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.

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.

The Glass Menagerie UPDATE.

And no, I'm not watermarking this picture. If anyone
really needs to steal an image of a glass cat- have at it.

There has been an update to the rapidly unfolding Glass MenagerieGate of 2012. Namely, the cat has been found.

The cat has been found.

My friend Vicki, whom I had contacted for help, had suggested that the glass animals were in the living room. Now, I had looked in the living room. I had emptied vases, opened the radiator baseboards, and upended the couch. (And it's a sectional, so you know I was serious. You don't just lightly upend a sectional.) But I looked again. And found nothing.

The next night, my sis Em, her boyfriend Dan, and their friend Tanya were here for dinner and I was regaling them with my [slightly embarrassing] tale of love and loss. At the end of it, they simultaneously stood and asked where the flashlights were. And boy did they scour. (I half-wished I had given them a dust rag and instructions to fold whatever was in their way.)

Finally, we ended up in the living room (and they were doing a number on places I didn't even know that I had failed to clean) when I suddenly decided to sit on the couch again. And shove my hand under the middle cushion- a place where not only had I checked and checked and checked again, but also the place where I had spent the past three weeks rapidly finishing my latest play...

...When a tiny glass cat tumbled into my palm.

And here's where it gets super flattering- I cried. More than a little. Yeah, I had a Laura Wingfield moment.

It makes sense that this little guy was found before his brethren, since he had been lost well before the house upheaval. But it gives me hope. Because if we can find an impossibly small orange cat (whom Emily suspects is actually an otter), then who's to say we can't find a veritable army of teensy (and quite possibly dusty) animals?

The moral of the story may be that I need to vacuum my couch more.

But I'm willing to hear other explanations.

The Glass Menagerie.

All the miniatures and their brethren at the shop.
I do not own ALL of these little guys. YET.

There are some very important stories going on in the world right now. Stories about things that make an impact. This is not one of those stories.

This, however, is the story of how I lost a very important collection. And how the collection began. And how the loss of the collection raised stress levels in an already borderline crazy person. Namely, me.

Each December, the Christkindlmarket in Chicago features many awesome things (mulled wine in boots) and fun holiday events (MULLED WINE IN BOOTS). One of these booths sells miniature glass animals. Teensy tiny ones. Back when I was wandering the booths by my lonesome, solo self (a concept that simply boggles the reaches of my imagination, currently), I found an incredibly small orange porcupine. He needed me. And I'm pretty sure it wasn't just the empty boot in my other hand telling me to bring him home. So I did. And each following year I'd grab a boot and an animal; a reddish tiger. A yellow donkey with ambitious ears. They'd take their places of honor on my bedside table- because, at heart, I am a seven year-old girl.

Then I had daughters. And each year they'd get miniature glass animals; a giraffe, a blue bear, a kitty with puffy cheeks, and a hedgehog which Nora insisted on deeming a lion. My collection remained on my bedside table, Nora's resided on her dresser, and Suzy's lone cat lived on a small shadowbox shelf.

But then one day, during some roughhousing, Susannah's shelf was nudged and the cat was flung off. And even though we started looking immediately, we never found it. I don't think anyone will be surprised to learn that I cried.

Shortly thereafter, Nora began begging me to let her play with the entire menagerie. (She's in love with her collections, too.) And since she's easily the most careful smallish person I've met, I let her. I'd watch her set them up for tea parties so small you couldn't see the food. They would line up for picayune field trips and get tucked into a single sock for naptime. And I began letting her play with them with less and less of my attention. At the end of each day, we'd always place them back where they lived, and that would be that.

But then, last Spring, our lower level exploded in a mess of sewage and tears. And while she continued to play with the menagerie up in her room (always in her room, they never traveled), I had bigger fish to fry than the placement of a single blue bear. And that's the last time I remembered thinking about them all together, right before the lower level was gutted.

I remembered last month.

I tore Nora's room apart. Susannah's room apart. My room. P.J.'s dresser. (Like he's secretly smuggling glass animals across the Illinois border.) I shoved my hands into radiators and screamed at fistfuls of spiders. I emptied toddler shoes. Cabinets and drawers. Felt around in dressers and jewelry boxes and bags of "treasures." I'd say that my first stop was the vacuum, but as I only use the Roomba sporadically at best, it'd be a silly venture. Nora had no idea where they were (to be fair, I was asking her close to five months later). 

I prayed to Saint Anthony.

I emailed my friend Vicki, an honest to gosh intuitive medium (jealous that I've got one of those on the ol' speed dial?), but at time of printing (publishing?) she'd yet to get back to me. (Because, like, all these ghosts hanging around here all the time? They need to start earning their keep. They can pay me in Lost n' Found help.)

And I refuse to give up. Sure, I have three written thingers due by Friday a.m. And two more birthdays to plan in the ol' Schoeny October Of Sugar. And yeah, maybe I should vacuum more. But all I can think about is that little porcupine. And how deserving porcupines never give up. (Read that one in a book.)

I will not rest until I've brought them all home.

Onto perhaps a slightly higher shelf.

Keely And The Terrible, Horrible...Oh, I Give Up.

A very old pic, but an all-too-recent sentiment.

Put quite simply, Tuesday was a rough day.

It started out well enough. Nora was dropped off at preschool, happily tossed Doc Bullfrog into the backseat of the car, and bounded into her classroom with nary a fuss. 'Cause she loves it there. Which is great, because I had worried [slightly]. I drove home to get Susannah ready for a nap, glowing with the self-satisfaction that comes from knowing you've made the right decisions for your kids and that you might actually be a good parent.

It was short-lived.

When I arrived to pick her up, I was faced with a weeping mess. Seriously, the kid was standing there, looking for all the world like a professional Sicilian mourner. Turns out, I had forgotten to remind her that Doc (whom she had left in the car by herself) wasn't going to remain in her backpack that day. And apparently we need to discuss it at length and all have vocal acknowledgements of where the frog is. Because when she went to check on him- and he wasn't there- she thought someone had stolen him. And since she didn't have the exact words to tell her teacher ALL OF THESE FEELINGS, she imploded. Now, if you're a parent, you have the ability to ignore a good 99 percent of your kid's tears, knowing them for what they are, and how easily they'll be over. But that last one percent? Those are the tears that BREAK you as a parent, because you recognize your own kid's tears of terror/devastation/parental failure.

We got home in time to receive a message that my book- the one on which I had spent the entirety of the past year- had just been shot dead in the water. The folks for whom I had done drafts and rewrites since Susannah's third week on this planet had backed out. I had written while nursing a newborn.Written while in the passenger seat of long car trips. Written instead of doing dishes, making hot dinners, or sleeping in any normal fashion. They wished me a ton o' luck, but they backed out. Wasn't going in the direction they had thought, they told me. Hilarious, they said. Laugh out loud funny, but nothing they were gonna go ahead with.

Which is their right. Obviously. And rejection is a natural part of yadda yadda. So I dealt with it in the obvious way: I fixed Nora a pb&j, strapped Zuzu into her high chair with some Cheerios, locked myself in the bathroom, sat down on the floor, and cried for about three minutes.

Then I filled some sippy cups, got two kids ready for naptime, told the laundry to go eff itself, pulled my blanket over my head, and prepared to wallow away naptime. (This lasted twenty minutes, until Susannah decided that the whole "resting" thing was done for the day.)

I decided to reclaim some productivity for Tuesday and, when Nora woke up, I dragged the kids out for a bunch of errands. At Target, I placed Susannah in the cart and Nora happily pushed her [reeeeally fast]. This went well until, at the pharmacy, I noticed that the safety buckle was broken and had slid apart, allowing our little monkey to climb around like no one's business. As I finished paying for a prescription, I swapped Susannah into another nearby cart, one with a nice working buckle. Nora reminded me that we needed cupcake stuff for Zu's upcoming birthday. So we took off.

It wasn't until we were pulling out of the parking lot that I realized I had no idea where my prescription was. Then, with a cold shock, I remembered tossing it in the bottom of the cart before I had moved Zuzu. The broken cart.

So we went back. I unbuckled both kids and hefted them into the store, Nora wailing all the while about someone having stolen our 'scripty. I attempted to tell her that Mommy had lost the prescription- it hadn't been stolen- but she wouldn't hear a word of it. After a few I gave up and let her go at it. (I was feeling melodramatic, too.)

The pharmacy people hadn't seen it. The customer service folks encouraged me to check with the pharmacy. A gal putting away carts warned me that it was gone- long gone. (Because "people do some weird stuff with other people's meds" and "good luck findin' that.) After a few more minutes spent looking into other people's carts like a creeper, I carried the kids back out to the parking lot and put them in the car.

Then, standing beside my car in a half-empty Target parking lot, I cried again. Big, embarrassing, snarfy Failure Tears. I didn't know where my prescription was. I had just wasted an hour of my life attempting productivity. And NO ONE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE WOULD EVER READ MY BOOK.

Susannah looked concerned. Nora started ranting again about thievery.

So I drove to a park and placed my confused children into a pair of swings. "We're having fun, AREN'T WE," I demanded to know. They agreed. This was just about the most fun they'd ever had with a weeping lunatic.

Two minutes later, Target pharmacy called and told me that someone had dropped off my pills at the counter: Did I want to come back? And even though I was only a few minutes down the road, I told them I'd be in a little later. Because I know myself well enough (and have read enough Greek tragedies) to understand when you've really gotta just stay down. No more driving about for the day. No more encountering anything or anyone who might have an opinion.

And while that wasn't the end of that day's laundry list of epic fails, this is the end of the space and/or time in which I've allowed myself to whine/wallow.

My final failure came around 10pm, right about when I decided to make myself a humongous drink of something alcoholic.

I ended up falling asleep instead.

But I forgave myself for that one.

Nora Went To School And Keely Had A Thing.

Here's what's amazing about this pic: Nora, upon
exiting the school, hugged me so hard that my sunglasses
flew off and I nearly dropped the camera.

Everyone: Is she still talking about her kid going off to school?

Me: ...Yeah. (Sorry.)

Here's the thing. It continues to be a Big All-We-Can-Talk-About Deal around these parts for a few reasons, among them the fact that it is a life-changing event for at least one family member...and it causes copious moments whereupon another family member can walk in and out of houses without carrying multiple people and their belongings. (Leading her to wonder if perhaps she's forgotten pants, or an arm, or if it's actually a major holiday.)

I have friends on both sides of the camp. (Making them...boys and girls, I suppose. Don't boys and girls still have separate sides of camp? Digress.) There are folks for whom preschool, kindergarten, etc., is no big deal. It's a necessary rite of passage, something to prove that you're doing your job as a parent by readying someone for societal function, and you'll see them in a few hours, anyhow. (Which is all true.) On the other hand, others (without kids in daycare and/or with routine grandparent weekends) get super weepy and sad, wondering how- for the very first time since their existence- someone else is the one in charge of this impossibly wonderful and frail little being. (Also true.)

For me, it was this notion that I wouldn't be her eyes and ears (and gently reminded: No, we do not put our nostrils there) for the first time ever. And it made me miss her. And yeah, we chose a terrific school with a Young 3s program and an awesome teacher (and built-in friends by way of happenstance enrollment)...but Nora had been with me almost every single day since birth. She worked with me as a miniature nanny (mani), and evolved into this independent, creative little kid whom I genuinely enjoy spending my days with.

She also happens to be, on occasion, cripplingly shy and cautious.

So then I had this fear that I was sending her off to school for me, to be all Look At How I've Solved My Kid's Issue By Completely Disregarding It. And maybe not quite three IS too young for school. And perhaps if I hadn't even heard of this program and pursued it that same night (having an interview and securing a slot the very next morning), we wouldn't even having this conversation.

Then I started to realize that it was ME who wasn't ready. That it was ME with this idea that, once preschool started, you could never undo going off to school. There would never again be a time where she could just stay home in the mornings and be my baby. She would never again just be my baby.

But then, like all decent parents, I concluded that doing (or preventing) anything because of my needs as opposed to my kid's was a pretty junky way to parent.

So we laid out a ladybug halter top outfit and put Doc Bullfrog in the penguin backpack. Took the required photos on the front porch with each family member, just in case we needed to remember what she looked like between then and 11:30am. Dropped a confused but cheerful Zuzu off with our neighbor (that's right- we have no problem shipping off the younger one, because that's only temporary). And then Peej and I drove her to school. (Oh yes, the guy for whom taking a personal day is a major issue with which to be grappled over the better part of a week- there was no way in hell he was missing dropping off his baby to her first day. Also, the previous night he had Read Articles on preschools and little kids and all sorts of emotional stuff. And so he feeling his own feelings, too.)

And suddenly we were there at her school. She sat in a boat with a book (as you do), and vaguely told us to stay. We reminded her that we had to go get her sister, but we'd be right back. And she was okay with it. Kinda. She made her face of Brave Concern, but went back to her book. Because here's the order of importance in Nora's world: Shyness trumps New Situation. But Rules [try really hard to] trump Shyness. And Books trump both. And so we said goodbye and left. (And then left again, after I went back to nudge P.J. out of the classroom with me.)

There are big, humongous, ugly problems in the world. People have some serious things going on. But, honestly, all of those things seem really far away when you see your little kid peek out at you with her Is This Okay? face. And you want to reassure her that, yes- of course it's okay. But it isn't. Of course it isn't. Because in that moment you want to be with her and she really wants to be with you, but this is one of those Life Lessons where everyone involved has to learn that sometimes things just don't feel nice. As fun and wonderful as school is (and is going to be), the New and Different parts of it don't always feel so nice. And there is literally nothing in the world you can do about it for your kid, short of preventing them from ever experiencing interactions that will cause sadness or pain. Which will a) prove rather impossible, and b) create a socially inept member of society. Like Jack the Ripper, I imagine. No one wants to raise Jack the Ripper.

But I wasn't thinking about all of that as I left Nora's classroom. I was just missing her. And knowing that she was missing me.

A few hours later she was back in our car, regaling us with tales of circle time and holding hands with her friend and everyone using the potty together(?), and I was so proud of my Bitsy kid. Aside from a few stories from her teacher of Nora being occasionally standoffish and having at least one moment of staring out the window with a tear in her eye (owwwwwww), there were glowing reports of excellent listening, fun times, and utter glee on the playground.

Which means it worked. We've actually partially raised a kid who can coexist with others away from the oppressive concern of her parents. Which I'm pretty sure is what this whole "having a child" thing is about.

That, and the tax deduction.

Keely Brings The Mood Down A Notch.

Summer. And maybe a touch of roughhousing. 

Last summer, when I was humongously pregnant with [the-yet-to-be-determined] Susannah, Nora and I had a terrific time. Really. We had picnics every place that featured tables (and some that didn't). There were nature hikes, tamale stand stalkings, and midday naps in my bed (because we couldn't fit into hers).

I was so [beyond] thrilled to be having another baby, of course, but I couldn't shake this sense of sorrow, like- "Well, this is it for Nora n' me," or "No more naps in my future." Which is ridiculous, because Nora and I are ohmystarsthisclose every single day, and sometimes I can swear she's actually hanging from the tag of my shirt. (Especially if I have to return a phone call.)

And I will always- always- make time for naps. (I mean, there's crazy and then there's crazy.)

But then Zuzu was born and things continued to be good. So good. And we've had a pretty banner summer this year, what with all the beachiness, culture we've been foisting into our kids' faces, and even bigger blankets on which to nap. You'd think I'd lose some of my End Of The Season nutsy, right?

Nope. Because, even though I love the Fall and all it stands for (pumpkin patches, more hoodies, and new folders for my Jonathan Brandis Trapper Keeper), I can't help but feel sad that this summer is coming to a close.

Because Susannah isn't going to be a baby next summer. And Nora will be A Kid Who Has Been To School. (We probably won't even have any fun at all.)

It's almost like I believe that each season's close is its ending for good. Like- No More Summer. (Wasn't Summer Nice That One Time?) I try (really, really hard) to remember that, with very few exceptions, each season I've experienced in my adult life just keeps getting nicer than the one that preceded it.

Then I get annoyed at myself for slathering such a saccharine statement all over my psyche. (Then I get mad at my self-bullying. Then I have a sandwich, because by then I'm tired- and I get hungry when I'm sleepy.)

My point is that I'm trying oh-so hard to not hold onto each moment between clenched fists- because's that's no way to live. (And also because I'm holding a sandwich.) And that's not to say that my life is perfect; far from it. I wish we had more money. I wish I wasn't so godawful tired every day. And I wish I didn't have to scramble so hard to keep our home together.

But the girls and Peej? That's the stuff I want more time for. More of this. More of the same with them. Because there's so much atrocious, junky stuff in the world, and I'm [hyper]aware that it could all be gone in an instant. And (God forbid) if it were, I'd think back and want today again. Or last week. Maybe two months ago on a Wednesday. Nora's flyaway blonde curls, covered in sand and peanut butter. Suzy's ecstatic realization that I came to get her out of her crib. (Again!) A backyard beer with P.J., and a peaceful moment to reflect upon our neighbors' colorful rants. I want these moments and I never want to live in a time without them. But each passing season comes with the realization that the past is just that. And if I'm super-beyond-lucky, I'll get more chances. And more days, weeks, summers.

I hope I'm lucky.

I also hope that my kids continue to nap.

And I wouldn't turn down a few more sandwiches, either.

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!

Duct Tape House, Part- Oh, I Give Up.

I'd leave, if my shoes weren't filled with Little People.

Remember how, way back on Monday, I realized that I had taunted fate by posting about the hilarity of the previous Thursday's bodily fluid debacle? Well, I got my comeuppance once again by continuing to post about said fluids- this time in the form of a sewer explosion.

And I'm going to do it again, simply by referencing last Monday's travails. I'm totally like a kid who keeps pushing an irate parent into more and more groundings.

"Wanna make it two weeks?"

"Great."

"Fine, three weeks."

"Terrific."

The plumbers came early yesterday morning to check their work- which, up to this point, had consisted of fixing numerous pipes, filling in a cesspool, and pouring concrete all over the lower level of our house. Basically, today they were going to run a smoke test and make sure that no smoke escaped into our home- meaning, of course, that our pipes possessed zero holes from which smoke could travel.

When they arrived, we greeted them with some unfortunate news. From the time they left the night before until that a.m., we had run the dishwasher and done a few loads of laundry, and a horrific smell not unlike rotten eggs being shoved into your nostrils was filling the entirety of the house. That's right, whereupon before any of this work had been done the smell had been confined to the lower level, now it was permeating the entire abode.

The plumbers were pretty sure what the smoke test was gonna show them. And they were right! Since the four major gaps in the pipes had been fixed, that freed up the rest of the pinprick holes in the pipes to step it up and truly shine. (In the form of breaking open completely.)

I asked one of the plumbers if it was the worst he'd ever seen.

"No way," he said. "Top three, though. Definitely. God, this is bad."

And the insurance check which we had oh-so-recently been [tentatively] approved for? That whole "complete renovation of a bathroom" and "majority of the plumbing work" check? Yeah, that's getting scrapped for now, as we all recalculate how much it'll cost to take the bathroom down to the studs, re-line the entirety of the sewer pipeline, and gut the majority of the lower level's flooring and walls.

Nora saw me cry. The plumber saw me cry. Heck, the guy driving the Speedy Express van and dropping off a package from Amazon.com saw me cry.

Did I mention that we have guests coming this afternoon and staying until Monday?

Before the plumbers left yesterday, they headed into our main floor bathroom for a quick de-clogging of the sink- something which was "a cinch" to do (and something which I'm pretty sure they're no longer charging us for at this point). And there was a clog, all right, but the majority of the problem likely stemmed from the fact that the pipe leading from the sink HAD NEVER BEEN GLUED INTO THE DAMN WALL. Just hanging out. A free agent, if you will. So they glued a new one into place, since- hadn't you guessed?- the previously unglued one had also completely rotted out.

The plumbers joked that they'd have to rip out the wall and see about all of these pipes. Ha HA. Plumbers are hilarious.

And last night was spent cleaning literally inches of concrete dust off of things on every floor. Thick, sticky debris required multiple dustings and even more go-rounds with the mop. And it's still filthy. And really, really smelly.

P.J. saw me cry. The cats saw me cry. My woefully low bottle of Peppermint Schnapps saw me cry.

A completely hypothetical question to all homeowners: Was there a point in your homeownership where you realized that you would never recoup your money spent? Was it within the first three years?

Just asking.

Indoor Air Is Highly Overrated.

"This house is made of Scotch tape and failed dreams."
"I know."

This coming July, we'll have lived in this house for three years. Three years. During that time, we've ripped off a roof, dragged in appliances, patched and painted and edged and secured, replaced windows (and replaced windows and replaced windows), had the electrical system rewired, wiped out mold (and redid drywall and painted and edged and secured), made it clear that rats are NOT WELCOME, and finished a host of other things that I've most likely blocked out due to post traumatic stress.

We also had a kid. And then another kid.

For the past few months, Peej and I have been deciding how to next fix this house with the [frighteningly small] amount of money we've socked away into our Good Lord, This House fund. Excitingly enough, we realized that we could maybe afford the down payments on something cosmetic or purely awesome. Like air conditioning for the whole house.

This impending luxury may have been etched into P.J.'s mind since the previous summer when, hugely pregnant with Susannah, he (repeatedly) found me hunched over our window unit and weeping fat, hot, Ugly Tears.

We had multiple contractors come out and quote the job, but we went with the company that promised exactly the results that we wanted, NO PROBLEM. I had no time for the menfolk who suggested that perhaps our Wikki Stix abode wouldn't be able to support the type of system we wanted. Wall-mounted units? Do we look like a Motel 6? (Don't answer that.)

So they came on Thursday with a crew of four and proceeded to open up the completely access-free crawlspace above the third floor bedrooms. ("To take a look-see!") Turns out, there was no room for the necessary vents to supply air down to Zuzu's room and that whole floor. There was barely room for the haphazard piping and shenanigans going on up there in the first place. So, the upstairs bedrooms could get a/c, but no dice for poor Baby Girl. Which, annoyingly enough, had been the entire impetus for this project (my Ugly Tears notwithstanding)- actual air in the infant's bedroom. As it stands, Susannah's window opens out into the shared walkway between our home and the neighbor's 5-flat, which serves as a conduit for cheap cigarillo smoke and a melange of vomit and stale urine. (All three are produced by the same neighbor, isn't that magical?) Thusly, GIRL NEEDS AIR. (Also, aren't you dying to come stay at our house, now?)

It took until 10pm that night for the crew to secure some semblance of forced air through our new furnace- did I mention that we had to buy a new furnace?- at which point the foreman announced that he kinda hated our house. "I mean, you guys are cool, but...if I never see this house again, it'll be too soon." Mazel tov! Can I offer you some more warm bottled water?

And I'm currently awaiting quotes/grand apologetic gestures of price-slashing to finish the job. P.J. and I had the [genius] idea to cut a fireman's pole area into the master bedroom, thus getting the air into the baby's room, AND facilitating easier early morning Suzy-gettin'.

But apparently that's not a real thing.

Whatever, I've never let that stop me in the past. After all, we've lived in this make-believe house for three years, haven't we?

I Hate To Leave You But I Really Must Say...

For the first time in almost ten years, I am not a nanny.

For the first time in over eight years, I'm not Julia and Lily's nanny.

And it's odd. Because it was more than a job- it was a welcomed lifestyle shift and endless sparks of creativity for writing and a flower [bubble] girl and a duo of best friends for my daughter and a family.

It all started with an infant named Julia and an endless flight delay during an East Coast summer storm. And a set of young parents all-too-willing to let an eager (and out of work) nanny hold their strawberry blonde baby gal. And a job interview the next afternoon, once they all realized they lived mere 'hoods from each other. And a hiring before the 23 year-old left their lovely home. Both sets of grandparents (and aunts and uncles and cousins) made the nanny feel like just another [valued] member of the family.

Before long, the little gal became an integral part of the nanny's weekly routine- and all of her best stories. Heck, even her friends' best stories. (There are very few friends from that time period without their own tales of Snow Cones or Smelling Candles At Pier 1.)

The little girl eventually started pre-school, but the parents were sweet enough to have another child to keep the nanny fully employed. (I'm sure there were other reasons as well, but it was still an awfully nice thing to do.) So along came Baby Lily, and things became twice as nice with The Big Girl and The Little Girl.

And when the nanny became engaged, the whole family celebrated with dinners out and copious wedding planning with The Big Girl whom, obviously, was a member of the wedding. The Little Girl celebrated in her own way.

And just to make things fun, the nanny decided to have her own little girl to add to the mix. The fam put out a portable crib in a guest room and stocked the house with baby necessities- because The Nanny not being their nanny was never a valid option. So then there was The Biggie, The Middle, and The Little Little. And shockingly, things were still seamlessly great. There were collages and day trips and story-writin' and incredible amounts of snacks (most of them corn dogs and/or Pink Frosters.)

But now there's a Big Move to London. And The Nanny and her kid[s] can't go. The Middle and The Little Little don't fully understand that there won't be afternoon-long Every Toy In The Room Fests punctuated by hiccup-inducing belly laughs. The Biggie and The Nanny, however, are all too aware that their projects will now have to be done long distance. But there's Skype. And phone calls and texts and picture messages and letters and carrier pigeons and good ol' fashioned visiting. And it'll be okay, because family is family even across oceans.

And I miss them already.

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

"It costs more because it SAVES more."

Sometimes things just don't turn out at all how you expected.

Example A: Instead of enjoying a cup of coffee whilst typing, the ottoman tray upon which my Mama Bear mug had previously rested decided to upend said coffee onto tray, couch, self- but most importantly, not computer. The empty mug is now being cradled by a vanilla powder-scented baby doll. This is a first. And sure, while annoying, it doesn't really represent the bigger picture as well as-

Example B: The other morning, while crawling around on my hands and knees in Nora's bedroom, I smelled something awful. Sure, this in and of itself is not unusual in the home of a smallish child- but I was fairly certain it was something rather dangerous. I called in the troops. Or, uh, troop. I asked P.J. if he smelled anything like gas or a chemical, to which he replied that he was certain it was just Nora's diaper pail, proving that even my husband believes that we live in squalor.

I called People's Gas and they showed up ten minutes later. Wow, I thought. What a helpful and prompt organization run by the city! They'll get this fixed in NO TIME!

Except.

His sensor thingie went wild in Nora's room, due to gas leaking in through the drafty baseboard that led to the crawlspace (you know, the one we just spent bank trying to insulate?) He then outdid himself by finding four more gas leaks (at LEAST, said he) down by the boiler and water heater. Nervous but optimistic, I asked what would be best to do.

He shrugged. Gotta turn it off. Law.

What?! You can't turn off my hot water, cooking gas and general warmth in DECEMBER in CHICAGO! I politely informed him that I had a young child, two cats, pipes that I'd prefer not to have freeze prior to New Year's, and a general desire to shower.

He told me to call my "guy-" but warned me it would be pretty extensive work. And that's where it got ugly. I was informed that at LEAST one wall would hafta be ripped out upstairs (to even find where the leak MIGHT be), and I'd need to solder off THAT piece and put a T pipe in HERE and have "your guy..." And I felt my optimism falter. Maybe quiver a bit. And, as most of you know, my strength is not hearing technical descriptions and committing them to memory. It just isn't. So I asked him to write it down.

"Too much to write," he helpfully dismissed. So I then asked (and I HATE myself for this part) if I could call my husband to hear all of these instructions for our plumber. The kindly gentleman from People's Gas then told me that I have EYES, I'm the one HERE, just LOOK at this and remember that it needs to be soldered here and a T pipe put here...

And I really, really hate myself for this next part- but I got so overwhelmed that I cried. A lot. The kind of sobbing that you pretend you're NOT doing, the kind that you choke back to reply to A SUPER TECHNICAL QUESTION, but it only comes out in high-pitched squeaks. The type where the city worker looks at you with utter confusion/disdain, the kind where the toddler in your arms wonders what weirdo game we're playing now, and the variety that makes you see the dollar signs floating away into the ether like some deranged cartoon and also at the pajamas which you may well be wearing for the next week. That kind.

So he shut off the gas and left. ("Sorry. Law.") And I called P.J. and for a good few moments he didn't know who was on the other end, perhaps some tragically hyperventilating chipmunk. But, as he so often does, he took care of it. Namely by leaving work early. And getting our "guy." And crawling into the insulation to dig out pipes with our plumber. And moving stuff into storage, outta storage, into storage again. And talking me down from my useless cliff of hand-fluttering.

But it all ended decently well, even though we're sure the city of Chicago now believes us to be dangerous horders, what with our upended storage spaces and all. Our "guy" fixed both the downstairs and upstairs leaks WITHOUT tearing into any walls. (I imagine he also soldered something and used at least one T pipe.) I made an edible emergency crockpot Beef Stroganoff with none of the traditional ingredients therein. The gas company arrived at 7pm to turn the gas back on (after a manly competition with the plumber of Whose Monkey Wrench Is Bigger.) And, most impressively, the house which we constantly disparage did not get below 62 degrees, despite an entire frigid day with no internal heat. Let's hear it for brick construction!

But, as I think you'll agree, that anecdote is a terrible way to end the bloggy year.

So how about if I wish a WONDERFUL birthday to my lovely pals Natalie and Cassie, and tomorrow to my darling sis in law (and pal) Natalie! (Also, did you know how long it took me to realize why so many ladies born in December have the name 'Natalie?' Including my mother in law. I work with words, folks.)

And may the new year bring more blanket tents for fun and less for warmth.

More stellar programming and less cancelled shows.

More sushi and less Ramen.

More hugs and less missed Skype calls.

More happy tears and less Ugly Cry.

And absolutely no rats.