait in hourlong lines. Also, every single person interviewed was over-the-top enthused about reclaiming their Mickey D’s, a fact that brought me to Ugly Tears with its genuine Americana pride.

More later. But for now, more coffee. More [amazing] food. More forced naptimes for kids who aren't exactly sure in which time zone they currently reside. 

But no more car for a little bit.

31 Reasons.

This guy. Seriously.

My husband has a habit of aging. (A year and four months behind me. It's a good trick.) To commemorate the awesomesaucitude that is P.J., here's a list of the top 31 reasons he's known and loved and is the coolest thing since the introduction of the IBM personal computer (also unleashed on the world in 1981):

31. He makes being a guy who just happens to own and love cats look kinda cool.

30. Dude has more computers in his home office than Max Headroom. (Bonus points if you're not fifteen and can remember Max Headroom.)

29. He wears Italian leather shoes and neon green sneakers with equal aplomb.

28. P.J. knows what "aplomb" means, as well as dozens of other words that he can pepper into conversation with one thousand percent accuracy.

27. Guy gives a massage that can make one cry and/or fall into a deep slumber. This isn't a creepy assertion- lots of other folks (some related, some notsomuch) can attest to this as well.

26. There's a Louisville Slugger next to his bedside table- just in case some fool thinks breaking in would be a grand idea. I have zero doubt that he'd be just fine. (P.J., I mean. Maybe the bat. Prolly not the intruder.)

25. On that note, he has yet to leave me after I've repeatedly shrilled "What's that sound?!" Instead, he has quietly walked downstairs, checked the place out, and come back to bed with soothing words. At 2am.

24. Have you heard him rap Ice, Ice Baby? How about sing Whatta Man? Highly recommend. (Word to your mother.)

23. The other morning, I awoke to find P.J. and Nora playing in hushed tones in N's bedroom. At 6am. He had originally gone in to tell her try to get some more sleep, but at the slightest request there he was- knee deep in Barbie outfitting drama. (Who needs an extra half an hour of sleep when you've got a three year-old who thinks you're a superhero?)

22. Even though he hasn't the slightest experience in concrete repair, as soon as our stoop started to crumble he armed himself with Quikcrete and his finest ripped jeans- and proceeded to cheerfully spend the next six hours of his Saturday bailing water from the sinking ship that is our home's exterior.

21. Despite really wanting to fall asleep on the couch in front of Real Time With Bill Maher, he makes it up to his actual bed (and his hates-to-sleep-alone wife) by a decent hour.

20. P.J. makes the best blueberry pancakes in the known world.

19. He power-washed an irate rat from under our tool shed...and didn't even bat an eye.

18. Peej is extremely frugal and coupon-happy, yet will always use our AmEx points to treat us to an awesome night out at one of Chicago's best restaurants. It's a thrilling combination.

17. When something breaks in our house, his first thought is never Whom should we call? Dude gets on it himself. (Questionable, yet admirable.)

16. This guy really loves (and is wicked loyal to) his family. All two thousand members of his immediate, extended, by marriage, long distance, and/or clinically insane family.

15. He can talk to anyone. Anyone. (Admittedly, for hours...)

14. Daddified or not, he continues to have (and have knowledge of) the best music out there. (And he'll happily burn you a CD.)

13. P.J. is about as Bleeding Heart, Flag-Burnin' Liberal as they come...but can (and will) respectfully converse with people of differing political opinions. (Now tell me that's not rare and admirable these days.)

12. He has worn fairy wings to be the prettiest princess with his two daughters. Many, many times.

11. His cocktail-mixing skills are second to none. (And he doesn't even roll his eyes at a request for extra maraschino juice.)

10. The guy is incredibly smart, and picks up knowledge, trivia- and languages- rather easily. I'd find it annoying if not for the times I've found myself in other countries without the ability to ask for the bagno gratuito.

9. He's impossible to surprise- yet constantly surprises me. This one falls into the good/bad category, but I grudgingly admit that he'd make a stellar ninja.

8. Remember that time he killed a rat with his bare hands?

7. Immediately after walking in the door from work, P.J. strips down to a tee shirt and jeans. (Comfort be damned- it's so he can carry two sauce-covered beasties directly to the tub after dinner.)

6. At the slightest mention, he'll drop his evening plans (catching up on work, taking out the trash, etc., etc., etc.) to make a gigantic bowl of popcorn and watch a movie. No, really. Just ask. Really.

5. He's seen every movie. Twice. And he owns most of them. And yeah, they're alphabetized in gigantic sleeves. Want to watch one? He'll burn you a copy.

4. Peej's ideal Saturday morning is making a large platter of bacon, playing on the floor with his daughters, scrolling through various Words With Friends games on his phone, listening to something vinyl, and staying in pajama pants until roughly 1pm. (Who cares if there's still breakfast stuff to clean up from? Lemme show you this hilarious article on Slate.com...)

3. He hates to cuddle. Space is space is please shove back over to your side so we can sleep. Yet there he is- cuddling.

2. P.J. drives like a man on fire being chased by zombies. Yet he takes it as seriously as if it were going to be on the test.

1. He's my biggest and most relentless supporter- and I'm only one of a large group lucky enough to say the same.

(Peej- I love you more than coconut milkshakes and Murder She Wrote reruns. Happy birthday!)

Travel Tips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You missed a crumb there, kid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which makes him a key element in future travel plans.

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

The Stunning Conclusion To Our Saga.

Remember back in April and May and June, way back when my house was a swirling pit of stinky despair? (It's a faint recollection, but it's there.) Well, I'm sure after the new pix of the downstairs in June everyone was all like- "I guess they only got two rooms refinished after all!" Nope. We got 'em all done, only it took way longer than we had expected to, you know, play Downstairs Jenga with storage and cleaning and general put-back-togetheritude. 

So now, after sewer pipe implosions and cesspools and dug trenches and jackhammer dust and crying oneself to sleep, I present to you...

The End Of The Demolition And Subsequent Renovations.

(Oh Good God, I Just Jinxed It Again.)

Let's start with the rec room; formerly a kitchen, then P.J.'s BFF's storage unit, then a nice petri dish for water damage/mold, then briefly a storage unit again, then the site of Huge Honkin' TrenchFest '12...

Oh, shucks, you mean you hafta take up ALL
of the Miami hotel circa 1960s tile? Okay.

We had them take out the counters/falling-down cabinetry as
well, because...well...they were janky and the demo team looked bored.

Goodness me, that's a stunning pair of non-lethal ceiling fans! And that
flooring looks positively mold-free! Is this the Ritz Carlton?

Did I mention that P.J. Ikea-hacked his way through the building
of two awesomesauce built-in bookshelf units? At the rate I keep renewing my vows to this shockingly talented man, he'll NEVER be free of me!

Same room, opposite view. And what a view it is!

Yes, I realize we ran out of furniture. I can fix that. For now, marvel
at the recycled composite wood-grain hippie porcelain tiles! (And non-
broken walls. Feast your eyes. Nary a trench.)

And who can forget the joy that is my laundry room? We've got a tool chest. We have two power drills. We briefly had a washing machine that exploded blanket.

I was actually thrilled when they
found a broken pipe in here and had to gut the room. 

That sure is a cleaner floor! And...are those walls painted?

And P.J.'s office- that poor guy. All he wanted was a place to quietly catalog his music, strum a ukulele, and mainline war epics on Netflix...but no. This room was Gut City, too.

All of the large pieces of furniture lived in P.J.'s office until
roughly an hour before the project wrapped up.

Now that's a guest room/office worthy of people visiting/
work being done at a desk! (Also, this is not what it looks
like when P.J. is working. Not at ALL.)

And one final pic from the floor of P.J.'s office...I present to you:

Girl With Mostly Finished Lower Level (Except For A Few More Storage Boxes).

It's gonna be a bestseller.

We Still Got It.

Abandoned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I'd like to meet them someday.

You Don't Tug On Superman's Cape.

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

Let me paint a little picture of heroics for you.

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

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

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

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

I also saw a spider.

A gigantic one.

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

And it was fast. Really, really fast.

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

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

"What, Keely, what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Happy Father's Day.)

Piercings, Birthdays, And More Drinking.

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

I have some news.

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

I have recently removed my tragus piercing.

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

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

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

Decisions have been made on less.

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

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

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

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

"Nah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll toast to that.

In Dog Years It's A Lot Longer.

We look so, so awesome in this picture.

To my darling, patient, better-than-I-sometimes-deserve but always-exactly-what-I-need husband on our fourth anniversary...

Nothing has changed yet everything has changed and I wouldn't change a thing. (Except for maybe one or two teensy things regarding our homestead.) But let's review those crazy ol' vows, shall we?

When I said "for better," I was most likely talking about Sunday mornings with our daughters, the paper, a questionable amount of bacon, and one of your stellar mixes playing on the stereo.

When I said "for worse," I might have been imagining that time when the lower level of our house gave up and disintegrated. (Was there a "for louder" part of our vows, too? Because that may be a three-way tie between the jackhammering of said house, the drilling of samesuch, and my entirely-too-related Ugly Crying on your shoulder.)

When I said "for richer-" well, that part hasn't exactly showered down on us yet, but we do lead a pretty darned fancy lifestyle (due almost completely to your obsessive love of coupons, Groupons, and Craigslist).

When I said "for poorer," I had no idea that I'd someday decide to send our kids to trade school. (Because seriously if an in-family plumber wouldn't have come in handy these past five weeks.)

When I said "in sickness," I'm pretty sure I was preparing for that cold you had this past winter. Good God, did I want to smother you with a pillow. (But I didn't. And I'm glad for it.)

When I said "in health," I couldn't possibly have known that I'd get that same cold one week later. (Thanks for not smothering me.)

There's still no one else with whom I'd rather tend a feverish child at 3am, argue over the necessity of antique store "treasures," and watch old movies while consuming enormous vats of your secret recipe popcorn.

Here's to the next four (times four times four).

And even though we're not in Virgin Gorda this May, getting to wake up next to you (and the girls and the cats) in Chicago each morning still seems like I hit the marriage jackpot.

Which may or may not actually be a thing.

But which I wholeheartedly mean, nonetheless.

(Happy anniversary.)

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!)