Happy Anniversary, You Crazy Kids!

This couple.

They met and decided to go have some wild adventures and then he built her a house on Cape Cod.
Then they had a kid.
(And then they had this kid.)

And then two more kids, which everyone agreed was a) not "a little brother" and b) not "a trip to Disney World."

Then came two more houses, at least three business ventures, and a whole menagerie, which [eventually] included five dogs, five cats, two hamsters, and at least thirty fish.

And they are now these folks. (Smushed in the back.)

And we clearly no longer allow them to take pictures by themselves.

Today is their 39th anniversary. (40th for dating.) Here's what I wrote to them two years ago. And it's still all true. (Especially the bit about my Dad not being able to brush a decent ponytail. But since he's more than come through in other aspects, we'll continue to let it slide.)

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. May you have another 40 [gazillion]. The traditional gift for "39" is lace. But I think we all know what your hearts desire...

A much bigger couch.

Sweet Home Chicago.

Goodness, she's young. Also, a little cold.

Tomorrow marks my 10th anniversary with Chicago. That's a long time, especially with my track record. (Don't be alarmed, Peej. I'm different now.)

What should've been a one-season stand with a city (I had my eye on you, Los Angeles, and you sure turned my head, NYC- but we weren't the ones for each other) turned into a full on crushfest of epic proportions, later mellowing into a comfortable, long-term love. The kind that feels like Saturday mornings in Fall, or a cozily faded hoodie. But one which can still pleasantly surprise you and make you wonder what else they've been keeping under wraps all these years.

Chicago, thank you for your system of streets on a grid. You can't possibly know what a mess I was before I met you. I mean, I moved here from Boston. Boston! Even for someone good with directions and/or the space/time continuum, Boston is tricky. But with you, I can count blocks in my head and know that I'm getting roughly towards where I ought to be. (As long as I know that the big ol' body of water is East. Always East. Never changes, not even that one time when I was sure it had.)

Thank you for Edgewater, where my first apartment was and I was able to have my own beach. Mine! (And the rest of the block's!) Yes, the water was freezing cold and the lifeguards weren't that interested in guarding my life...but it made me less homesick. (Because any lake big enough to have its own tides...well, that goes a long way for a girl used to the Atlantic.)

Thanks for the amazingness that is downtown Chicago during the holidays. The Christkindlmarket was what got me through my first job here. Which I will not name. (Because a bar and grille that requires 14 hours of work, face time with slimy staff and patrons, and a payout of thirty bucks a day doesn't deserve free advertising.) But walking through the Daley plaza (amidst glass icicles and a sea of mulled wine in boots) and elbowing my way down a lit-up Michigan Ave restored some of my good will toward [poorly tipping] men.

I'm grateful for Wrigleyville. Because everyone should live there at least once (if only to say to oneself- "Hmm, Sports. Yeah, I'm good.") Wrigleyville is like Chicago's Sorting Hat. And it eventually scurried me over to Roscoe Village, my neighborhood Happy Place. Chicago, thanks for Roscoe Village, with its outdoor eateries, street fests, and my old backyard with the strawberry patch.

A high-five for Chinatown and its availability of 4am fried rice in a pineapple. On that note, thank you for 1am char-cheddar dogs at The Wiener's Circle (and a healthy dose of verbal abuse from its staff) and midmorning tamales verdes from the gal with the rainbow umbrella.

Because of our love, Chicago, I was able to drive past Indiana cornfields and Wisconsin cheese castles, marveling at the beautiful foreignness of both.

Thanks for the families for whom I've nannied along the way, and the eleven children who've hung upside down at the playlots with me.

And thanking you for your theatre scene is a little like thanking my childhood home for having floors...but I'll thank you anyway. The ability to live and breathe and eat and drink shows (after I had tipped out, of course) cemented my decision to be an actor forever and ever (until I didn't want to anymore). The famous theaters. The accessible ones where a newcomer could actually work. The troupes that were started in someone's living room with a group of college friends. The ones who put up my first professionally produced plays as a playwright. And the one that brought me my husband.

Thank you, Chicago, for shoving P.J. right up against me. (And you'd tried for years; what with the job interviews at Fizz, the New Year's Eve we both had tickets to Gunther Murphy's, the seat next to me at the Kevin Spacey talkback- which P.J. had, at the last minute, given to a friend in his stead...)

Chicago, if you and I hadn't met, I'd never have started this gorgeous life with P.J. And we wouldn't have our two daughters. (Nor this ramshackle house, but on a sliding scale of cosmic importance...)

When you and I started our little fling, Chi-town, I forged friendships with a group of newcomers, all trying their hand at this theatre thing. They've since scattered to all points east and west (with the last pal trekking her way to the Pacific Northwest in short order) to become lawyers and teachers and medical professionals...and I've surprisingly become the last holdout. Me, the one you could've taken or left when we first locked eyes.

So thanks for changing with me from confused 22 year-old actress, nanny, and Northside renter to 32 year-old writer, wife, mother, and Northwestside homeowner. You're an incomparable town with attributes I haven't even begun to list (transit/ book fairs/ world class restaurants/ museums/ miles of parks and forest preserves/ the three ice cream men on my block alone) and I can't wait to see what else you've got up your big sleeves.

Happy anniversary.

Love, Keely

Four Years Young!

Not a single thing has changed. (Enjoy it now,
you ridiculously well-rested fool.)

Lollygag Blog turned four years old yesterday. Which means that it's now bossy, energetic, and decently good with the English language. (Up to a point.)


What started out as a writing exercise to keep myself motivated for plays/diverted from checking my Facebook status every three minutes has turned into a cheerful time-suck of epic proportions.


Let's take a look back to what we were blogging about during that first year, shall we?


Here's one, dated October 1st, 2008- and it's a slice of life at the Schoeny household, sans kids, sans house, sans anything except unfettered late twentysomethingitude:

An excerpt- "The next thing Keely knows, the movie is indefinitely paused, P.J. has dismembered the coffee grinder, and he's asking her to look up the manual online. He calls out the product code from the other room. (Keely wonders where he's getting the product code from and hence doesn't pay attention to her typing. Her fingers are cold, too.) She gets it wrong. He repeats. The manual comes up and they discover that the grinder isn't intended for flavored coffee beans. (Attention KitchenAid: If you're telling me that I can't have freshly ground cinnamon hazelnut coffee each day then I don't wish to live in your America.)"

Okay, sure, life back then was pretty swell. But just the next year THIS was going on in the baby prep department:

"Last night was our first Great Expectations class at Northwestern (do they mean for the class? For my Expectations are only Meh) and what a time was had by all! Eight to ten couples eyeing the other eight to ten couples with these actual inner monologues: Guys- Does he make more money than me? Is he younger than me?/ Gals- She best be delivering after me. She is ridiculously tiny. I don't think she's really pregnant."


By 2010, there was a new sheriff in town. She was very tiny, but very, very loud. And our leisurely evening routines had changed...


"However, as we got Nora ready for bed (jammies, sleepsack, sleep hat, sleep mittens- it is chilly in her bedroom- two books, five songs, sponging of her gums under the guise of toothbrushing, monitors on, humidifier elephant on, mini space heater on- it is COLD- and noise machine on (her room faces the Kedzie alley, woot woot!), I noticed that Peej was extremely tired. His rendition of Corduroy was, shall we say, sleepy. By the time Nora fell asleep in her crib (I think the bedtime routine wears her out, frankly), P.J. had also faceplanted on a giraffe blanket, a copy of Goodnight Moon, and one of the cats. Boy, I was peeved. So peeved that I downed a Newcastle and half a box of Girl Scout (no court in the land would convict me) and watched the show. By. Myself. Peeved. And faceplanted into a pile of towels, a monkey blanket, and a fleece with ears before the show ended." 


And by last year? Well, even with an uber-active Nora and another of my signature crazypants pregnancies, I was still managing to keep it all together in the form of once a month Wii workouts: 


"I decided to hop on the ol' Wii Balance board- with Nora in tow. (Side note- try working out with a toddler if you ever want to 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 I'm squeezing in a workout between liverwurst sandwiches at all. They are not programmed to receive sarcasm (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!"


And that brings us roughly up to date. Sure, a few other things have happened (we met Miss Zuzu, our house imploded, etc.), but by and large the same themes are present: 


P.J. continues to be a good guy. Nora keeps on bossin' on. Susannah beams at people. The house pretends to be a livable abode. The cats still contemplate running away from home. I nap whenever possible. And lovely people continue to read and comment and re-post and validate this completely unexpected obsession of mine, furthering delusions of blogging grandeur and inspiring me to post things forever and ever, Amen. 


(Thanks for reading.) 

Tuesday Is No Longer The Weekend.

I am failing to understand why she is no longer in Chicago.

Please pardon the fact that I did not post yesterday morning: I was having way too much of a weekend to be bothered with things like computers (and showers).

My college bestie came to visit, and we proceeded to engage in activities that our 19 year-old selves would've popped eyeballs over. For instance, pushing a double stroller through a tree-lined neighborhood. Convincing a toddler to finish her corndog. Asking (for the thousandth time) if anyone needs to use the potty.

Maybe that last one isn't so different.

A baby's hours are not unlike a collegiate's.

We also did some very grownup things, like getting drinks at The Violet Hour. And falling asleep on the couch in front of a movie.

And thanks to that same bestie, Peej and I were able to go out for an anniversary dinner at Schwa (because my husband transcends limitations like Impossible To Get Reservations At and Volatile Chef Who Sometimes Decides Not To Open Said Restaurant)- but that stellar dinner is another post in the making. And everyone already knows how much I adore my supra-cool husband.

And even though we utterly failed at finding beach parking (but witnessed the absolute worst of humanity in the form of a U-turn cutoff, stolen parking spot, and subsequent terrible behavior in front of their own kids), we still enjoyed the gorgeously hot weather and exceptional company.

Only Auntie Kivvy will do.

So many, many thanks to the men and women who gave their lives to provide not only a long weekend's break but to keep our country safe. Which frees me up to write about completely inconsequential things like what I ate for my nine course meal. (Black truffles.)

As Nora said- Oh, thank you soldiers.

While she devoured a rapidly melting cup of ice cream.

But it was from the heart.

Grateful. And full of sugar.

In Dog Years It's A Lot Longer.

We look so, so awesome in this picture.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which may or may not actually be a thing.

But which I wholeheartedly mean, nonetheless.

(Happy anniversary.)

Ten Years Later.

I'm not much of a Bandwagon-Jumper...nor am I inclined to be a Dolores Downer (my Mom's name is Deb- and she's rather peppy), but I'd be extremely remiss in not acknowledging the 10th anniversary of September 11th.

It seems like everywhere I turned yesterday, there were flag wavers, remembrances of the day, and country lyrics galore.

Well, I have no country lyrics for you (except, randomly, I do have Folsom Prison Blues stuck in my head), and the only flag I have is miniature, left over from the Fourth, and has recently been confiscated from my toddler and her attempts to impale the cat.

I guess that leaves us with my tale of Where Were You. Even though, frankly, it's completely unimportant in the grand scheme of events and wholly unrelated to anything that was going on in New York, Pennsylvania, or Washington, D.C.

I was 21 and a senior at Hampshire College, on a tiny apple orchard in the middle of Amherst, MA. I was a teaching assistant for a theatre class- it took place at 10:30am or some other ridiculously late in the morning hour (but for which I remember lamenting my "early" bedtime of midnight the evening prior). My mother called and woke me that morning- but honestly, all I recall was the panic in her voice over a plane crash and her pleading with me to stay safe. (And in the bubble of The Valley, it was really, really hard to feel anything but.) So, honestly, I didn't give it as much attention as I ought to have. Until I turned on the common area TV and saw the second plane hit.

And it was so weird- SO weird- that I simply went about the rest of my morning prep. I was extremely shocked and worried, of course, but in the protective cocoon of my life up until that moment, I had no basis for the type of horror I was witnessing.

I walked to class. All around me people were moving like zombies and waiting for someone to tell them that Things Were Okay.

We sat in class for about ten minutes- and I swear to God, some of the students were looking to me for direction. (Really? I barely know the syllabus I helped to create. I'm hardly a source of authority for an American crisis.) Our professor eventually dismissed us all- and it turns out that all of the day's classes had been cancelled as well- so I went back to Mod 96. (Aside to non-Hampshirites; that's what on-campus apartments were called. Ours had a balcony, a God Door, a catwalk and...other details completely irrelevant to the story.)

My roommates and I remained glued to our TV, unsure as to what to do...but feeling though it was our job to keep watching. Some of my best friends hailed from NYC, and their panic was mine as they were unable to reach their parents for hours. Someone brought out a bottle of whiskey and- though I much prefer vodka with a mixer of some sort- I'll admit that I did a shot or two.

The rest of the day (and that week) was a blur. And not due entirely to the whiskey. We all felt a mix of sadness and unease that eventually made way to a sense of national pride (extremely rare at our age/demographic/enrollment at a hipster college where dissatisfaction and too-cool-for-schoolitude was de rigeur). 

(And that pride inevitably led to bafflement and outrage, but that's another story, too.)

But like I said, my story- one of safe, secure, witnessing- has virtually no impact on the day's events.

Except that it ties me into the fabric of a society that remembers.

Get in the house.

Little kids.

The traditional third anniversary gift is leather. The modern one is crystal, or- if one is feeling frugal- glass.

I am giving P.J. none of these tomorrow.

Instead, today I'll regale everyone with one of the best Peej stories in the history of...maybe ever. (Although, when this tale occurred I was carrying an awesome leather bag and P.J. almost got his face smashed through glass. So to anyone who still feels that this blog has no tie-ins, well, I just laugh at you, sir.)

Okay. So this was back in the late summer of 2005. Our relationship was squeaky new (and a fortunately small group of people had taken to calling us "KeeJay"). I was twenty five. Peej was a positively toddler-esque twenty four. And we had been out late. The show in which we had performed had ended for the weekend and we had- quite possibly- stayed a little too long at the After Hours bar. And while we certainly weren't drunk, one of us was a little more tired than polite conversation demanded.

Our cab let us off on the busy intersection near my studio apartment and we began our walk towards it. Halfway down my tree-lined block, a car whizzed by- way closer to the parked cars and entirely faster than P.J. deemed appropriate. In true P.J. fashion, he yelled after it.

"This is a residential neighborhood!"

Out of nowhere, a smallish group of Wrigleyville jocks appeared on the other end of the block. Telling P.J. to stop being such an expletive and yelling at them.

P.J. explained- loudly- that he wasn't TALKING to them.

Expletive.

Expletive.

Quicker than you can say "full body cast," we were surrounded by the frattiest looking group of White Hats- and one trashed and trashy-looking girl. Awesome.

They demanded to know all about P.J.'s beef with various issues. Peej conjectured that speeds of that car's nature were unsafe this early in the a.m. It got rather heated, but not too unmanageable.

Until a hand reached out and shoved P.J.'s back. Which propelled him into the chest of the largest guy- with the White Hat most firmly turned backwards. Then came a lovely shoving backwards and forwards of various hands into various chests. Now, I'm no psychic, but I knew how this short story would end. Especially since this little, red-headed dude kept popping his face into P.J.'s and demanding to know "who was talking now."

There was a momentary lull in the action, which enabled P.J. to turn and offer up the most P.J. of all phrases he would ever utter to me, be it past, present, or future-

"Get in the house."

Oh, OKAY. I'll just leave you to your pummelly death then, shall I? Okie doke. I'll start getting ready for bed.

I ignored this advice, much to P.J.'s confusion. (Like I said, we were really new.) I then decided that this mission needed an ambassador mission and turned to the drunk girl.

"This is crazy," I informed her. "We need to stop this."

"My baby's gotta take care of me, you know?" She actually slurred at me. "He protects me from people disrespecting."

Uh, sure, Useless Girl With Imagined Slights. I chalked her up to be the least valuable person involved in the skirmish- maybe the city- and turned to one of the guys not currently shoving the boy I had decided would father my child in four and a half years.

"Please," I begged him. "This is stupid. I live right here and he hadn't even been talking to you. We almost got hit by a car!" I omitted P.J.'s strong feelings on speed bump necessities and also the gin and tonic- which I had just decided would be stricken from his drink menu until I died. (Which was looking pretty imminent.)

For some reason, this guy took pity on me. Or perhaps he felt something (respect? incredulousness?) towards P.J. fighting off six guys.

"Hey." And they stopped. It was magical. Curt words were exchanged and P.J. was grudgingly allowed to leave the circle of death. He and I walked towards the exterior door of my building and I unlocked it, all the while hearing mutterings of dismayed frat boys and one pathetic girl's misplaced prideful ramblings. As  soon as P.J. and I were almost safely inside the front door, the redhead piped up something obnoxious and unrepeatable. And since Peej has enough Irish in him to not let something like that lie- ever- he shouted back his own anatomical request.

And just like that, a crush of bodies shoved forwards.

Safely locking us into my building's foyer.

P.J. and I went upstairs and I contemplated having to move. As soon as we were contained in my apartment, he turned to me with a completely inappropriate gleeful smile.

"That was crazy!"

And while I didn't hit him- per se- I'm pretty sure he was more afraid of me than the pack of sporty hyenas down the street. Which is the basis for an solid marriage. And while nothing of that ilk has ever happened since, it was the first of many times where I knew that P.J. would happily face an angry mob (be it during the closing on our property or bugging the nurse for more post c-section painkillers)- as long as I had gotten into the metaphorical house.

And he still feels the exact same way about speed limits on tree-lined streets.

(I love you, Peej.)

A kiss for luck and we're on our way...

Crazy kids.

First off, a big ol' smoochy Thank You to everyone who bloggily voted. As clichéd as it sounds, I was stoked to be a top five nominee...and surrounded by stellar loved ones/fans/readers with top notch internet service. Results next Sunday night! Meetcha by the Twitter feed.

I've got anniversaries on the brain as of late. This past Friday was the 37th wedding anniversary for my folks Deb and Dave- or, more commonly, Mim and Pop. (I actually coined both of those nicknames back in high school, way before they were grandparents. Who would've thought my quirky nomenclature would be immortalized by four short people? Their grandkids, btw, not their daughters.)

Mama Moderne actually just posted my latest piece, which details the love story of those very same parents. Or at least the cleaned-up, made for mid-afternoon TV love story.

Thirty seven years seems positively ambitious at times. Especially when I'm just approaching three years of wedded bliss with my patient husband whom, just last night, gave me the world-weariest look o' looks. (And we've only just begun!)

Last week also marked a different anniversary of sorts for me; it was a year ago that I decided to buy the rights to my blog. Now, I don't know if the shorter web addy has anything to do with it, but I've steadily added 2k new hits to my blog each month since then. That's also around the time when I began taking occasional advertisers and doing reviews. I don't want to brag, but my bi-monthly income would let me live a pretty sweet life in Malawi. For about a week.

Yesterday some lovely friends were over for brunch, and the topic turned- as it so often does among the late-twenties/early thirties set- of piercings we used to possess. They included the typical earrings and lip rings- and someone's husband had a truly questionable piercing inspired by a long ago girlfriend who would never become his wife- and it was then that I remembered my own odd piercing. And how it was the ten year anniversary of such.

When I was 20 years old- and it can't even be called a rebellious piercing, since that's embarrassingly late for such- I had my tragus pierced. (As my Dad said when I called to announce it- That'd better be visible.) And it is. Unless I'm wearing my hair down. (It's on the ear.) Back then, getting the inner flap of one's ear pierced was all the rage. Among hippie hipsters in Amherst, MA. I have no idea what inspired it, but one morning I woke up and informed my friend Vicky that we were going to drive into town and get me some piercin'.

And then I chickened out. But by that time, a guy was coming at me with a hook-shaped needle. Thankfully, he was so bogglingly attractive that I stared at his pretty face until my nerves settled and the blood subsided. (It freaking hurt. And it turned out that he was gay. Thanks for nothing, Hot Piercing Boy.)

At first I really dug it. And then I got a little sick of it. But every time I almost removed it for good, I remembered the searing pain. So in it stayed. Then years went by and the longer I kept it, the longer I felt I should keep it. Other things came and went, like the belly button ring (as a joke with a boyfriend who indeed became a husband) that I feared would not stand the test of motherhood. (I do not miss it. My halter-wearing, bejeweled-navel ship has since set sail. Toot toot.)

So happy anniversary Mom and Dad, Lollygag Blog, and left ear. May you always be as blissfully happy as you were that very day.

Except for the tragus thing.

I am not kidding about the pain.