Spoiling A Movie In Three Panels.

So, this is nowhere near "wordless" today, but I think you'll forgive the loquaciousness when you behold THIS:

This movie has already aired. You may have missed your chance to see it. But it still needs to be discussed.

The promo features three distinct pictures slashed across the page: Cuba Gooding Jr. looking concerned. A female behind a chain link fence looking, I dunno, hopeless. And, inexplicably, a group of what I can only assume are jumpsuited prisoners laughing on a bus.

Because of these three pictures, I feel like I've already seen the movie. He's tenacious. She's heard it all before. They're laughing on a bus.

My favorite part, however? The tagline: She never had a chance until he gave her one.

Which could easily be changed to: She'll have a chance in the near future, maybe like in a year or so. Don't do anything regrettable behind that chain link fence. Just hang out with your friends- they look jovial. 

I am really sad that I missed this movie. But, come on, don't YOU also kinda feel like you've watched this movie after reading today's breakdown?

Cuba Gooding Jr. is going to beat me to death with a shoe.

She never had a chance...

The Media Speaks To Me.

This morning, P.J. almost threw out what was- easily- the best part of today's Tribune. It was the circular for the Grand Opening of Five Below, my new favorite five-bucks-and-under store (to which I have never been). It's almost like Peej doesn't even care about The Issues or Extreme Savings. Weird. 

Let's review.

Let's do a close-up on that front cover, shall we? Okay, generically pretty girl, perhaps college-aged, happily wearing a Snuggie. Now, I can suspend my disbelief as well as anyone...but do you really think a girl like this is EVER going to willingly wear something proclaiming her to be an XXL? 

Cheap posters? Fabulous! I've always wanted that awesome wall triumvirate of Adele, Justin Bieber, and...Angry Birds. On my wall. As a poster. Of Angry Birds. 

I love a good snap bracelet- and at a buck, this is a good snap bracelet. But aren't these things still illegal in most states? I should know. I was around the first time that they were rendered unsuitable for school. I'm not saying I played a part in it...but there was a fourth grade dude named Chad who did NOT know how to back off and maybe he needed a little reinforcement from my leopard print suede-wrapped metal shiv of death.  (But a dollar, you say?) 

This is easily my favorite page in the circular. It's the College Kid Necessities page. And absolutely, hampers and that ilk are clutch (for the demographic that oh-so-rarely does laundry), but WHEN was the last time you heard someone say how imperative it was that they bring their own lava lamp? (Because, like, if the roomie is using their desk lava lamp, don't even think about ganking that action. Get your own, mooch.) 

And the bottom left hand corner features the finest in funky, polka dotted cleaning supplies like plungers. For college. A college polka dot plunger. Welcome, Freshman!

Back cover. But don't be sad...because you could possibly score a free shirt imploring you to Chill Out! Still not planning to jaunt by the Grand Opening? Would a 5 cent hot dog change one's mind?

Even though you need to Limit 3.

Which is probably just plain ol' good life advice.

Unless your name is Kobayashi.

Or you have a really exceptional polka dotted plunger.

Vacation + Blogging= Vlog!

(That IS what it stands for, yeah?)

So, in light of the fact that I am currently in Napa for the wedding of two darling friends...here's something kinda sorta completely different.

A Vlog that Nora and I recorded last week. You're welcome. And...if you hate it...

...I'm sorry. (But you won't.)

love, Keely
(p.s. This is the most still my child has ever been. Ever.)

I mock because I envy.

The single best thing that has ever been randomly sent through the U.S. Mail- ever- is something that I'm about to share with you.

It is a catalog. And it has changed my life.

Not only that, but I am also able to show you each individual item that has made me a better American- nay, human being. For- their online catalog is gonna allow me some visual aides.

Ready? (Of course you aren't. How do you prepare for something of this magnitude? As for me, I usually take a little power nap.)

Let's begin with an item I like to call- My Back Is On Fire. This gem, a.k.a. the Rock Music Men's Hoodie, features a guy who's too cool for any school (except, inexplicably, he seems to be in some sort of establishment with lovely wood paneling, so I guess he did all right for himself anyhow)- with a gigantic electric guitar on his back. And it is aflame. In blue! The color of rock! On the front you've got a nice little pick. Aflame as well, obviously. The axe not your thing? My apologies, Mr. Rick Allen, how about the flaming drums? On the front is...well, another picture of a drum. I guess a random stick would be weird. My favorite part that was weirdly omitted from the online version? "Rockin' hoodies let him show a little attitude." Key word- "little." Now get back inside and sort your socks.

Up next we've got some Laughing Crazy Critters. And yes, they've actually copyrighted that phrase- so back off. There's a dog and a monkey...and they are CRAZY. Ha Ha Ha, they are shown as saying. "You can't help but join in with these merry animals." Really? I don't need any more compulsion in my life, thanks. Also- "A great pick-me-up-gift for anyone who could use a laugh." While it's nice to help friends who are down in the dumps, if I ever approach you with a wiggling stuffed animal that will force you to laugh (Ha Ha Ha), I give you full permission to hit me with it. "But Keely," you implore. "Some people like animals that bring a chuckle." Check out the product video. See if it brings anything but confusion, crazy or otherwise.

Then we've got the 40" Lighted Stars. Innocuous enough, if you can get over the fact that you've got three mammoth glowy stars on your front porch. Which, nicely enough, I can. What really sells this one for me is the non-pictured phrase (why are they making me do all the work?)- "Holiday cheer no one can overlook." ACKNOWLEDGE MY FESTIVITY.

On to the Plush Turtle Ball Pit. This is a stuffed turtle with a gaping hole in its back.
Crinkle, crinkle, it says happily, or so they'd have you believe. It's for babies and toddlers, obviously, and I adore the fact that the instructions tell you to "sit your baby inside the Turtle Activity Bag's soft shell and fill it with...25 play balls." Yeah, when I was little that was called being buried alive. Bonus feature= the balls can be "pushed through a special hole in the turtle's shell." Nope! No thank you! No special hole playing, here! Also, despite your claim that my infant will love to throw the balls and/or "roll around in them," I highly doubt that this will bring "hours of fun." Maybe a good twenty seconds before she realizes she can roll out of it. Unless I've covered her with balls.

Next is the 10 Piece Cleaning Trolly with Working Vacuum. Now, aside from the fact that you're essentially paying for cleaning supplies for your kid (Rags and a pail? Really?), the kicker is that the working vacuum comes with polyfoam pellets for your child to suction up. Let's be clear here: if and when Nora gets her own vacuum, it will be called a DustBuster and we won't have to invent messes of which she shall clean. And while I'm all for playing house n' babies' and laundry...this is downright janitorial. You can almost see the weariness in her eyes, the long nights, the no-good bum who skipped town and left her in this sitch...

I bet she wishes she had owned a Guard Your I.D. Stamp, back in those days when she was flush with cash. This handy tool allows you to- instead of troublesome shredding- simply stamp and ink and do mini art projects over any worthwhile information. Now this kinda seems akin to the workload of pushing paper through a machine, but it could be rather fun. Plus- and this is where it trumps a shredder- I'm able to "carry it in [my] purse while traveling." Phew. That would have saved me literally a minute of bothersome paper-dealin' this past week. But you know what else fits in a purse? A Sharpie.

Oh, it's time to get creepy. Thank you, La Newborn Real Life Doll Set, for filling that niche in this catalog. Not only will "little girls love playing Mommy" (not even touching that one today), but this little beastie features "soft skin," a "baby nursery scent" (I guarantee that a real nursery scent would dissuade even the most motherly of little girls) and has been "designed to capture the experience of a newborn's first few days of life." Again, really? Because- and I loved becoming a mother- the first few days are the scariest, most overwhelming and rather painful for all involved. Does the baby need to eat every fifteen minutes? Are the nurses checking your milk output with military precision? Are they weighing her and threatening to bring her to the nursery if her latch doesn't improve? No..? So by "first few days of life," you mean...she feels soft? I cry False.

And- though I could go on for each page of this epic catalog- I'll leave you with the Knit Novelty Lounge Pants. For 9.95 you can have sweatpants featuring "realistic designs." Instead of relaxing with your favorite (yet constricting!) pair of faded jeans, these products allow you to wear sweats that look like "fun pairs of pants[!]" in such styles as denim and CHAPS. You know, when you're home on a Saturday and can't find your COMFY CHAPS? Fake belt buckle and pretend back pockets aside, we're one or two accessories away from being a Village Person.




Enough of this. I have real work to do. After I put on my loungiest of outfits and fish Nora out from her ball pit, it's time to start decorating for the holidays. After we protect our I.D.s, invent messes and smell her nursery.

Ha Ha Ha.

I also call people "Baby" a lot. This bugs certain Big Kids.

Due to the fact that I am still in Massachusetts, still surrounded by genetically terrific children, and still not convinced that it isn't Thursday...

...May I present a smallish sampling of things I've learned about myself?

On Speech: Turns out, I abbreviate and nickname a LOT. When my sister asked if something needed to happen and I responded with "potenstsh," a vehement "IALLY" came from the 4 year-old in the other room. The little guys have also started referring to Nora solely as "Noodle," "Silly Sally" and "BugBug." Cole may believe, in fact, that he has multiple female cousins. (There's certainly enough people touching his stuff.)

On How My Writing Is Being Perceived: Quinn was peeking up at his Mom's laptop and saw my blog's site open. He asked "Is this Auntie Kiki's blog?" When  he was assured that it was, he pitched his voice a little higher and began to speak- "I was walking down the street and blahderlilalalila..." (That is NOT my process, Q-Dog.)

On Things I Should've Been Saying Already: Tom and I were having a beer with our Mexican fiesta the other night when 2 year-old Cole, leaning over to stare at my bottle, asked if he could Look in [Your] Beerhole. Bumper sticker...go.

On How Easily Disturbed I Am: Kate and I have been watching a ton of late night TV. Okay, 8:30pm TV. But there's a new Hamburger Helper commercial that takes place at- get this- a yard sale.  You know, dirty Fisher-Price toys, clothing from the '80s...and a plate of ground beef mixed with pasta. BEING PASSED AROUND ON A PLATE. "Best deal of the day," a mother joyfully exclaims to her two children. Really? Is the "best deal" the plate, the meal, or the heat-induced food poisoning? I asked Kate if she'd ever eat someone else's communal Hamburger Helper at a yard sale.  "Depends on how much it was."

And finally, Why Those Old-Peopley Pill Containers Are A Good Idea: For this week's trip, I put all of my vitamins and pills into one drawstring baggie (because, you know, it's SO hard to pack for a week at a sibling's house) and was feeling good about remembering to take them each night before bed. In the room I've been sharing with Nora. In the dark. Going on feel alone, I've proudly been popping pills sight unseen, a fact that became a little too obvious the other night. Tasting something a tad minty, I realized too late that a) I'd mixed painkillers- and forgotten about them- in with the vitamins, b) Target's version of Tylenol is delicious, and c) I may have scurvy but I FEEL NO PAIN.

And that's all we have time for today, folks. Because eventually, someone's gonna come for these four children. Hopefully their real parents.

And Kate and I need to be ready for that.

With cocktails. (And beerholes.)

Day three of kiddo fever= rage about The Issues.

Oh my goodness.

Now, I'm not usually one for "current" media. I read the Sunday paper, of course- the trifecta of the Sunday Mag, Parade and "the funners." Always. I try to keep up with environmental, health and local political stuff. But no, I'm not a rabid news follower. (Then again, I kinda don't have to be. I'm married to a guy who has The Huffington Post tattooed onto his corneas. He likes to tell me The Issues right before bed.)

However. This morning's Trib had a feature story about the Happy Meal. And how evil it was. Because McDonald's lures kids in with the promise of- get this- a toy. And it's making our nation's kids fat. And, I dunno, commercial. I really don't see the problem. Okay, I take that back. I see the problem of gluttonous consumerism. Everyone does. But seriously. Let's break it down:

a) The kids ain't driving themselves to Mickey D's. Toys are the big draw? False. An easy meal for the parent is the draw. (And as a parent and a ridiculously lazy person myself, I do not condemn this practice. But let's not get all high and mighty about the toy thing- a dollar burger is a dollar burger is I Am Not Cooking Tonight. Heck- the other day we took Nora out to get a corndog. Healthy? Nope. But it was easy to procure and I wanted a bite of it.)

b) They have french fries? In the Happy Meal? Yup. But they also have apple dippers and white meat chicken and milk chugs. (Forgetting, for a moment, that the idea of "chugging" milk makes me retch.) They also have salads and wraps and yogurt parfaits and grilled stuff. But my kid won't eat that, a chorus of parents exclaim, baggies of Cheerios in hand. Well, that's not McD's fault. Again, the six year-old isn't waltzing up to the counter and placing an order. (Although that would be pretty special to see.)

c) The toy itself? The five cent marvel that is the instantly breakable piece of indeterminate plastic? Really? This is the thing causing all the fuss? Yeah, kids really crave that piece of ribbon attached to a piece of plastic [a current, AirBender-related toy choice]- so much, in fact, that it instantly ends up under the backseat of the car. Also, did you know that they offer crayons at Denny's? Yup. LURES THEM IN. Do we really want our kids to think it's okay to eat Moons Over My Hammy every single day? Uh, then why the crayons?

I totally dig why people are up in arms over this. It took this company waaay too long to offer healthier choices and come clean on nutritional listings. But somewhere along the line people need to take personal responsibility for individual items of food which they place in their individual mouths. Going to McDonald's was a special- and extremely rare- treat for us when we were kids. As Peej said to me this morning- it wasn't the toy so much as it was a chance to eat a burger in a place that made him feel like a big kid. And, of course, the Play Place didn't hurt. ('Cept when it did.) And let's not forget about the Hamburglar. (I really, really couldn't NOT mention him here.)

Heck, little kid P.J. was bribed with a Happy Meal to "be okay with" moving to his new house. As in, "If we take you, will you stop whining about the move?" Yup!

And what about Mayor McCheese? (That's all.)

In short, don't take your kids out to have fast food. Except when you want to. But don't do it more than every once in a while. Or- if you do- you lose the right to say things about fast food luring you in.

Now I am simply starving.

Media rant= ended. Back to hard-hitting issues like this or this or (takin' the Wayback Machine) to this.

Happy Thursday.

Be good to your cecum. (Eww...)

Declan, meet Media.

The Flynn/Grant/Schoeny clans have been abuzz with their newest addition: Mr. Declan Seamus Grant, born June 30th at 3:06pm, 9lbs and 4oz, 21in long. (Are you hearing this, Nora Jane? I guarantee you guys will be wearing the same hoodie at the Cape.) He joins big bros Quinn Sawyer and Cole Sebastian- and of course my big sis Kate and her 'Let's Have A Lacrosse Team' husband Tom.

We are so stoked to meet our newest little guy- Nora's first "little" cousin- and that's why Nora and I are flying out to meet him in less than four weeks! (Alone. Like, 'one baby, one checked bag, is that a complimentary bottle of Stoli?' alone.) I cannot wait to [pretend to] eat his cheeks.

It's moments like these that make me think about my life. How crazy our schedule has been lately, what with Nora being sick, swapping work days, pretending to be a writer (that takes up more energy that you'd initially suspect) and all the [albeit great] events. I feel like I've been losing sight of something superbly important, something that defines me as an artist and an American:

There have been so many ridiculously great advertising campaigns lately, and they have gone virtually unnoticed.

-L'Oreal Paris has a new "spherical" mascara wand. It's a "telescopic explosion!" It's a ball on a stick. Sure, I bet the coverage is great. How could it not be? You are wiping ink on your face with a snow cone.

-Sargento cheese cube snacks. Now, not to snark on my people (huzzah, Armenia!), but really. How time-consuming was it- honestly- to take a brick of cheese and, you know, cube it? I would like someone- perhaps someone with better "math skills" that they can "do in their head" to gimme a nice li'l cost analysis. I'm gonna wager that, price per ounce, it's still going to be a ton cheaper to whip out the old knife yourself. I could be wrong. (And, if I am wrong, I'll be first in line at the Jewel tonight. My hands are KILLING me from all of this cubing.)

-Okay, I realize that this is a very real issue, but those Life Alert commercials need to stop. I CANNOT take them seriously. Yes, she fell. Thankfully her daughter was there to, you know, cradle her head and wrap a shower curtain around her. But I may drown in all of the Earnest. (And if I'm doing the Ugly Cry from too much high-pitched laughter? Perhaps your ad campaign is not coming across as the hard-hitting drama it so clearly dreams of being.)

-All right. Okay. This is a family blog, so, uh, let's see how gracefully I can address this one. The Schick Trimstyle for women? It's a razor. It's a- ahem- personal groomer. It also shape-shifts nearby shrubberies to vaguely- and extraordinarily uncomfortable- pubic dimensions. (I say "vaguely" because, um, that rectangular tower? Huh?) Also, it helps if the shrubbery is in the vicinity of an actual shower. Or tub. Or pool. Whatever. 'Cause nothing says "personal grooming" like a shared, chlorinated body of water.

And is it bad that the last one solely made me think of all the exterior work we still need to do on this house?

Lost. Cause. Flynn.

I miss the days of good, ol' fashioned, heavily veiled, wink wink nudge nudge advertising, the kind of pure ad that didn't make everyone in the room immediately and intensely uncomfortable.

You know, like this Feel Good bit of...I'm not sure what they're selling.

Sweaters? Lower back rides? Those were the days, back when you could ride your capri'd pal's hipbones with wild abandon. Ah, youth.

Back to the day, I s'pose. Off to shower and put on my face. But first, I'll grab a handful of my favorite cheese product. No worries. I'm covered. See this medical necklace?

I have the perfect outfit picked out for the day.

And I've just figured out my mode of transpo.

Giddyup!

It's a very real issue.

Oh, this is good.

Remember my investigative journalism regarding Lanacane Anti-Chafing Gel? (That's right, I linked back to my earlier post. It was that informative.)

So. We were watching TV the other night and a commercial came on- and it asked me if I hated that chafing feeling. I turned to P.J., perhaps a little too excited. It began in a crazy animated way, with cartooned, dancey figurines having trouble with, you know, walking and other thigh issues. Then- oh, then- the folks were given Lanacane. And they turned into the folks from the ad! That's right, remember the joggy girl? Apparently she was just doing her own chafey thing and was unrelated to the largeish woman or the jiggy guy. The woman, obviously, was still the star. She swished her skirt willy nilly, which- yes- did attract the guy doing the Running Man. I knew it. I knew they were involved. I just didn't know the whole story from one paper ad. I kinda feel like I saw the director's cut.

I cannot stress enough that I am getting absolutely nothing from the good people at Lanacane. I should. I really should. I mean, I've dedicated two separate posts to their product in a little less than a month. But no- this is a freebie. A labor of love. My way of saying- Lanacane Anti-Chafing Gel, I believe in your advertising campaign. Keep it up. And keep it coming.

*

Yesterday as Nora and I were driving to work, the radio was playing. Between having safe driving skills and convincing Nora that she was having a great time, I was trying to tune to a non-irritating song. This can be tough. Especially if one is driving during that span of time right before the hour- it's all commercials. Which can be enjoyable. But sometimes I just want to hear something nice and fun and classic rock and nothing at all resembling Creed.

We got halfway there before I realized that I was singing along with a song that, only moments before, I deemed unacceptable. So, in the span of a few minutes, I a) decided to change a song, b) forgot to change the song, and c) fully integrated the song into my driving experience.

It made me think. Perhaps more than it should have, but it definitely did. There's gotta be a metaphor in here somewhere- Maybe about my ability to tune things out?  Or the 'eh, whatever' mindset? Either way, I DON'T WANT TO LIVE LIKE THAT. I spend at least two hours a day in the car, between commutes, kiddo appointments, and errands. That's a lot of 'eh, whatever' time.

Maybe I'll become a superbly productive car individual. Or perhaps I'll take that time and zen out ('cause nothing says "relax" like an infant in the backseat.) There's always the audiobook.

Speaking of the infant in the backseat, Nora has become a stellar little person in the past few months. Mind you, she's always been a great baby, but nowadays she's getting downright kid-like. She's almost eight months old. This is mind-blowing for a couple of reasons. One is that I'm pretty sure I just had her. The second is a matter of unfairness- I was definitely pregnant for at LEAST three times this long.

She has two fully realized teeth. Her ankles cross when she's seated. When she laughs, its imbued with this sense of utter hilarity at something, or with something. Sometimes she's coy. Or furious. Her eyes light up with the intensity of a tween girl's unrequited love when she spies her cats. Meals have become Christmas morning, especially now that she can feed herself and there is virtually no distinction between baby food and really good food. The sign for "more" has inexplicably morphed into a thrice-banged fist, a la a king with a turkey drumstick. Or Mr. Ed. Nora actually plays with her toys. She has preferences and systems that I am slowly beginning to follow. She crawls. She's practically a wind-up car, what with her speed, erratic flight path and penchant for corners.

But early in the morning and right around dusk she becomes my baby again. With her left thumb in her mouth and her cheek tucked against my neck- sometimes with a frog shoved in there for good measure- she snuggles. There's no twisting away to see what the heck is that thing or any impatient gesture of I've GOT this. All she wants in the world is in her parents' bed- her Dad reading her a small mountain of books, various things attached to her mother, a kitten or two sleeping by her feet- and did I mention the frog? Or the otter, the giraffe, the blankies, the smallish bears or the bunny?

Yeah, I think I was wrong in earlier posts. This is my favorite age with Nora.

At least 'til next month.

The issues seriously do not stop coming.

Bananaversaries are wonderful. And, for the uninitiated- i.e., anyone I'm not directly related to and/or folks that don't have to endure my lax take on the English language- I once gave my sister and bro in-law a card with two dancing bananas. Okay, they may not have been dancing. But they were celebrating an anniversary. Hence, bananaversary.

And that is the only acceptable word for which to describe a milestone in Chez Schoeny. (And Flynn. And Grant.)

So, the bananaverse was lovely. We spent a great, extended weekend in Cincy with Peej's fam; coffee with Dorrie, her pal Bridget and their boys (born the same week as Nora!), an exquisite jaunt to the Gap/Banana Republic/Old Navy clearance outlet in Kentucky (we actually caused a register to sit the next one out), a walk to the farmer's market in Hyde Park Square (where, inexplicably, a woman handed my daughter a hat- from Old Navy, no less), and a positively revelatory Martin Sexton concert, whereupon he played four of my top eight [silently] requested songs. And the day itself? Although not too much like our wedding day; a seven hour trip through the Midwest, lunch at a roadside burger joint in Indiana, a miniature person sporadically screaming her displeasure directly into my nostril...it also wasn't entirely not like our wedding day. Bed by 9pm was a new addition, as were smashed peas in my hair.

Miss N.J. was spoiled beyond recognition by the morning we left for home. Seriously. I think she's bored with just me, as opposed to a household of people exclaiming how perfect she is. She's too polite to ever say so...but still. It's totally the White Elephant in the room.

And now: The Issues.

In Advertising.

First up, we have Captain Morgan. We saw a few billboards on Route 65 for the new "Lime Bite." At first we thought it was just another malt beverage- and, side note: Why are the commercials for these drinks always featuring guys at a bar or a loft party? If you were on a date, say, with a non-heterosexual, fully aged male and he asked for a Zima, or a Smirnoff Ice, or something of that ilk, wouldn't you question his tastes?

I did- er, would.

Sure, they're tasty. And pure sugar. But perhaps revealing that sort of preference should be reserved for a second or third date? In the comfort- and privacy- of one's home? With no other fully aged males around?

But back to the Captain. Lime spiked rum? Really? How hard is it to, you know, spike your rum with lime? There's only one ingredient. (And, if you drank "real" drinks, you'd already have one on hand.) So, for whom are they making this easier? One word: teenagers. Or, two words: tween girls. Leading us to believe that, for all his bravado, Captain Morgan is no better than Tony the Tiger.

Second up: Lanacane Anti-Chafing Gel. Oh...where to start. Here's the copy from the circular:
LANACANE Anti-Chafing Gel
Soothes and Prevents CHAFING (Soreness from skin rubbing on skin and skin on clothing)
ANTI-FRICTION FORMULA (Dries On Contact)
FEELS SILKY (Long-Lasting Comfort)
NON-GREASY (Non-staining, Moisture-Proof)

The ad features a slightly larger than average middle-aged woman. Dancing. Happily. Lifting her skirt, even. To twirl? To show off her non-raw thighs? Who knows.
Directly behind her is a girl, jogging, elbows asunder, gleefully living the chafe-free lifestyle. Or she could be running towards the dancing woman.
Which is clearly what the slightly larger than average middle-aged man next to Jogging Girl is doing. Or dancing. Poorly. But chafe-free as well. He could be looking for a new dance partner. Or he could simply be drawn towards the woman's loose morals and/or chafe-free thighs which are on display for the entire Greater Chicagoland area to see.
Maybe Jogging Girl is their daughter.
Perhaps they have bigger familial issues than whether or not one's thighs are rubbed raw in the day to day lascivious lifestyle this woman is clearly leading.
And maybe if she's so concerned about receiving an entire day's worth of relief from a body part touching another body part (and unless she's competing in a dance marathon), she should just sit down.

And finally, speaking of advertising, shameless self-promotion, and websites (clearly, you enjoy a good website or two): might I ask that you take a gander towards the Top Mommy Blogs button on my sidebar? It takes two clicks: one on the button, one to vote for me. No email addy required, no spam, nothin' but good, ol' fashioned appreciation in anonymously bloggy form.

It's actually pretty misleading. One doesn't have to be a Mommy Blogger to be featured on that site. Or even "Tops." But I do have the goal of making it to the top five humor blogs on their page (I dream so, so big.)

You can click once a day, if you'd like. Twice a day (or more!) from separate computers or various handheld-y objects. But actually, if you have all this extra cash to throw around on multiple means of communication, I'm not above receiving monetary appreciation, either.

Totally your call.

Or you can say it with ponies.

Enjoy while ya can!

This might just be my favorite new billboard- and that's saying a ton- courtesy of my big sis Kate:

Oh, Pittsfield. Thank you for your stellar advertising skillz.

Let's dissect, shall we?

Happy birthday, Margaret! One hundred years...wow! That's certainly something to...wait a sec. Who did you say was sponsoring this? Devanny Condron? The funeral home? Well, enjoy it now, Margaret. As Kate said- "Devanny Condron is waiting for you."

Now, personally, I'd like to be feted by sugar free Red Bull on my 100th birthday. Perhaps Spanx. Definitely Splenda, with which I will undoubtedly be preserved. Or maybe some futuristic jet pack/meal tablet amalgamation of awesome. I'm not picky. (Takin' notes, Peej?)

 And speaking of Berkshire County...I know a lot of gals from home are getting married this year. As I am still dealing with the fallout from [ahem] some vendors, I'd love to lend some advice. Sadly, I cannot. Yet. (At least not until my lawyer gives me the go-ahead. Oooh...) That said- do you like personal attention? Stand-up contractors? Stellar service down to the last detail?

If not- email me. Have I got some people for you.

Back to Chicago.

Opening this week is a show featured in the Five To See from Metromix! It stars our very own Annie Gloyn...and I shall be there Friday. Woo! Deets here.

Another big thing that happened this week: I was accused of being 23 years old. It was great. It was unexpected. It was...short-lived. You see, one of the homes in which I nanny also employs a part-time housekeeper from Poland. (Facebook friends- skip ahead if you like. I really need to stop updating my statuses prior to Thursday.) She's a very nice lady. But very Old Country. And not in the 'Buffet' way. When one of my kiddos mentioned that I was going to be THIRTY which is hardly even a NUMBER 'cause it's so HIGH, the housekeeper chimed in with- "No! You 30? No. I think 23, 24."

Me: Wow! Thanks! Nope. I'm gonna be 30!
Her: You look so young...
Me: Gee, I-
Her: But 30. That is so OLD! I did not know you were so OLD!
Me: I mean, I feel like 30 is the new-
Her: It is a good thing you had your baby when you did, no?
Me: ..........
Her: She is so pretty.
Me: Thank you.

Nevermind the fact that NONE of the families with which I work had their babies prior to 30, nor do I intend to not have any more, regardless of my perilous age. (Call Devanny Condron.) However, this is also the lady whom, right when I returned to work, mentioned my still-protruding belly. Which is never cool to mention unless it's to state how awesome you think it is. Although, when I first got engaged, she was the one who showed shock and dismay. Why, you might ask? Well, it's 'cause she thought I was only 17 and was worried about my future happiness. And that's terrific. (She should, however, have a better handle on my age by now. She's been mistaken about it no less than three times. Maybe she thinks I'm a different nanny. Perhaps we all look alike to her.)

And now, I get that unparalleled joy of having a stranger hold my infant daughter down and jab three needles into her thigh, while she simultaneously weeps and stares at me with a special mix of panic and betrayal.

Tradesies? Is it too early for a drink?

It's five o'clock in Oslo.

I much prefer The Pogues.

The Ides of March. Wow. This is kinda serious, as far as days go. I suppose. Also, it's my cats' sixth birthday, so for me it's not so much a bad luck day as it is an awesome celebratory pet day. Happy birthday, Ender and Beanie! Tuna in smallish dishes for days! (Or for exactly one meal!)

Yesterday was Pi Day, you know, 3.14- blahdiblahblahnumbers. But as I am married to a man with the symbol for pi tattooed on his shoulder blade, this is a big deal. (We celebrate allll the holidays at Chez Schoeny.) And yes, that's right,  I still count on my fingers, but happened to find and fall in love with a math..."guy". "Nerd" is harsh..."geek" is a little too techie. Aficionado? Lover o' numbers? Drunk at Mardi Gradi, forty bucks burning a hole in the ol' pocket, way too close to a tattoo parlor?

I like that one.

The day before that (does the fun ever stop?) was the day when I decided to corn beeves and steam cabbage...and dress my infant daughter in a shamrock dress and lime green tights. (I would like to see you try to convince me that Nora is NOT one of my collectible porcelain dolls. It cannot be done.) This is how I celebrate St. Patrick's Day lately. Staying in, curing meat, watching G-rated flicks. Way before I even had a kid I had tired of the pub crawling rainy day (somehow it ALWAYS rains on St. Pat's weekend) face-painty drunken revelry/stupidity. It kinda seems like the same crowd that would be out there anyhow on a weekend- just [scantily] dressed in green.

Seriously. I bet I can tell you what happened:

a) At the dyeing of the Chicago River, someone fell in.
b) Wanting to look good/hot/Irish, someone wore inappropriate shoes/outerwear and fell/got cold.
c) Dropkick Murphys played somewhere, and someone got pumped full of pride.
d) Outside of a bar, a girl cried to her friends.
e) In a packed ladies' room, a girl cried to her friends.
f) Someone met their soulmate. Temporarily.
g) More Jameson  was consumed in Lakeview than by the entirety of Cork County. For the year.

Also, why the green beer? Real Irish beer should be...brownish. Or a dark reddish. Or a light tannish. The 'ish' does not include green.

But we digress. Back to the weekend.

Last night Pi Day was celebrated even further with warm pumpkin pie that Neil brought over (see what I did there?) and  ice-cold Chelada beer from Nate (see: pregnancy posts. I love this stuff) so that the guys could watch The Pacific miniseries and bond over talk of war. To the best of my knowledge, none of them have ever been in the service- excepting perhaps Boy Scouts of America- but apparently nothing bonds them better. You should have seen the Band of Brothers days. Or, rather, I didn't see P.J. on Band of Brothers days. (But hey, if they give me a slice of pie and a beer while I'm writing- game on.)

And now- two products that thoroughly, completely bother me.

QUIETUS. For tinnitus. I heard about this on the radio. It, you know, "quiets" that ringing, buzzing, terrible sound in your ears. The website actually has sound clips of what types of noise can be heard in the overworked inner ear. Thanks, Quietus, I couldn't really picture what "shriek buzzing" would sound like. Does it work? Maybe. And that's fabulous. However, the product comes in a dual action eardrop and TABLET? I  can't- and don't want to- imagine how if the eardrops fail, chewing on something might work to tamp out the aftereffects of "rock music." Sure, sure, chewing gum helps your ears stop popping on an airplane...but I think we [they] should go directly to the source and make the eardrop stronger. I am no student of medicine. Could someone explain this better to me?

And LATISSE. To grow eyelashes. I have definitely mentioned this before, but it still bothers me. Everyone loves long eyelashes- especially the advertising industry- but the side effect? Darkening of irises. That's right, your gorgeous baby blues? Now a muddy brown. But your lashes are...slightly longer! Not worth it, I think. And I already have brown eyes! Look, falsies are still being made for a reason, ladies.

Lashes. False lashes.

I've left you with enough to ponder for a Monday morning.

I think you should all go do the "things" you do between blog postings.

I'll wait.

Two weeks. Gosh, that sounds definite.

I've been watching a lot of television lately. I have little to no energy left to renovate or get the house baby-ready at the end of a workday (my new mindset: the baby can sleep on me. Here, throw me that towel.) Between episodes of Ghost Whisperer wherein I cry like my arm is being broken off at the shoulder (I don't know where this new obsession is coming from- I never used to watch 'ion: positively entertaining' tv) and various Laws & various Orders, I've been enjoying the heck out of batty commercials for folks who have been "trapped" into debt. Sure, debt is superbly easy to accrue (I've, ah, heard) but the best part is the statement in bold across the screen that reiterates what the "paid spokesperson, not an actual lawyer" proclaims: "Over 2k in debt? IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT." Really? Not even the InStyler hair straightener or the Slanket? (I can't resist the new skull n' bones pattern.) I mean, I definitely believe that infomercials hold a certain sway over all of us, but no one's holding an UltraSmooth to your head to fork over your AmEx. I feel better, however, knowing that I am not to blame. If there's anything I hate more than debt, it's personal responsibility. (And frizzy hair, cold appendages and stubble.)

On a similar note, what would really happen if I followed the advice of some of those ads that implore you to "Tell 'em ___ sent ya!" If I walked into a pharmacy and proclaimed that Wilford Brimley should've called ahead for me, do you think that would fly?

"Oh, how is he?"

"...Fine."

And while we're on the topic of blatant consumerism, what the heck is Target's problem? I went in seeking nursing bras (sorry) and asked a lady in the section clearly labeled 'Maternity." You would have thought I asked her to jump my car with the look she gave me.

"Uh, that's not my department. Maybe try LINGERIE?"

(My bad. Many things come to mind with the word 'lingerie.' Snap-top bras and supportive elastic bands are not two of them. Those definitely seem "maternal" to me.") Searched for about ten minutes in the lingerie section and almost ventured over to Patio Furniture to ask for help when I finally found them. They were clearly marked and displayed in the three inch by seven inch gap BEHIND a support beam and hidden by two perpendicular racks of knee socks. OF COURSE. I actually did have to ask for help in getting them out (I no longer span 3x7 inches in any part of my upper torso. Sorry.)

And why oh WHY do maternity pants have sewn-up pockets? The inside fabric is still there, why all the secrecy? I really don't think anything with the word "maternity" in it should be just for show. For I have nothing I wish to show any longer.

One last gripe. For today. I think. If one more person tells me how 'lucky' I am that I don't have to 'go through actual labor,' in terms of my impending c-section, I may rip out their tongue and shove it down their throat, gushing about their luck in not having to actually swallow any longer. That's me, Lucky Charms Flynn. When's the last time major abdominal surgery was considered a prize? There will be a person there whose sole job it will be to hold my major internal organs outside of my abdominal cavity for about an hour. I mean, I would never say the same to a gal who was about to undergo a natural childbirth, proclaiming her luck in avoiding needles and all forms of nasty painkillers! LUCK would be used to describe someone who was tapped gently on the shoulder and woken from a lovely sleep only to be cheerfully told that she seemed to have had a baby in her sleep. Would you like an ice cream sandwich?

I DO, however, feel lucky that I live in a time where the term DuraMorph is a real one. Think about how lovely those words are and how sweet they sound all mashed together like that. Morphine for the Duration. My new Emo band.

And finally, this last little bit of awesome was sent to me by my sister, who had had it forwarded to her from a pal. But it is I who will put it out there for public consumption and discussion: click here, please.

Check out the 'About Us' section. Go down to bio of ol' 'Chuck.' I'll wait.

Okay. There are three phrases that stand out to me. "All inclusive neutering" is one. "Special gift" is another. Also, that (unnecessary) bit about the more exciting relationship with Barbara.

Your assignment? Tell me what's going on in that scenario. Also, what to do about my now-bleeding ocular cavities.

Seriously. I will wait here until you do. And wish that Slankets came in psyche-size.

Are they trying to intimidate me?

Well, I needn’t have been worried. With the end of Great Expectations (the class, not the book- I finished that in ’96) I feared that my baby saga would no longer be funny- or, worse yet, no longer bring up relevant and timely pregnancy ads on my sidebar. (Have you noticed them? I get maybe an eighth of a cent every time you use one. Click click, people!)

As it turns out, being pregnant is still SO MUCH FUN that the wackiness practically perpetuates itself. For example, leaving the doctor’s office the other day (kiddo is still breech, there’s nothing joyful and wacky in that- it’s just mean) some random dude approached me on Michigan Ave and jazz-handed this amazing bit of advice into my general midsection area: “If it’s a boy, name him KEITH!” Which is a very nice name, all in all, but I now associate it with a heart attack.

And as I walked into Sephora for some much needed makeup reinforcements, I was greeted with the phrase, “Hi there, Big Mommy!” Uh, wha? I am not your Mommy, FRIEND, not even in the hip hop sense. (And I know much bigger people, with child or not. So there.)

As for the Bitsy not turning head-down yet, P.J. had a stunning realization last night before sleep (which, as I’m finding out, is when a goodly bit of all frightening parental revelations occur)- NEITHER OF US EVER LEARNED TO DIVE. Ever! Sure, we’ve taken countless lessons and know the basic mechanics, but we’ve never been able to get past that critical last second don’t-move-your-upper-torso, rendering us doomed to face-plant and/or belly flop. We have no one to blame but ourselves! Perhaps we are genetically geared to fear being fully head-down. I forgive you, Bitsy. And I apologize.

This past weekend we had the distinct pleasure of having no less than four family members stay at the new Chez Schoeny! (Even more doors and baseboards have been added, making a fairly convincing case that people can, indeed, reside here.) P.J.'s parents were hosting a faboo baby shower for us, and my mom and big sis both came to play! (In my mother's case, she came to do all of the baby's laundry and cook and store enough of my favorite foods for me to have three or more maternity leaves. Oooh...)

The shower was superbly fun, and I was feted with gifts that, years ago, would have warranted a polite smile and a carefully worded thank-you note; now they receive a full on bear hug and awkward amounts of grateful tears. For example: receiving blankets. Now, I have blankets. BUT NOT LIKE THESE! These are crafted from clouds and embroidered with whimsical animals that, you guessed it, make me cry. And a Pack n' Play, which, as everybody knows, is essentially a padded cage. With monkeys. BUT NOT MINE! Mine is a place to Put. The. Baby. Down. With monkeys. (And, according to my mother, I refused to be removed from my playpen- as they were called in the good ol' days of 1980- until I was roughly seven years of age. I think this will be a good addition to our home.)

But then everybody left and I cried (not in the good way- there's a slight difference in cadence of sobs) and then I took a nap. And then I ate more food than was potentially wise. (Whatever, it was in my freezer and my mother labeled it. Are you saying my MOTHER'S food isn't wise? It is very wise. And Armenian! Which, as you'll all remember, is calorie-free.)

So, back to work. I spent the morning with my 18-month old gal Scout (who, for the record, is not feeling well. And may the record show that neither are Julia or Lily. COME ON, GALS! Chance is fine, but just informed me that the soccer practice I took him to was, "kinda a dropoff class, Kiki, so, uh...")

Scout has a doll house from the '70s that I adore playing with. One of the big ol' Fisher-Price plastic deals with housewife dolls in orange floral jumpers and babies with Kewpie-doll curls. As we played, however, I found myself admiring the yellow plastic staircase and the extra-wide pink master bathroom sink near the curvy "plush" (read: plastic) bed. After a moment, I realized that the feeling in my gut was (not intestinal distress- though common), but...envy. I was JEALOUS of a three-story Victorian PLASTIC house with a wraparound porch and terrace windows in the attic! I had malice in my heart for anyone lucky enough to live in a furnished Fisher-Price house. How messed up is that? (I know, I know, we've done a ton to our li'l piece of the Fisher-Price American Dream already, and soon we'll be in excellent shape. You know, once we add the rest of the doors and baseboards, finish painting the trim and some fixtures, completely revamp the bathrooms, purge the furnace vents and find out what is making THAT TERRIBLE SMELL.)

And I get to have a baby soon!

I also recently remembered that, when I'm not pregnant, I enjoy writing. In fact, I enjoy it SO much that I signed on for playwriting projects MONTHS ago...that I just had the distinct pleasure of recalling their deadlines. Which happened to be this week. Last night was a blur of reformatting Final Draft scripts, attempting to print them out into legible portfolios, and driving around to various office supply stores to find a mammoth enough manila envelope that would safely encase the gargantuan piles of paper (of which my printed name may or may not be the only intelligible portion.) Please continue to hire me, Chicago theatre community!

And that was the only aberration from Date Night Month (the happiest newly-created and soon to be a distant memory Month of the year!) We started off with a home-cooked meal and a baked apple crisp (I baked! And nothing terrible happened!) followed by an evening of our favorite On Demand shows- or, as I call them, my Programs. (I am so very much my Nana Alice at times.) The next night we saw "The Informant" (you know, starring my good pal Scott Bakula? He knows me) at the Davis Theatre and had a dinner of popcorn and Coldstone Creamery, followed by a bedtime of 9:30pm- WOO! Tonight we're making it to an actual Cubs game, after having successfully eaten the cost of the other five times we tried to go this season. Sure, it'll be down to the '40s in temp tonight, and yeah, it may or may not rain...but we are going to have a DATE NIGHT with the CUBS and perhaps a HOTDOG.

Oh, and the picture posted above? Yeah, that's the actual sign on the hand dryer at my doctor's office (where they make me pee in cups roughly five times a visit- which is, sadly, totally do-able.) FEEL THE POWER, it says. Oh, and I do. One swipe of my slightly damp hands anywhere within ten feet of the nozzle and it's suddenly a leaf-blower. You know when skydivers get that rubber face from all the wind shoving their cheeks back like Wallace and Gromit? It's like that. The skin on my hands actually wiggles. And I do NOT have wiggly skin.

Yet.

Gimme a few more weeks. I'm sure I'll have an equally delightful name for that Month as well.