Keely Works Out So You Don't Have To.

My sister Rachel gave me her Insanity workout DVDs a little while back *coughtwoyearsagocough* and I thought I'd give them a go. With commentary, of course. (If you can't blog about it, it hasn't really happened.) Some of you may remember when I was berated by my Wii Fit, and- for longtime followers- when I live-blogged Core Rhythms and came away from both with serious life questions. But yes, this is the third workout (and the first Max Interval training one) that I've documented. You guys, I'm practically an athlete.

SO. Right off the bat, the Cardio Power and Resistance disc (the one of the set that I've randomly chosen) is frightening the junk out of me. And we're only at the scrolling disclaimer. (The list of potential hazards is intimidating.) I do like that they've given me the option to play the DVD with or without music. (I'm a fan of muting DVDs and rocking out to GirlTalk whenever possible. It's not exactly family car-friendly fare, so I take what I can get.)

I'm offered the option to join the online community to compare workout results, etc. Uh, you mean hang out with people who exercise regularly? No thank you. Let's start the clock.

39:00- Jog it out. I like this. I can jog. Trainer Shaun T is getting all of his devotees to warm up behind him- and what a put-together bunch. I continue to be intimidated.

38:40- He's explaining something called power jacks. It's a combo jumping jack and deep knee bend. I hate this.

38:04- Onto the sideways log jump. It's been less than a minute. I am dying.

37:20- 1,2,3 jumps going from side to side. Ooh, choreography! Now we're "exercising." Part of me vaguely misses high school musical theatre.

37:10- Butt kicks while running in place. This seems to me like the whole "why are you punching yourself" thing. The high school nostalgia ends.

36:39- High knees. I do not care for this. This hurts. This is dumb. I'm gonna break a G-D knee.

36:27- The girl they did a closeup on has some sort of glittery writing on her waistband. Just noting that.

36:07- High jumps. No joke, my hand just hit the ceiling fan and I almost lost a finger.

35:48- The cameraman just ran across the floor with his camera and almost knocked a guy over.

35:35- The gal Shaun T is using as an example just began really jogging really professionally. Like, three seconds ago.

35:13- Power jacks. I regret my life choices. I'm sorry, did he just point to Glitter Belt Girl and say we're still just warming up?

34:37- Log jumps. Land softly? Like onto a pillow with a blankie? I'd love to land softly.

34:12- 1,2,3s again. Full disclosure: I just kicked over too hard, slid on the kids' playmat, and knocked into the pretend kitchen. It just warned me that stoves can get chaud. Turns out, our play kitchen knows French.

33:43- Butt kicks. Faster, he says. Dude being showcased does not care to be featured right now.

33:13- High knees. "Look what I'm not doing," Shaun T demonstrates with bad posture. Oh jeez, that's what I was doing.

32:45- Everyone has a wrist sweatband. But only one. Why? Is there a dominate sweaty wrist? I have no sweatbands. I do, however, have a very real possibility of drowning in my own sweat by this point. WHY WASN'T THE NECESSITY FOR SWEATBANDS IN THE DISCLAIMER!?

32:38- Oh, good. High jumps again. I'll just watch this round.

32:04- Seriously, the girl he chooses to show how to jog it out wants this. I am not Jog It Out girl.

31:42- Power jacks now. Faster, he says- but the screen is warning me to go at my own pace. I feel conflicted. Also really, really sweaty and maybe a little whiny.

31:15- Oh, wow. Log jumps again and one girl just started yelling from the back. Maybe it was me. I no longer have peripheral hearing.

30:50- 1,2,3. Yes yes. It's all about speed. Don't compromise your form. Shaun T shows which gal has perfect form- however, the girl behind Perfect Form Girl wishes she weren't on camera.

30:12- Butt kicks. "I know you're breathing," Shaun assures us. Hmm, let's not make crazy assumptions.

29:56- Shaun points at Glitter Waistband's butt to show what an engaged butt (or something) looks like. I've stopped paying attention, because now I'm uncomfortable.

29:47- High knees and, you know, Push It. My esophagus would be vomiting right now if it could feel. Dude in the back is totally with me on this one.

29:18- Vertical jumps. What is up with the one wristband, y'all?

***Water break. I just set my phone next to me and dialed "9" and "1." Hopefully I can manage the last digit when the time comes.***

28:50- A GIRL JUST WALKED TO THE EDGE OF THE COURT AND SPIT ON THE GYM FLOOR. Listen, I know we're all in dire straits here, but some poor janitor is gonna be like- Come on. Gross. Another girl angrily drank her water. Like, fiercely. I wish I were fierce. I'm pitifully drinking my water, choking it back like it's my first liquid since throat surgery.

28:35- Onto stretching. Flat back stuff. Hold, stretch, yes, this all looks great. Unfortunately, I'm viewing all of this from a prone position on the floor. Yoga triangle- I can do that! I get up to do it and twang my calf muscle so hard I may never walk again. I lie back down.

26:17- Oh, now we're balancing and shooting one leg up into the air behind us. (Factoid! As a weirdo 8 year-old, I used to do Jane Fonda's workout all the time. My favorite part of the video was when Jane warned us not to breathe in the carpet fibers.)

25:42- These people are lunging like they're not even off balance.

25:28- Stretchin' out the other side. I am cautious. I manage. I can still feel my face pulsing.

23:35- Doing a weird crotch stretch now, and all the girls are surreptitiously checking if their short shorts are covering their bizness. Not me, because, as everyone and their Wii Fit knows, I work out in a parka.

22:42- Quad stretch and balance! This was my best skill on the cross-country running team. That, and showing up for pasta suppers.

22:01- We're on all fours, now, contracting and relaxing our backs. My cats waltz in to inform me that I have terrible form.

21:49- We're given a 30 second break for water/rest/stopping our nose bleeds. And that's my cue to leave this party. That's right- there's over twenty minutes left on this workout, but I'm pulling an Irish Exit. It's okay, because feel like I have an insane body already.

It's totally twitching in the corner and talking to itself.

Weekends Are For Eating.

Corn dogs forever.

Okay.

So, this snow is seriously an unexpected turn of events. Especially to my ranunculus- which, yes, I realize makes me sound a thousand creaky years old- but they [were] lovely be-petaled window box beauties...and are now flowersicles.

If there is one victory, it is that the sneaky bunnies and the mammoth squirrel we've named The Don will no longer be able to pilfer my lettuce. (Ha HAH.)

Before I spiral into a depressing morning of Snuggie-wearing and tropical screen saver-watching, I'm going to reminisce on my truly wundy weekend.

Friday, we had a date night. Sure, it was raining in big ol' torrential buckets, but I wore my splash boots with a cute/borderline maternity outfit and looked JUST FINE. (Thanks to all of the pals who okayed this fashion mash-up.) We went to Raw Bar, a place for which we had been holding onto a Travelzoo coupon for a really long time. How long? Let's just say that when we purchased it, the idea of monstrous amounts of oysters and two complimentary martinis sounded like an awesome idea. (Heck, it still did.) So, P.J. got his pomegranate martini and I was offered a pretty tasty muddled strawberry daiquiri. It seemed to be missing something in the rum-esque department, but I was still pleased.

P.J., solidifying his Guy Of The Millennium status, insisted that I order the Maine lobster. This is totally true. I think it was in part because a) he knew that I would be saddened by the no oyster/raw anything deal, and b) he was afraid we wouldn't get to the minimum of the coupon. (Also c- 'cause he likes me and, thus far, I have successfully carried 1.5 of his children.) We also ordered the smothered alligator (poor 'gator) and ostrich steak appetizers. We were feeling adventurous. Or, at the very least, Meats Across The World-y. Upon ordering the lobster (steamed, thankyouverymuch), we were informed that it was "a lot of work" and the Jamaican style would be easier to eat. P.J. and I just laughed and laughed. (If this whole nanny/writer/mother thing doesn't work out, I'd be an exceptional crab-picker down by the docks. I really would.)

They even let me say goodbye to my lobster from the tank. I could've done without that part, as my guilt over whether or not he would've lived had I not dined there that night really took over. P.J. reassured me that my lobster was a bastard and had been mouthing off.

After a stellar dinner, we went to our friend Neil's big 3-0 birthday party. The shindig was complete with a keg and an ice luge for some unidentified yellowish drink. Because nothing says "rapidly approaching the thirties" like tubing drilled through ice blocks and germy mouth upon germy mouth sucking lighter fluid in a puddle of melted God-knows-what on the floor- (Oh my stars, I'm gonna vomit even in the retelling.)

I had a ginger beer.

But we saw a goodly bunch of our favorite friends and we even got to make tinfoil Rapture hats. (I love party favors.) Inexplicably, I was a Viking.

The next morning (hangover-free, ahh), we went to Ikea for Nora's first trip to the Emporium of Fabulous. We had intended to get a rug for the baby's room. We left with: a rug, two sets of curtains, a blankie, a toy bag, a hanging frog bag, some hangers, a gender neutral crib bumper, gigantic poster frames, three bellies full of swedish meatballs, and a blue soccer ball for Nora. Whilst there, I also managed to get a really full shopping cart completely stuck on the escalator track (stopping all movement until a kindly employee fixed the wheel and assured me that "it happens all the time." Sure it does). There was also some crazy rudeness going on with other customers, but I won't get into that. Besides, big savings and Swedish design just brings out the Berserker in some people.

That night was Sleepover Night 2011. I had invited my gal Julia (for whom I've nannied since 2003) for an overnight. Since most of her days are consumed with school, various activities, and constant competition for attention from her little sister and my kiddo, I thought it would be nice to have some one-on-one time together before her fam moves to London this summer.

Leaving Nora with Peej (seriously, that guy is incredible), I picked up J for an early supper at Stanley's, a Southern-style kitchen where we used to go all the time when she was a toddler. We ordered pink lemonades at the same time. Also mac n' cheese fritters. She got a burger and I got a shrimp po'boy- and we did some damage. (And can I just say how pleasant it was to dine with an intelligent 8 year-old...and not have to put a bib on anyone/keep food on a tray/lug a diaper bag? There's something to be said about having an actual kid.)

We went home to have a dance party with P.J. and Nora, watch Ponyo (the cutest Japanese movie ever), play some Mario Kart (we are evenly matched), eat ice cream sprinkled with homemade granola that Julia had brought, read some books, and have a Girls Only upstairs sleepover. (P.J. was- happily, I'm sure- relegated to his office/guest room and stacks n' stacks of DVDs.)

The next a.m. we convinced Peej to make us blueberry pancakes while we read the comics. J and I wrote a short story. Nora failed to nap, so we had an art party extravaganza (even though Nora was only allowed to use the crayons/shortie colored pencils. She's not the most trustworthy thing on two wheels). Julia and I  played Scrabble. Then, to cap it all off, we went out for corn dogs. (Seriously, Julia's one of my favorite people ever. We have identical tastes.) We even convinced Peej to spring for an extra box of curly cheddar fries.

J was sad to have the overnight end (especially since I found out it had been her first ever sleepover!) but at least now we have plenty o' memories for our scrapbook. That's right, we have a scrapbook.

I made salads for dinner, since I had been bingeing on fried fantabulousness all weekend and had been feeling like The Very Hungry Caterpillar right after he eats through seven pages of lunch meat. But, like the Caterpillar does after he eats through one nice green leaf, I felt much better too.

I promise to stop talking about food all of the time.

Back to my morning with my main shorty-pie. Maybe a cuddly day featuring the dreariest of weather isn't such a bad deal after all. Perhaps I will break out the Snuggies.

And the corn dogs.

You're driving me to snack.

Not me. Or Mii. 

My Wii Fit (Plus) and I need to talk.

Actually, it may be better if someone else spoke to him. (Her? Probably "her." No one condescends quite like a woman.)

I decided to hop up on the ol' Wii balance board yesterday- with Nora in tow. (Side note- try working out with a toddler if you ever want to really feel like you're living the good life.)

Right off the bat, the Wii's all like- Oh HI, Keely. Been a little too busy for daily workouts? I responded that I've been too busy for daily showers AND she should feel lucky that I'm squeezing in a workout between liverwurst sandwiches at all. They are not programmed to receive sarcasm, however (regardless of the inherent truth.) But boy can they dish it out.

"Seen P.J. lately?"

"Yep. We high-five before bed."

"I haven't seen him in a month...how's he looking these days?"

Choosing the on-screen option for 'more toned,' I remarked that P.J. had been training for various races.

I swear to God the thing smirked. "Well, I suppose anything's possible," she shrugged. THAT put me in the mood for a good workout. Insult my husband!

It then asked me if I'd like to do my weigh-in. No, thank you. I really don't need a cruel piece of machinery documenting my slow descent into obesity. For real- they have a weight option of whether or not you're holding your dog. But pregnancy? Impossible to chart. So I've been refusing weigh-ins. And it's making the Wii Fit console antsy. I can tell. And it feels good.

After I [randomly] selected various workouts to be mashed together (totaling half an hour), the program paused to say- "Whoa. That certainly is a LOT."

WHICH IS IT, Wii Fit Plus? Am I a lazy heifer or am I gonna keel over during my Sun Salutation? 'Cause the ten minutes you programmed aren't gonna even break a sweat, nor will they begin to decrease the poundage you're clearly jonesing to document! So I clicked Yes, Continue. THAT'S RIGHT.

Onto more First World Problems. Don't you hate it when the Wii Fit graphics don't quite match up in real time to your HD TV? (I know.) Thusly, I'm throwing punches and the thing is berating me, asking if I'm still there or not.

We moved onto hula hooping. At this point, Nora was no longer content to dance along with the grating soundtrack, nor was it enough to merely laugh at the weirdo moves her mother was attempting. So I fake hula-hooped while holding a toddler. (Now THERE'S a workout. Betcha didn't know you could rock the triceps in that one.)

A few exercises later, Nora had decided that the room had had enough. She pressed the Wii's Off button and closed the doors of the TV cabinet, saying "Bye bye, show." And it's hard to argue with that kind of logic.

So then we did that calorie-scorcher called Lie On The Floor And Put Blankets Over One's Head.

I'm feeling pretty svelte already. Don't be jealous...this once a month workout lifestyle isn't for everyone. But I'm still just a normal gal.

I put on my third-day-in-a-row sweatpants one leg at a time, just like everyone else.

My house doesn't even spin.

Let me be among the top five hundred to welcome you into 2011, three days in.

I am deeply consumed with confusion over my absent flying car, meal tablet, robotic housekeeper...or any housekeeper at all, for that matter. (Do you hear that, P.J.? Do not feel limited by any type of maid. I would take Amelia Bedelia at this point.)

Our New Year's Eve was pretty normal and quiet, by rest home standards. The three of us stayed in our jammies- actually, I changed into daytime jammies and Nora wore a fancy dress for part of the afternoon, but only 'cause she wanted to. There were copious amounts of television, naptime, and Super Mario Brothers 3 for the Wii. (I excelled at two of those activities and got skunked at the third.)

You'd never know that dinner was to be for three individuals- one of them smallish, at that- by the amount of Trader Joe's appetizers procured and prepared. Let's just say that bacon-wrapped things played a huge part. Also, regular bacon.

The most exciting part of the evening by far came around 11pm (or midnight in The Future where my East coast family resides) when I decided to cook up the last round of baconesque foods...and forgot how temperamental our Doesn't Mess Around oven gets when faced with such an opponent as wooden toothpicks.

Long story short, wood became charred wood. Smoke detector went crazy. P.J., previously downstairs and now very much so concerned about Nora's continued sleep, raced up the stairs to swat at the alarm with a towel. Crisis averted.

He went back downstairs.

A moment later, the other smoke detector went off. (Question to self: We have two kitchen smoke detectors?) Highlight of the year: P.J. flying back up the stairs and LEAPING into the air to rip the alarm off of the ceiling (after a second or two of confused glancing around) and then to smash it to the ground.

Problem solved.

P.J. offered to finish with the bacon. Also to repair the smoke detector[s].

Happy New Year.

And now, the beginning of what I'd like to call Suggested Resolutions For All:

1. Can we all agree to stop leaving lengthy outgoing voicemail recordings? Personally, I've had some semblance of an answering machine since 1991 and am pretty confident in my ability not to be confused senseless by the beep. Telling them to leave their name is a bit of a gimme. No phone number? Google it. "Brief message" also kills me- there are certain nameless family members who have been known to leave a Homeric epic on my voicemail, pausing once or twice to start and complete conversations with passersby. As for "time you called"...well, my futuristic phone has been informing me of that tidbit since car phones actually had to be plugged into the glove compartment via curly wire.

Sure, it's nice to know into whose phone you're about to gossip, but it doesn't have to be opulent. You could leave the 'Uncle Jesse'. You know- "Talk to me." (I've never felt cool enough to pull off that one.) You could take advantage of the name function, allowing a metallic voice to announce, "You have reached," followed by an overenthusiastic "KEELY!" Anything short and sweet works, because here's the kicker- the majority of voicemails include the automatic "To leave a message after the beep, please press 1." Or something like that. Meaning, the same exact thing is being demanded twice! Do not make me wait that long to inform you that bacon is on sale.

Besides, if the folks you're phoning are confused by the lack of directions, they're probably also the ones who will be confused by the sound of your voice on the outgoing message.

"Hello? HELLO? Keely, it sounded like you were there- HELLO?"

This series shall continue, and it shall also take helpful ideas. Because, let's face it- there's a lot of inanity out there (some of it is RIGHT HERE!) and we have to stick together.

Like bacon speared with a toothpick.

Time for smaller jorts!

I was all set this morning. Yep, I knew what issues were going to be blown to smithereens and how pointedly- and yet self-deprecatingly- I was gonna lay it down.

And then Nora needed breakfast. Again. (Just like yesterday!) And then while she was playing so happily with a mixture of kitchen utensils and bath books, I decided it was a good time to work out; i.e. thwack at the Wii Fit with a half-dead Wiimote. 

And after the usual guff from the console- ("Oh, hello, P.J. Wait, is that Keely? It's been SO LONG." =actual 'tude.)- I did the body test where, most mornings, it tells me that I'm overweight, am on a fast track to hunchbackville and limp like a pirate with a peg leg. 

But today- the day where I had been utterly prepared to rip into the notion of losing the "last five pounds" (bones become heavier after babies, I was gonna say) and magazines and self worth and fitness and the fact that the ice cream cartons in our freezer seem to be multiplying and making delicious offspring- on THIS day...the Wii Fit informed me that I'd met my goal.

My pre-baby weight. 

Kinda. 'Cause- and this is a huge Schoeny family secret- we lie to the Wii Fit. When it asks what kind of clothing we're wearing to work out...we tell it "parkas." No joke. Our console thinks we're doing yoga in the Arctic Circle. (They shouldn't give you the OPTION if they don't want you to take it.) So, I guess I'm pre-baby weight plus some winter gear. But- and this is the truly confusing part- I'd been lying to the Wii Fit for so long now that I can't remember if I had told it my true pre-kid weight or if I'd been adding "parka" since well before Nora came to play.

Serves me right. That said, I guess my bones lost weight. I am of some indeterminate poundage floating around my "ideal" weight. (Which is a riot anyhow- what am I gonna do now? Wear an evening gown? A bikini? A Spandex unitard? Nope- still yoga pants and an earnest tee-shirt.) 

I'll be wearing an earnest shirt tonight, by the by, at the premiere of Snapshots 2010. My play, Right On Cue, starts the evening off! Care to join? It runs through Sunday with a two performances on Saturday night (one's late, for all those folks with other shows to perform, watch, write, whatever) and it will be a grand ol' time.

And speaking of grand 'ol (but youngish, too) times- fare thee well to one of my bestest pals, Miss Annie Gloyn, soon to be Martzell, moving to L.A., gettin' outta Dodge, leaving me fabulous furniture, also terrific memories for which the photos have long been destroyed....The kind of pal that doesn't need an event- hanging out is the event. When travesties or joyfulnesses occur, she's the one to bring a baked good, a scented candle and a hand-written note- she's also the kind to write a thank-you for a thank-you (and one time, even, for a thank-you.) She'll have a drink waiting for you at the bar and a spare toothbrush in the apartment. Yet, while all of these things are nice, they don't make a best friend.

Nearly eight years of trips, randomsauce sleepovers and impromptu dinner parties make a friend. But remembering and celebrating important, whimsical, trivial and teensy tiny things (like caring for an ice chip in the eye- with an ice pack/ how ferrets get fursty/ why certain napkins are for display and display ONLY)...those make a best friend.

One that I'm already missing dreadfully.

So, smooches, sugar- seeya in a couple of short months. I'll be the one in a divine bridesmaid's gown, drinking the best that Napa has to offer, and celebrating a happy couple.

If you're free, we should try to meet up.

Home is where the Swiffer is.

My Wii Fit was snarky to me this morning. We have a history, that thing and I do. Back in January it called me obese. Then the boxing instructor openly mocked me. And if it's been a bit of time between sessions, the Wii console character is all- Well howdy DO, lazy butt! 

My "trainer" is condescending. And forever changing her hairstyle. And wondering if- perhaps- I'm putting too much pressure on my toes. Or my heels. Ease up, heifer! (She seems to say.) Today she suggested that when working out, I try to use both legs. Equally. Which is a remarkably helpful tip, as I kept falling down. Using only the left leg for squats will do that.

My favorite tip ever, though? "When walking down the street, swing your arms wildly, like a pendulum." Thanks, Wii Fit! Now I'm an Orca AND a danger to others! 

I might start taking my ten minute [a week] cardio elsewhere. 

Other household items of importance. Let's start with the kitchen. I've recently upped my focus on that room- the one that, despite each of us having an office (even Nora! Okay, hers is a broom closet), ends up with every bill, envelope, pen, baby toy, diaper and potted plant on its countertops. Occasionally dishes. You'd think I would have really stepped up my game when- oh, I had a child, or maybe even when she began to crawl. But no. 

This past weekend I realized that I was tired of having stuff pile up at the end of the week, resulting in an hour long search for the paper towels to scrape bananas from the ceiling fan. I decided to make the room spotless after every meal. Which would have been a great habit to develop when it was just two of us living here, with the occasional cat and their occasional hairball issue. 

But no. I decided to overhaul my cleaning habits the moment I never had more to clean in my life. Seriously. Nora's always been a little bit of a Pollock disciple in terms of food distribution. But lately? Now that she knows where the spoon goes and thinks that perhaps someone could speed up the portioning of carrots and croissants? She's taken feeding into her own chubby little fists. She'll grab a handful of perfectly diced fruits and veggies, mash them against her forehead and then flick specks at Ender. Who always hopes that she's eating a deli meat. Sometimes she gets excited and tries to alert me of impending awesomeness. With amazing follow-through. (She could be stellar on the free-throw line. I mean it.) This results in food ending up in the darnedest places! Like IN the cabinet. Or under the Jumparoo. Sometimes down the back of the diaper. (That's only when she's being a show-off.) 

I kinda want to invent a food catcher, but so far the only idea I have is to wrap the entire highchair (and baby) in a big ol' thing of netting. Which I can't imagine will go over well. But- then again- someone invented the built in pasta strainer and that's downright absurd. ("Tired of spilling scalding noodles all over your loved ones? Have trouble walking to the sink?")

So. Yes. Cleaning after every meal. Not just loading the dishwasher, but wiping everything down, sanitizing the high chair, la la la. It's been a bit of a challenge to get everything sparkly before Nora and I leave for work, but I've been sticking with it. And here's what I discovered. That could be a full time job. Here's what else I discovered- I get really mad at P.J. if he tries to sit in the clean kitchen. Let alone use a glass. 

I've been trying to de-clutter the general area with the hope that eventually, if nothing is actually IN the kitchen, I can just hose the place down. And isn't it funny, the things you look at every day but never really notice are there? As I was washing dishes yesterday, I happened to glance on the backsplash of the sink. We keep a sponge there, some hand soap, a Brillo pad...and three pan scrapers. I so rarely even use one- what kind of catastrophic lasagna pan am I anticipating? Or- have you ever seen three people simultaneously wash the dishes? It's that kind of excess that makes me hate my kitchen. 

Also, the flooring. And the counters. The cabinets could use a little spiffying up, too.

And I'll leave you with a little special insight into my nightly habits. ("The other guards won't show you this part...") Okay. I talk in my sleep. And thrash. Sometimes walk around a bit. But I think P.J.'s favorite nighttime activity of mine is...the continuation of the dream. 

I had been having a pretty special dream in which P.J. was yelling at me that I never let him cuddle. (Let's just take a sec and enjoy that one.) I remember- in dreamland- rolling my eyes and saying "Well, go ahead!" And he kept informing me that I wasn't doing it right. Or he couldn't reach me. (According to Wii Fit, anyone should be able to reach me from any room in the house.) So I woke up. Kinda. And saw that my actual husband was sleeping with his actual arms wide open. So, Alert But Not Really Awake Me smacked him. 

"What?!" 

"You can do it now," I crossly informed him.

"Huh?"

"Go ahead."

I waited for him to cuddle me. He went back to sleep. Dream Me was uber-ticked now. So I poked him again. But...I was falling back to sleep myself, and sorta crossed reality with a dream about a computer. Or something. Because the next thing Peej knew, I was shoving him and tapping the center of the bed, demanding that he "click" the sheets. 

"WHAT!?"

"Click it!"

"I don't know wha-"

"CLICK IT!"

And God bless Peej, he leaned over and went 'CLICK' to the middle of the bed. Then rolled over and went back to sleep. I recall drifting back off, wondering why I had ever married such a jerk.

Sorry, P.J., I'll make it up to you.

You can use a glass or a plate with dinner.

Maybe a pan scraper.

Not for the faint of heart.

Remember that hilarious post about the rats in the wall? And how they'd soon "take care of themselves?"

Optimistic homeowners are completely blitzed on stupidity.

Lemme paint another picture:

Friday night= fabulous! Had a good friend over for some tacos and baby-snuggling. Mario Kart Wii was involved, as was The Soup, a lovely Zinfandel and a minimum of scratching in the walls and floors.

Saturday= just as grand. Breakfast, home renovations, more baby-snuggling, some quality television and again, an absence of scratching.

HOWEVER. I jetted out to Target for some [at the time] super-important supplies. Was gone less than an hour. Stopped at Walgreens on my way home and called to check in with Peej and the Little. P.J., thinking I was in the garage, walked into the kitchen to peek out the back window. Turned around.

SAW A RAT BUTT SCURRYING UNDER THE OVEN.

Was quiet on the phone.

I asked what was the matter.

Still quiet. Then...

"Keel? I think I saw something."

Silence.

"A...thing?"

"A butt go under the oven."

"A rat butt?"

Silence.

After a cartoonish frozen moment in the middle of the Walgreens photo department, I alternated between insurmountable horror at the idea of facing my biggest ever fear AND the throat-gripping panic at the notion of my baby being IN THAT HOUSE. And, you know, Peej.

I dropped my purchases and ran. Upon entering the house I saw P.J. holding the baby waaaay up high and brandishing multiple household weapons with the other. He was also on the phone with the exterminator and pacing the kitchen with his eyes never leaving the oven.

"Should I-"

"I'm on it," he said with that edge in his voice. You know that edge. The one that justifies the use of all-caps in his name? That one. ("Get in the house" and "These are two-for-one in the circular" are also indicative phrases.)

I took the baby and acted like one myself for a good half hour. P.J. wanted to head out immediately to Home Depot and get enough traps to fell a bear- but I didn't want him to go yet. And since it was so close to Nora's bedtime (and since she'd been sick) I didn't want her to spend the next hour or so in the car- I was ready to CAMP OUT in the car, but we must think of the child.

And then we got the mail.

And Nora's social security card came finally, and P.J. wanted to add her info to our tax return...and then we realized we'd get an extra 1k back just for having a kid!

But back to the rat.

P.J. was about to head out to the store when I ventured back into the kitchen for- something. My mind was promptly erased.

Because.

The rat, the one who hated the light, wouldn't be around people, who certainly wouldn't make an appearance twice in one night...was standing in front of the dishwasher.

I am not ashamed to admit that I shrieked like the woman in the Tom & Jerry cartoons. Except louder and with more counter-jumping.

THING WAS HUGE.

P.J. found me in record time.

"I knew exactly what it was when you screamed," he told me. (I can't imagine what other kind of catastrophic house event would have happened in the same hourlong span- but then again, maybe I shouldn't venture there with this house.) He stuffed a beach towel underneath the oven- this should either deter the thing or keep it cozy.

So THEN P.J. left for Home Depot, leaving me with Nora. I got her pajama-ed and fed (with a broom, steak knife and hammer within arms' reach- not TOO close, mind you, I am always aware of my child's safety.)

He made it back in record time. He also stopped for a pizza. We hadn't eaten in ages and CERTAINLY were not about to cook. It was half pineapple, half pepperoni and black olives. Exceptional. But who had time to enjoy it? We had a sting operation to prepare.

By this time Nora was asleep in her bed (God knows how with her stressed, amped-up parents emitting vibes that could power a small town) and I was free to, you know, "assist."

P.J. began laying out glue traps in the perimeter of the kitchen (while I stood on a stool and wielded a hammer- helpfully)...and then we began to hear a familiar scratching sound under the kitchen sink. (Is this house made of swiss cheese? Discuss.) Our crackerjack team of kittens were suddenly on the job. However, they had to sit this one out- locked in a bathroom. After all, glue traps are not a cat's friend...and any rat that makes three appearances in two hours is most certainly damaged in some capacity. Bean has enough constitution problems.

So, after making sure that the child and the animals were protected at all costs, P.J. began the fun task of pulling items out of the cabinet one by one. (I think our original "plan" was that the rat would kinda jump out onto the glue traps by himself. This did not happen.) Once the cabinet was cleared of anything, including rat, P.J. lined even MORE glue traps near the hole around the pipe fitting. (Oh, so holes "let in" rats? Gotcha. Also- by this point the rat could've done a sweet art project with all the glue. Or maybe re-tiled the under-sink area.

Peej closed the glue-trappy cabinet. We sat back to wait.

Not five minutes later the scratching at the door began again, this time accompanied by a thud that sounded an awful lot like a gluetrap stilt. This when it got interesting.

P.J. instructed me to leave the room (I love him so much) so he could sweep the critter into a bag and carry him outside.

Except.

The cabinet has a wooden lip that prevents glue traps from being swept anywhere. P.J. was gonna hafta lift the thing up.

Except.

It was hissing. (Wouldn't you?) After various attempts at thwacking the corner of the trap to get it to do...something...P.J. realized that the rat was actually freeing itself.

"I have to kill it," P.J. told me with a level of angry panic I've never heard in ANYONE'S voice. I couldn't even reply, though I imagined an exclamation point was actually visible above my head. And apparently his extra surge of adrenaline kick-started P.J.'s Can Do attitude. He somehow distracted the rat from the front and GRABBED the tray from the back, flipping this beast into a Williams Sonoma bag. (Do you know what the term "bobo" means? Look it up. Sigh.)

Back to the rat. P.J., grasping the squirming bag o' rodent, walked it into the alley and Took Care Of The Situation.

I love him. In fact, I've never loved him more. I thought I was above blatant shows of machismo. False.

My hero then came back into the house and cleaned the kitchen, removing all traces of awfulness. Apologies were made to the cats, assuring them that we never doubted their mouser prowess. Side note- (this whole blog should be called 'side note')- Ender, the tabby, had been waking us in the middle of the night for about week, yowling and knocking things over in a very un-Enderlike manner. We, of course, yelled at him and hurled epithets like "bad" and "sleep-hater," not realizing that our long-suffering Good Cat was trying to tell us of the Chihuahua-sized beastie in the kitchen. We'll believe him from now on. Last night was the first night in weeks where he slept on our bed. We took that as a good sign.

Oh, and the stove towel? P.J. picked it up, post-Benny Hill episode, to find a HOLE THE SIZE OF LAKE ERIE. Yep, eaten through in an hour.

Crisis averted, we checked on the baby (still asleep), checked on the cats (pride wounded but blood disease-free) and settled in for some Mario Kart. Nothing soothes the nerves like Toad n' Yoshi.

I guess all's well that ends well- the lower level bathroom is really pretty AND rat-tunnel-free. Plus, if rodents talk- and we KNOW that they do- then we've just secured our place as THE home with which not to mess on Troy Street.

Actually, scratch that.

With our neighbors? We'd probably come in fourth.