Now you're thinking about the taco spoon, aren't you?

There's something quite special about waking up on a Monday morning- and feeling like you're already way behind. Here's the problem: On the weekends, I like to play this game called I Have No Responsibility. It's true. I don't know where this bad habit came from. I've never in my life had more to do on the weekends and have never been better at disregarding it.

It's strange. Most weekend mornings, Peej and Nora let me sleep in 'til the 7 o'clock hour (= Disneyland n' puppies n' sunshine) and he gets to be the one covered in all things breakfast. Sometimes he puts her down for- not one- but two naps! You'd think all of this would free me up for things like cleaning, preparing meals, maybe writing? Nooope. While he's wrangling the Bitsy, I can usually be found lying on the living room floor, balancing my second mug of coffee on my chest (I hope someone out there is enjoying the benefits of my half-caf experiment, for my system sure isn't) and whining about how much I have to do. And then not doing it.

And then P.J. works on the yard. And I follow him out to kick at the dirt and ask him what he's doing. Over. And. Over. It's almost like I expect this sudden help/freedom to immediately equate an 8 year-old's summer vacation. Take away the mad rush of stress and I am utterly useless.

P.J. suggests that I go rest or read. I snap at him that he's trying to make me go away.

P.J. [carefully] states that I sure have been wanting some time to write. I'm not in the Right Mood, I tell him. Obviously. (I kinda wonder if he thinks that Right Mood needs to go hand in hand with a sparkling clean house, a fully caffeinated beverage, and a foot rub. At the ocean. With someone else recording my thoughts. And a small but respectable crowd applauding politely.)

And then Nora wakes up and I snap back into Busy Mode. Because- and this has always, always been the case- our summer weekends start booking up in March. Not because we are popular. Oh no. In fact, most of our friends dislike us greatly for our inability to hang out- so we make one on one plans with them. On the next free weekend. And when someone has a shindig or a non baby-friendly event (totally their right- sometimes I feel downright PG-13 myself) we try to ease the sting of our lameness by giving them the NEXT free weekend after that. And, because we're a couple between the ages of 20-45, this is "wedding season." Making it sound like people are shooting at married people. (Which, being one, I also totally understand.) On top of that, P.J. and I have a combined seven siblings, five sibling in-laws, four parents, and ten nieces and nephews who do really fun things like a) get born, b) vacation in boaty places and c) like to see us on non-holiday-esque weekends. (Which, when the others' hear about these jaunts, they join on in. Making it a holiday-esque weekend.) And THEN- oh then- on weekends when we could feasibly stay in the place where we toss all of our savings (Home Depot), we hear about Festivals That We Love.


And here's a little secret about Chicago. In the summer, you can't win. There will never be a weekend where you can enjoy one great event and not completely miss out on another. The weather is so rotten here for so much of the year that the city decides to cram as much amazingness as possible into ten short weekends. ("Please stay one more year," they seem to implore.) This past weekend, for example, was the Folk and Roots Festival. Which I missed. Because the Roscoe Village Garden Walk/Burger Fest was going on. (Hint- if you ever wish to locate the Schoeny family, check out local Garden Walks. We cannot resist them. Also, burgers.) 


We got to give in to two of our favorite cravings yesterday; street fair food and pretending we still live in Roscoe Village. Nora had her first cheese curds yesterday. Not surprisingly, she dug them. (Actual overheard conversation at a vendor: Girl returning her cheese curds- "Uh, this is just fried cheese!?" Vendor- ..."Yeah?" Points to sign: Fried. Cheese. Curds.) 


Also, I love that Nora chows on grilled bok choy and sautéed rainbow chard during the week...and eats like a frat boy on the weekends. (Although I did bring her a baggie of peas which she much preferred to her Stilton burger.)

I tried to bake yesterday morning- even though baking requires precise "math" and usually, my eyes glaze over when I try to follow detailed directions. But there was this fabulous-looking recipe for lemon and sour cream muffins in Parade magazine (Pah-rahd) and it seemed simple enough for a preschooler to follow. Perfect. Sure, the sour cream had been compromised (a taco spoon had been dipped- oh, maybe two weeks ago) but that sure wasn't gonna stop me. And yes, the magazine forgot to include that pesky little detail of how hot to make the oven, but- those two details aside, they came out tasting like MUFFINS!  P.J. and Nora each had two. I had four. Which brings us to...

...Last night I went to Pilates, bringing my non-Wii workouts for the past two months up to...once.

And last night, after the obligatory (for Peej) viewing of True Blood, I experienced the manliest channel surfing experience ever. Alien vs. Predator/The Godfather (Part 1)/Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Some thoughts:

a) Could this be the bloodiest three hours of television ever viewed?
b) What about the last one makes it a "requiem?" That sounds like an awfully fancy way of saying "we did it again."
c) Why was Appollonia never again acknowledged by Al Pacino- or anyone else in the movie- in Sicily, America or otherwise? This hampered my movie-viewing experience. Then again, the baby being carted around in The Hangover had a similar effect. (It was WAY too long for that kid to not have eaten/napped/been in the shade.)

So. Right. Monday.

From the hours of 6:30am to 8am I fed Nora, cleaned Nora, mopped the floor (not out of any virtuous desire- I was kinda stuck to it) and did a load of laundry (same reasons). Played with Nora's toys- she did, too- and read a dozen animal books, making appropriate sounds. Got packed up for this late morning/afternoon's work and, realizing that Nora had a nose full of boogs- wiped it on my shirt. (Why? Why do I do this? And not even on her shirt- mine!) Started another load of laundry.

In short, I got more "done" around the house in an hour and a half than I did all weekend. There's gotta be some lesson or moral in here.

And I'm totally gonna think about that.

After one more muffin.

In like a lion, out like a...nope, still a lion.

Can we talk about Avatar?


That's right, I'm the gal who posts about a movie the day AFTER the Oscars. But, as I'm not invested in the Oscars at all- weird for a writer n' actor, no?- I feel no shame. Heck, I rarely even see movies in the theater. As stated before, we [P.J.] are [is] a strictly Netflix home. 


That said- Avatar. We saw it in 3-D over at Webster Place. Peej really wanted to see it in 3-D, and since Alice In Wonderland was going to replace it in a matter of days...of we went. Nora had a party with her favorite [only] sitter Teeny. Whom I was in the Vivian Girls' show with in 2008 when I understudied every female part, including those of people just walking in front of the theater. AND for whom I got a nanny gig a couple of years ago. Thusly priming her for the occasional Nora (or whomever)-watchin'. (Alllllways thinking.) 


Anyway. Avatar. It was...long. Fun, but long. I still possess a child-sized bladder and pregnancy has done nothing to help this condition. (Plus, we had just downed a humongous soda to "split" with our quick burgers at Five Guys- I wanted a Diet Coke and P.J. wanted something decidedly full-sugar. He compromised by doing half and half. I'm gonna go ahead and say that the irony was intentional.) Of course, once we got to the theater he raced through the line to buy a popcorn, a gargantuan Cherry Coke and an industrial-sized box of Raisinets. I am married to a fourteen year old boy.


So. THE MOVIE. Here's what I came away with: humans are bad. Very bad. Also, for all its talk of saving energy and worlds and such...I couldn't help but be overly aware of the mammoth carbon footprint being all stomped by the production, the tour circuit, the trailers, the craft service table, etc, etc. This was no indie shoestring budget jobber. Ohhh, Hollywood. Also, as Teeny put it, "I've already seen Pocahontas and Fern Gully." Although that did inspire her to Netflix Fern Gully for a repeat viewing. A venture for which Nora and I totally want in on. And yes, the movie was gorgeous. And now I want a dragon-like being. Again.


Friday brought a very exciting milestone to the Schoeny household- food! Nora tried her very first bowl of beyond-bland rice cereal mixed into just the right kinda mushy consistency. Mmm MMM! She didn't care so much for the cereal as food, exactly, but in terms of a new toy or activity? Game on. 


Friday night is also, as everyone knows, when P.J. and I watch The Soup. That's right, this half hour program at 9pm Central Time is something I look forward to all week. It means: Nora will be asleep, work is done for the week, I won't be starting any new projects before 7am and a beer/lemonade/embarrassingly herbal tea will be in my hand. <---lame, I know. However, as we got Nora ready for bed (jammies, sleepsack, sleep cap, 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 spaceheater 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, was I peeved. 


So peeved that I downed a Newcastle and half a box of Girl Scout samoas (no court in the land would convict me) and watched the show By. Myself.


Peeved.


And faceplanted into a pile of folded towels, a monkey blanket and a fleece with ears before the show ended.


The next day was ungodly warm for March in Chicago. We celebrated by going outside and walking around the various neighborhoods that are SO close to being on the Albany/Irving Park line and yet so much nicer. So so much nicer. Nora had her first stroller walk not bundled to the eyeballs and celebrated by...falling asleep and shoving a giraffe blanket into her face to block out all the fresh air and sunlight. We kept removing it and exclaiming things like "Nora, look! Birdhouses that haven't been vandalized! Breezes that don't smell like [delicious but NON-STOP] Columbian grills!" She responded by squawking like a howler monkey and holding the blanket even tighter to her face, thankyouverymuch. Ah well, at least we aired her out.


On Sunday night we went to the Harris Theater and saw The Magnetic Fields in concert. (Two dates in one week, you ask? It's true. We are very much in love. And Teeny is making bank on our impulsive decisions.) The show was superbly awesome and our seats were kinda incredible. However, the crowd, as indie crowds are wont to be, was dressed so much better than I was. Not nicer, mind you, just better. The Old Town School of Folk Music crowd, as Peej so aptly calls them, has a knack of out-whatevering me. Dressy event? I wear a dress. They wear a 1950s housedress from their grandmother and a perfectly ironic bob. Casual event? I wear jeans. They wear jeans that, while not marketed as "skinny" jeans, come off looking rather skinny anyhow. And while I try to shove my unruly falling-out mane into something resembling the ol' I Took A Shower Today look, THEY get to tie their hair up with a rubber band and look like a trillion bucks. 


But the show was still terrific. 


And on our way home? Realizing that we never ate dinner- it happens more often than you'd think- we stopped by the grandest of restaurants on Clark Street...the Weiner's Circle. Friends here will tell you that my love for the Weiner's Circle has only gotten stronger over the years, even though I can no longer wait outside at 3am to get my fix of a char-cheddar red hot with everything except sport peppers as well as an absolutely horrific talking-to by the underage and sassy as heck counter girls. (An actual overheard tidbit- "Nice pleather." "As nice as your weave.")


It was delicious. Obviously.


But now it's Monday, and before Nora and I head off to work we must attempt to destroy this pile of laundry (I swear that people are stopping by and adding their laundry to my machine- I can't possibly own this many towels) and bat at surfaces in an attempt to say that I cleaned. 


Maybe I'll shower. Once again, let's all dream big this week.