April Date: Folk Music And Empanadas And No Falling Asleep.

With all of the madness and world events and still jet-lagged children, I wasn't sure we'd manage a Date Night this month. However, P.J. wasn't about to end his streak o' dately awesome since Christmas- and surprised me with tickets to see Hem at The Old Town School of Folk Music. (Which, if y'all locals haven't managed to see a show there, do it. 'Cause it's the loveliest.)

Hem, a terrific folk band, hasn't toured in about six years and is now promoting their newest album. Which. Is. Lovely. Peej scored a table right in front of the stage, where we snacked on the obvious concert choice of empanadas and tea. (We are exactly one hundred and ten years old.)

Dawn Landes opened for Hem, and played a great acoustic set. She later came back to play with Hem- who played for nearly two hours. They performed some hits and fan favorites like Half Acre, and some new favorites like Identical Snowflakes (a beautifully adorable song about snowflakes who fall in love and decide to fall to the ground together- and which had me weeping like a toddler) and Last Call- a song about reminiscing at an ocean front bar. (Which served to make me want to be a) toasting with cocktails and b) near the Atlantic.) There was even a singalong (and everyone loves that) and P.J. and I were sure we were about to be hired for the rest of Hem's tour as lazy backup singers.

Definitely a chill date night, but one where we held hands and enjoyed just being still for the first time all week. (Month?)

And again, there were empanadas.

March Date: Sushi And Board Games And Nic Cage.

March's Date Night brought us to Macku, one of my favorite restaurants in Chicago- formerly Kaze, which had the distinct honor of being the sushi joint down the block from our Roscoe Village apartment. (It moved and changed names. Then again, so did I.)

We always get some sort of super white tuna appetizer. We always order drinks- my choice has never strayed from the lychee mimosa, each sip prompting me to implore P.J. to pick up some lychees somewhere- and Peej either gets a Manhattan or a Japanese beer or just water is fine, thanks. We always get "our" soups- they have a dozen fabulous ones, I'm sure, but we always stick to the two we randomly chose during our first time there in 2006. (His is a ginormous urn of spicy sweet potato something-or-other, mine is a carrot and crab puree in the teensiest demitasse cup you've ever seen. It's small because of its utter richness, but I dig using a miniature spoon and feeling like a giant.) We always get a handful of makimono- it doesn't matter which ones, they're all wicked good. And we always get the crazy-goodest dessert we've ever had; a sweet asparagus pudding swirled with chocolate and strawberry dipping sauces. (The first time we ordered it, we were surprised too.)

I love everything about you. (This is to my carrot soup and my husband.)

The meal was terrific, although our conversation never strayed far from the odd argument we seemed to be having regarding the Nicolas Cage flick The Family Man. (Our fight got really heated, despite the fact that P.J. had only seen the movie once and I never saw the thing at all.)

We agreed to disagree and drove north to Lakeview. P.J. asked if he could surprise me with the second part of Date Night. I said sure, fairly certain that he wasn't going to do anything crazy like propose, so I didn't worry about how my hair looked. [Awesome.]

I knew exactly where we were, however, once we turned onto Addison. Since I was pretty sure he wasn't heading into Wrigleyville, that left Guthrie's Tavern. The home of fabulous hot winter drinks and walls and walls of board games. Creature of habit that I am, I ordered the Hot Apple Pie, a wicked combo of cider, cinnamon sticks and Tuaca liqueur. (Peej got some sort of spiked cocoa, surprising no one at all. For I am married to a consistent eight year-old.)

Everyone looks sassy sippin' with straws.

And we played Last Word, a board game for which we understood roughly a quarter of the rules. I still won. Because I don't care if it's a board game, a novella, or a smoke signal- if it's called Last Word, the female's gonna have it.

Which P.J. obviously knew (and knows). Making him the best date ever.

February Date: Bowling Night (Sans Bowling).

Because my husband is so incredibly crazy about me-

And because he was rapidly running out of time for a so-called February date (for the newcomers to this date thing, catch up on the whole bizness here)-

You can tell I'm on a date.
I am wearing a tie.

He asked me out this past Tuesday for a wild evening of bowling and deep conversation in a dive bar-like atmosphere. I accepted, even though I'm not a "bowler," overmuch. Except. Our first stop- Waveland Bowl- was booked up solid because "Uh, it's league night?" Our second stop- Lincoln Lanes, the one actually closer to our house (P.J. had a plan. I was not privy to it, but he had a plan)- was also booked up for the following hour, and did we want to wait? And since we had told Angie (thanks, Angie!) that we'd only be gone for an hour-ish (livin' LARGE), we opted for beerz and poolz.

Seriously, there is not much difference between Bowling Date and Pool Playin' Date, Tuesday Night Date-wise. Especially if both parties are wearing hoodies and looking vaguely like unwashed teenagers.

Sharkz.

P.J. ran half the table as I watched and casually drank my beer- Okay, it was cider, I drank an imported cider. (I am the worst dive bar-goer ever.) Then, as I so often do with a goodly part of a drink in me, I became a pool shark. (Hear that, Ma? I learned from the best.) And I schooled him. Kinda slowly. But I won.

And then he promptly beat in the next game, but since I was still buzzing from my fierce win (and my one imported cider), I graciously congratulated him. And then it was time to go home because a) our neighbor is pregnant and shouldn't have to be out late because her friends are bowling/playing pool, b) Chicago was in the middle of a swirling snowstorm, and c) it was a Tuesday.

But obviously there was time to get milkshakes at Susie's Drive-In, the best 24/7 milkshake emporium in the history of ever (in a rather scary looking shack-like place); coconut for me, caramel cappuccino for Peej, both in styrofoam cups as big as our faces.

There was also time to sing Whatta Man alongside Salt n' Pepa on the drive back down Montrose.

And there was just enough time to finish up said milkshakes on our living room couch- holding hands, feeling lovey...

...And simultaneously checking our mobile Facebook accounts.

January Date: Ice Skating (And Nary A Trip To The E.R!)

If I had to choose something I loved more than my husband, I'd have to say Re-enacting Scenes From My Favorite Movies. (If I HAD to.)

Even the Russian judges liked us.

This past Saturday, I didn't even to pick between them. Because P.J.'s Christmas present to me was twelve months of Chicago dates. You know, the place where we live and of which we continuously extol the virtues but rarely have time to a) date in b) Chicago? He gave me twelve note cards, each one with a different activity carefully thought out and/or pasted on the back.

January's date was ice skating at Millennium Park. There was the promise of cocoa, as well. (Because everyone knows that cocoa is P.J.'s- er, Keely's- favorite beverage.)

Our darling friend and neighbor Angie watched the girls for a few hours while Peej and I day-dated, feeling like wonderfully negligent parents. ("Oh, you left your kids on a Saturday? Was there an emergency?" "No, we needed to ice skate. We needed to.")

Apparently, a lot of other folks needed to as well. We arrived to see hordes of teetering folks impatiently watch the Zamboni makes its rounds. We rented skates ('cause, you know, my professional ones are in the shop) and promptly exchanged mine for a smaller size. And then promptly regretted it, as the smaller ones hurt in an entirely different manner than the roomy ones had. But shame kept me firmly lacing up those skates. (Peej's experience was exactly the opposite. Ol' Wobble Ankles and his sidekick Pinchy Toes McWhinesalot!)

Then...we skated. A lot. Kinda...not so fast. We gripped each others' hands (for love!) and shot eye darts at zooming five year-olds (who, like, are really gonna hurt someone, it's not a flipping race). We got better. P.J. swapped me over to his other hand and skated faster. I told him I really hoped someone had seen that move. Pretty sure it was what had gotten Kate and Doug the gold in The Cutting Edge. P.J. skated backwards to take a pic of me (and only kinda fell once). I took a picture of him- while I was gripping the handrail, thankyouverymuch.

By the end, we were skating pretty fast- almost like regular, non-geriatric scarecrows- and I informed P.J. that we had just made Nationals. I asked him to lift me. He said no. (Some people fear romance.)

After we returned our skates- and waited for the return of feeling in our feet- we hobbled over to Caribou for cocoa and accepted an invitation to write our favorite movies quotes on their chalkboard.

On our way home, we happened to meander into the Chicago Cultural Center (the most gorgeous building in the history of ever) and caught part of a guided tour for Preston Bradley Hall and the Tiffany stained-glass zodiac dome...and I was in Lovely Things, Nerdy Heaven.

Kinda like my relationship with my all-too tolerant, all-too awesome husband.

Who won't even yell "Toe Pick!" at a showing-off, spinning fifteen year-old girl.

We all have our limits, I guess.

Peej took this pic as he fell onto the ice.
This is my Supportive Face.

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.

Nighttime isn't for sleeping! It's for rockin' the party.

I fear I've become...bland. Don't get me wrong, I totally and fully dig my current life, but I worry that my "adventures" have become a little PG to those of my pals sans kiddos. I will strive to be racier.

Let's try it out.

This past weekend...we bought our Christmas tree. (Sigh. Oh well.) We quite possibly spent waaay too long debating the merits of Balsam vs. Frasier Fir. Couldn't tell you what they are NOW, but at the time it was as crucial as the paint choice for the kitchen walls. (Victorian pearl- turned out to be the wrong decision, but not so with the Frasier Fir. Fragrant as a wooded...woodland.) The guy tied it to our car and we drove it home. This beats out last year's trek by 2000%, as LAST year we got to walk our tree from Ashland to Oakley. Eight blocks. In the frozey, biting wind and snow. (Kinda like today!) I even got the heavier end of the tree- not sure how that worked out, but I certainly wasn't silent about it. For eight blocks.

This year's journey was nicer. Plus, Nora got to witness her Dad turning trees around and guesstimating "fullness" and "freshness." I'm sure he made up half of the things he noted, but it's my job as a wife to nod solemnly and appreciate. (Heck, *I* don't want to hafta lug the tree around and inspect low branches.) And by "witness," I mean that Nora slept the whole time. Oh well. Fresh, piney air counts for something, even if she's bundled, swaddled and layered within an inch of her life. She seriously looked like a miniature, turquoise Stay-Puft Man.

Later on we went downtown to the Christkindlmarket for some mulled wine in a boot. (See? Drinking! That's...PG-13.) The boot is green this year, for those of you who collect them in pairs and line them on your countertop like some sort of home for wayward elven footwear. Anyone? Annie- lookin' at you. (And...at myself.) P.J. got to enjoy firsthand the feelings of imminent danger when taking Nora out of doors. Walking in the Loop we realized (yet again) that ANYTHING could happen. Weather, building materials, errant elbows...and boy, did P.J.'s 'tude towards the outing show it. Bundled (once again) up to to her forehead and strapped to P.J.'s chest in an "active back" Baby Bjorn (like he's gonna go spelunking), P.J. kept his arms around Nora in a boxing-out position with his eyeballs perhaps TOO alert.

"Having a good time?" Annie and I asked Peej.

"Yes."

So I had a second boot o' wine. And it was glorious. I also bought Nora a miniature blown-glass giraffe the size of her pinky nail (thank God- she was hurting in that department) and later saved the day when a blown-glass fishie went careening through the air, sent there by some member of a huge touristy family. Tourists. Yeah, I found the fish, (contemplated keeping it- briefly- decided it wasn't the right colors) and returned it to the table. 'Tis the season.

The next night I went to a re-gifting party, hosted by one Miss Kat (and copious amounts of smallish foodstuffs- they were so terrific they deserve second billing) where we each brought five items we no longer needed or wanted and swapped them for the other gals' castoffs o' awesome. It. Was. Great. We bargained, cajoled and swiped items that, were they not in the pile (and were we not imbibing) we would have raised eyebrows at them and thanked the gifter with what Kat calls "the office laugh." HAHaha.

I swear I am not a wino.

And that brings us to this week. Nora and I have fallen into a routine of wearing our pajamas and smiling at each other a lot. One of us digs being worn in a sling, napping in twenty minute increments with one eye open...in case something good happens. (I keep telling her that I'd WAKE her in that scenario, but apparently she doesn't believe me.) If I want her to really, really have a nap, sometimes I have to lie down with her. Which, come to think of it, is probably what she wants anyhow. And, to be completely honest, when I'm snuggled on a couch, bed or floor with Nora, I have a moment of thinking- What the heck was I doing that was better than this? Answer- probably nothing. At least, not since I was Nora's age and was snuggled on the floor by someone. Most likely one of my parents. If I had to guess.

(Side note- during yesterday's nap, Nora let out her first real belly laugh. It was the best and funniest sound ever. Sadly, since she had been in such a deep sleep it FREAKED THE HECK OUTTA HER. This caused a terror-filled rage cry that freaked ME the heck out. This jolt on my part caused full-body hiccups on Nora's part. This led to a gastrointestinal explosion (for Nora) that made her diaper give up. It was an intense fifteen seconds.)

Last night Peej and I had our first real date night since having the kiddo. Sure, Nora was there, but more importantly- two dollar tacos were there. And margaritas! (Fine. I drink, okay?) Nora slept through the date while we discussed an article about Facebook friendships...which led to discussions on...our Facebook friends. We also talked about the tacos and margaritas! It was just like the old days.

And that leads to...today. Nora ended up in bed with us again early this a.m., so I awoke to a wide-eyed, toothlessly grinning face inches from my own. Nora was there, too. (Oh, I kid. P.J. has plenty of teeth.) There are few better things in life than waking up next to someone who is stoked beyond belief to see you. I thought I had this kind of relationship with my husband. I was clearly wrong. No one loves me more than my daughter. It's like cocker spaniel love x a trillion and two. With smiles.

That said, I desperately needed her to nap- a real nap- this morning so that I could finish up a bunch of projects before this weekend. We're off to Cincy tomorrow for family time and a couple of baptisms, so I needed to pack for both of us as well as get all things Christmas done. And perhaps take a shower. SO. The moment she started looking droopy-eyed I rushed downstairs and started her swing. Singing to her and swaying, I attempted to match the swing's rhythm in order to do some sort of Double Dutch jumpin' in handoff to a piece of equipment. Now, anyone who knew me between the years of '80-'92 knows that I am simply wretched at Double Dutch. So it took a few tries. But it took!

Once she was asleep I stood in the living room for, oh, five full minutes staring around blankly. Then I hopped into action, pulling out enough outfits for Nora for a good month and a half (maybe I should pack her a steamer trunk? How many onesies are required for two days?) and laid out possible choices for her to "try on" later. This should be fun. Have you ever tried to wrangle the arms of a squirmy, yelling, angry kitten? No? I highly recommend.

Then- I had to decide what to pack for myself. I included a case of Kleenex for all of the tears. Turns out, at six weeks postpartum, NOTHING fits. My preggo clothes looking vaguely muu muu-ish and my pre-preg clothes make me look a little bit like a hoochie. I don't THINK I was that kinda girl before I had a kid- but let's be honest. Hips don't lie. (As of right now, all I've packed are some socks and a nursing bra. I AM a hoochie!)

As Nora was still sleeping, I gave into the glorious luxury of a shower. Sadly, once I was IN the shower I realized that I had intended to dye my hair before heading out to a big gathering of Schoenys (yep- I dye my hair sometimes. Let's just keep that between you, me and Lady Clairol, shall we?) and, as everyone knows, you need DRY hair for this. Hopped out of the shower. Cleaned the kitchen. Did some laundry. Finished the Christmas cards. Waited for hair to dry. (Yes, I realize I could've used a hair dryer, but as someone who doesn't even get to "do" her hair for a nice occasion these days, I'm certainly not gonna waste a beautifying ritual right before I wash my head once again. It made sense at the time.) So. I mixed the hair dye, began to lather it into my hair- admittedly, not as precisely as I've done in the past- and Nora began to wail. I raced downstairs, chemicals singeing my eyes, and soothed her back to sleep WITHOUT touching her nor letting the fumes anywhere in the vicinity of her swing. I'm sure the confusion alone put her back to sleep. (Please don't take my baby away from me.) In fact, the first part of this post was typed with my hair quite gooped-up, wearing a towel and sweats, finishing a cold cup of coffee and lurching towards the stairs every time Nora snorts in her sleep. My MY how things have changed around here.

And to think, when P.J. and I were newly in love, I'd fall asleep wearing makeup so he'd believe I was always stunning in the mornings. It worked! It got me ALL THIS.

It might be the post-preg hormones, but I still feel pretty lucky.

Or it could be the cold coffee.

Or, just maybe, it might be the knowledge that in a few moments, a gal who thinks I'm better than McGyver will wake up and want to hang out.

Hey there, Scorpio baby!

Well, this is it.

The end of Date Night Month.

(And, uh, the BEGINNING OF THE REST OF MY LIFE AS A PARENT AND NON-SLEEPER.)

October has treated me pretty well. This week alone we rounded out the dates with a viewing of "Where the Wild Things Are" (I cried, surprise, surprise), a yum dinner at Kiki's Bistro (no relation) for Peej's birthday (we had steak pomme frites- bringing us up to...four steaks this week. Nice life) a walk in the forest preserve (where a buck crossed our paths, momentously non-concerned- later, we saw his wife and baby resting by a tree- he's a family man, too!) and discovered Susie's Diner (24/7 greasy fabulousness and fifty-plus milkshakes on the menu! Date SUMMER, coming right up!)

I love P.J.'s birthday- I love most birthdays, really- because the idea of celebrating for an entire day is so, so appealing. I made him breakfast kinda early (he's a bit of a "rusher" in the mornings...) and watched him open his prezzies. We had opened a few the night before (spoiledrottenbaby) because the stack of presents was mammoth and he was "only thinking of me" getting to see him open all of them. That. Is. Love. And nothing says "love" like an 18 volt Black & Decker drill. (The cats got him socks and boxers- unoriginal, but hey- they have no thumbkins.) Spent the rest of the day emailing him 28 reasons why he's so great (Peej started that tradition on my 25th...my youngest sis said that it would be pretty difficult by middle age. My thought: if I can't think of ONE new thing I like about my husband each year, it's gonna be a loooong marriage) and then we had a little French bistro action. This was followed, of course, by a chocolate Sweet Mandy B's cake.

For P.J., of course.

This week was also spent running errands on a gigantic to-do list, checking things off like God Himself was going to point down at an item and proclaim: You didn't pay your library fines? No more books for you. EVER.

Finally was able to use a gift card to a swank maternity store- ended up buying a sweatshirt. Whatever. I love it. I did, however, have a moment of delirious laughter when I saw the "Nine months" option hanging in the dressing room. Ever seen one of these? It's like a toddler's water bubble for the pool, 'cept it goes in front- you know, to guesstimate how big a size you'll need at "nine months."

Except.

It was the size of a volleyball, cut in half. Now, a volleyball isn't exactly tiny...but it's certainly not even coming close to the span of my midsection. I'm pretty sure it's even smaller than the circumference of my kid's head. It may actually be boob-sized. Regardless. This is not helpful and it a) will only perpetuate this idea that WOMEN GAIN SEVEN POUNDS IN PREGNANCY and b) make you come back for a new hoodie. Except you'll be crying. For you'll feel obese.

Thanks, "Nine months" option!

Also did that all-too-critical eyebrows step prior to one's delivery. (Now, I don't necessarily have any illusions that I'll look like Heidi Klum in the hospital, but I'd rather not look like Gary Busey, either.) There's this place down the street that looked shady and cheap- but it had been recommended- so I gave it a try. You would have thought a military operation was going down. Turns out, they didn't "wax" so much as "thread" the living daylights out of any hair within the vicinity of my eyeballs. This was a two woman job. And I was clearly in the way as the third. Like a really uncomfortable game of Cats Cradle, they pulled, twanged and sawed at my eyebrows until I was pretty sure raw nerves were exposed. At one point I began to giggle (even though, truly, nothing was funny AT ALL) and also tried to wipe away an errant tear.

"You no help." (Story of my life, sister.)

And just when I thought my head would explode from a sensation akin to holding in a sneeze for an hour, underwater, while being stabbed...there was a big ol' mirror in front of my face.

"You like?"

DID I LIKE?! My head was now glorious! My brows conveyed a look of stylish, confident wit. And the price? FIVE DOLLARS. (I'm going back next month.)

And now, with no further ado...I'm off to the hospital to meet my kiddo! I am unbelievably excited to see the baby who has kept me on a strict diet of pickles, onions, tacos, Italian ice and lemonade for the past nine months, as well as see JUST HOW BIG the feet are that have dragging across my ribcage for the past two. Hopefully we'll be able to loosen the ball that is my child's body within the next month- after all, any kid that chooses to spend a trimester with his face against a lung and ankles over the forehead (with hands making "fish face" gills) is destined to be slightly cylindrical in shape. I'm already in love.

So today, October 29th, 2009, the day that the Billboard Pop Charts insist that Miley Cyrus' "Party in the U.S.A." is the best song EVER and "Paranormal Activity" is the biggest box office smash ("Where the Wild Things Are" is third!), I get to officially...

...wonder if the term "lollygag" is already a sweet, laughable, never-again-kinda phrase.

(Happy birthday, Bitsy!)

One. Week. Left. (What pressure?)

To Whom It May Concern;

It has recently come to my attention that the master bathroom shower vent has fallen to the floor. Due to its previous placement (above the aforementioned shower), newer problems have shown themselves in the form of gaping ceiling holes (okay, only one, but I've seen enough X-Files episodes to know how this can end) and frequent bursts of really warm air that, with the addition of a warmer water temperature, can turn into really, really cold air.

I'm not entirely sure if this is even the correct department to be sending this missive, nor am I able to shake the feeling that my husband and I are expected to "fix" this issue on our own. We do not wish to. Please help. Why do you want to make the baby cry?

Best,
Dank and Discouraged in Duluth

***

And now, a random pregnancy question: did you know that the seahorse male carries the baby? How is THAT fair? (Not to seahorses, I mean to human females. Everyone knows that seahorses are jerks.) Evolutionarily speaking, that is not right. At least make it OPTIONAL for the human male to carry the kiddo. Maybe parents should alternate? (On another note, I wonder if the seahorse females are just a bunch of sweet-talking hussies? Maybe "seahorse female" should be new term of derision.)

Also, it has recently come to my attention that penguin males are the ones in charge of the baby's development as well. Sure, the female has to lay the egg, but then she gets to hit the high road until the Spring thaw! (But, as my oldest sis pointed out, SHE has to have the kid, the DAD only has to sit on the egg- not really hard at all- and then SHE immediately has to go back to work? NOT. OKAY.)

Pregnancy envy and structural issues of the house aside, Project Give the Baby Somewhere to Live in '09 is skipping along nicely. The nursery= done! (And, might I add, fabulous. Very carnival gender non-specific chic. I just invented a style! Take THAT, Pottery Barn Kids.)My bedroom has a DOOR. So does the hall closet! The stairs have a railing- painted!- and trim and baseboards have been, uh, trimmed and boarded. A security system is set to be installed on Monday (yes, we must protect ALL THIS), so this is your last weekend to rob us blind.

Date night month has also proven to be a runaway success. Last week alone we used gift cards for The Chopping Block, Mrs. Murphy's & Sons, and high tea at The Drake Hotel, as well as saw two plays and attempted to use movie passes to see "Where the Wild Things Are." (Failed, but it still counts.) Sure, it sounds a little frenetic, but as I keep reminding P.J., we are having so much fun.

The Chopping Block cooking class was actually a 24th birthday present that I gave to P.J.- four years ago. Strangely, they kept allowing us to renew it, paving the way for last week's Julia Child class where we learned to make beef bourguignon, lobster thermidor, some cheesy puff awesomeness (my French is stellar), and an apple tatin tarte. All were fabulous. One minor annoyance of the evening was a chef that was causing P.J. to break out in hives: he'd ask a question, she'd look at him like he had three heads, answer him without really listening to his question and later call him out on his GLARING ERROR. (These ingredients do not a happy P.J. make.) A kitchen assistant also did things like turn up the heat on our burners or advise us on an ingredient, only to have the head chef come by and shake her head at P.J. Sure, tattling is very middle school, but pride is pride.

Tea at the Drake was a fabulous Christmas gift from my youngest sis (her twin gave us a gift certificate to Smoque for some crazytown barbecue- that was spent almost instantaneously) that we finally, FINALLY were able to gussy up and enjoy. My pear caramel tea was delightful, as was P.J.'s smoky Lapsang Souchong; as P.J. offered me sugar (one lump or two?), we suddenly realized that we were indeed having a tea party. Which was totally cool with both of us!

A tower of breads and scones were offered first (turns out, clotted cream should be served with everything), followed by a selection of tea sandwiches (how have we never known the glory of cucumber prior to this?) and finished with miniature decadent desserts (um, mango whipped mousse in a pastry shell? Yes.) I informed P.J. that I have been spoiled for food presentation and he admitted that he feared it was the case. Miniature sandwiches or NOTHING! Give me crust and I will give you a plate thrown on the floor! And the beyond-fabulous staff (basically, now all other food service professionals come off looking like part-time Wendy's help)gave us a delicious, unrecognizable, but fully scarfed-down in under five seconds dessert. The message written in chocolate asked if it was a boy or a girl and congratulated us on our new baby. (This 'having a kid' thing is really starting to pay off in spades.)

We also saw "The Man Who Was Thursday" at New Leaf Theatre and "Lucinda's Bed" at Chicago Dramatists- Go. See. Both. One is a gripping, anarchistic (and hilarious) detective story, the other a haunting, witty (and hilarious) tale of a gal's monster under the bed that never truly leaves her.

Tell them Keely sent ya.

Or Wilford Brimley. Whichever you think would yield the biggest discount.

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.

Just like a feral cat!

Firstly, let me terrify everyone who may be having a child within the next nine months...

Have you read about the woman who got pregnant WHILST pregnant?
http://gmy.news.yahoo.com/
For serious, this is a bit much. One woman, pregnant- twice- within three weeks. PUT HER HUSBAND IN ANOTHER ROOM, PLEASE! No matter how "rare" the doctors say this may be, *one* case within earshot of my pregnancy is entirely one too many. Pretty much the only perk of the first trimester is that this should NOT happen. (Granted, if you were anything like me, you spent the first three months sobbing into your Italian ice and throwing shoes at anyone who happened to walk into the living room, especially if he was the one who did this awful thing to you. This was before I was deeply in love with my bundle o' joy, let the record show.) But seriously, this is how the mother of my cats was impregnated, and Bean and Ender (though dearly beloved) are kinda nuts! I wonder if one of the babies this lady is bearing will be a tabby. I guess only if the father is a carrier.

Also, terribly, my first thought upon seeing this clip was how huge the woman looked. Which is awful. Because I've pretty much based a blog around the fact that people are so mean (i.e. careless in speech) to pregnant woman and how obese my doctor feels that I am. (However, this woman was wiiiiiide. Maybe she's carrying an ocelot.)

And now, sadly, it's my duty to announce the end of Great Expectations. Yep, we graduated. I have no idea what to write about anymore, frankly, since this class inspired a War and Peace-type of prolificacy in me and I have a few weeks of gestation yet to go. Last night was POSTPARTUM ISSUES NIGHT (the night least like Taco Night of them all, I think.)

Apparently, we have to take the baby home eventually. And some women have ISSUES. Like exhaustion, pain, worries and depression. (Aw, junk, that's how I feel NOW!) Plus, we'll have the added joy of the imminent Chicago winter. (Who DID this to me?!) And did you know that TERRIBLE THINGS can happen to the baby at ANY time? Basically, the safest thing you can do for your child is to place him or her (on their back, obvie,) in a barren crib, after ONLY feeding from one's breast (preferably the mother's), with three industrial-strength fans overhead (for circulating air), completely naked.

And these are the mothers who care too much! Sounds like a healthy dose of neglect would be comfier.

After a circumcision slideshow (which I DEFINITELY do not need to be able to perform, COME ON), and watching all of the terrible things they're required to do BY LAW to my child (Steroid eyedrops! Vitamin K needles the length and width of Guam!), a "goody bag" of postpartum necessities was passed around the room, one to a person, to ready ourselves for the next discussion. However, as I was busy texting my mother (Hi Mom!), down the street at the Apple store while we Lamazed, I was understandably confused when I was handed a gigantic sanitary pad.

"Thanks," I said to the nurse.

P.J. gave me a look and I shrugged at him, as if to say, "You wanted a certificate or a medal?" I even put it in my bag. Later, when the nurse mentioned each item and the student held it up for discussion, I understood and sheepishly got it out of my bag to show the class. Sure makes a lot more sense why some guy was holding a bottle of stool softener.

And then she took all the items back. Darn.

But that's it. We are now child-havin' experts. Which is good, because according to the way people have been treating me, it could happen at ANY MINUTE. Which would NOT be good, as P.J. is out of town tonight and tomorrow for a super-secret mission on the East coast. (Plus, he desperately wants a Scorpio baby, ever since we received a super cute onesie proclaiming "Scorpio." A Virgo would not cut the mustard. Or spread it, for that matter. Who gets hard mustard?)

Plus, word on the street is that I'm getting showered with baby this weekend, so it would be nice to actually participate in THAT (as opposed to active labor)...and finally, I can't have the baby before the end of OCTOBER DATE MONTH. Yep, we're slowing home renovations (we are so nowhere close to done, but whatever) so that in the month of October we can a) make dinner, b) watch movies, c) go outside and d) sleep entire weekends away. (I think that 24-year old and 29-year old Keely would each be appalled at the other's idea of a swell date.)

We're done with travels (for now), finished enjoying the heck out of friends' and families' weddings for the year, no more baby showers in far-flung locales such as Cincinnati (although Dorrie's recent one at the Country Club was posh and superbly catered- I think I had twelve pieces of hors d' vours that may or may not have been potatoes- and I don't even like potatoes) and I'm wiiiiinding down the days of nannying. Before nannying again. With a baby. (As I was explaining to various people who say "Oh how easy for you! Taking the baby to work!", yep, it'll sure be lovely, but kinda hard. I mean, I'm not a forklift operator, but it'll still be two full-time jobs AT THE SAME TIME.)

But after eight weeks of "resting" with the baby, I'm sure I'll be ready for anything. Even finishing the two plays that were due August 1st. Or rediscovering where I left my bottom ribs. (Maybe under the last two banana-nut muffins.) Do not judge. At least I am carrying one, non-catlike baby from a one, non-alley cat father.

And at least I still have my delicately turned, non-swole ankles.

It's the little things.

And you can follow me on Twitter for more pivotal updates!

So, good news and bad news. 

The good news is that, as of today, the house we wish to purchase is not haunted. So far. Insomuch as we know. 

The bad news? A little hauntin' and the subsequent exorcism may have proved cheaper financially. (Not spiritually. You can't put a price tag on otherworldly security. Besides, I'd be a horrid "post-haunt" interview. Lots of tears.)

Turns out, we need a new roof. Not immediately, but soon. Ish. So we're probably going to replace it before we move in, sparing us that awful "We have a new baby and it's winter, how are we supposed to tear off the roof NOW?" conversation. Also, the boiler is original to the house, as in 1959. (It looks like a time machine, complete with random copper pipes and what looks like a helmet that I most CERTAINLY will not try on.) And, um, appliances. There are none. Wait, that's not true- there is one dishwasher. It's broken and may or may not be causing a tense pipe situation. And there's a broken window. Okay, two. (It is our house of dreams!)

What is DOES have, however, is space. Lots of it. 3500 square feet to be exact, in a superbly non-falling-down brick structure that has all the correct appearances of not leaking. And three full floors, five large bedrooms (with goodly-sized closets) and three full bathrooms. With fans! We've never had a bathroom fan! A big ol' backyard that will make my thumb greener and a garage that will enable P.J.'s power tool collection to grow (and be sorted neatly on pegs.) Two ridiculously mammoth kitchens (one that seems to be begging for a bar) with room for our huge dining room table and all twelve chairs as well as new appliances, counter space galore and enough cabinets to sort all of my glassware, plates and various napkins that we are not supposed to use (Annie totally understands this).

My favorite part of the day came when our inspector did a "simple" drain test. As he was letting the water run, he turned to us and mentioned something he wanted to finish up checking outside. Okie doke! So out we went. About five minutes later I remembered that my awesome bagel was sitting on the counter (P.J. buys me a Dunkin' Donuts bagel with veggie cream cheese every time we make a run to the new house- at this rate I'm gonna be huge! Huger...) and I bounced back inside to get it. As I stepped into the living room and made my way back to the kitchen, however, I heard a sound. "I'll go investigate," I thought, like so many stupid female characters who get knocked off in the first ten minutes of any horror film. It was a bizarre, hollow sound, like crazy kitchen wind or a malevolent (and displaced) spirit or...a ridiculously full double sink mere seconds away from spilling onto the floor I'd already decided to hate. I batted at the faucet, stupidly hoping that would alleviate some of the water. It did not. Running back outside, I screamed for P.J., for our realtor and for the inspector. (Admit it, Peej, for a second there you believed that the house was haunted, too. It's okay.)

The water was shut off, but the sink refused to drain and we still heard that pesky "rushing water" sound. Opening the cabinet below the sink we found a nice trickle of water coming out of the side of a pipe- where the previous owners had conveniently ripped out the connecting dishwasher hook-up...leaving a big ol' hole. 

"Can you put your hand here over the pipe while I run out to the truck?" 

"Sure!"

Sadly, my hand wasn't doing the trick and so I decided to stick my finger into the pipe. (Those of you who know me also know what a huge deal this is. I don't like poking things and I have an X-File-sized phobia of things going down in drains.) Double sad, my finger wasn't the correct width and I had to jam it up to the knuckle in order to get any sort of seal. I also got a blue hand out of the arrangement so it wasn't a total bust. P.J., meanwhile, borrowed our realtor's car to drive to some mythical "hardware store" around the corner for buckets in case the [also mythical] ones in the inspector's truck didn't pan out. And they didn't. (Meanwhile, our realtor kept asking if I wanted to trade off with her, but as she was dressed for an open house starting an hour later and I was already soaked...it just didn't make good sense.) The inspector (it sounds like I'm talking about Peter Sellers here) took care of the situation- there were ziploc baggies and other fun things involved- and we got to move on to the rest of the house. (As for P.J.? There was an Aldi around the corner and about ten minutes later he returned, arms full of flower pots. "It was all they had!!")

The rest of the house was actually in good, nice, structural shape. It didn't register as such at the time since we were so tweaked out, but later on at a fantastic Persian restaurant up the street (Honey cakes! A real food and not just a pet name!), we sleepily discussed the merits of the house. When we got home we turned into stressed-out possums and fell asleep with blankets over our heads.

But we're going for it! A few really promising visits and quotes from contractors made us feel spiffy (since when does a roof quote of 8k when we expected a cost of 10k to 15k make us feel rich?) and we're stoked to get things underway. 

And this past weekend was our one year anniversary. Crazy! We decided to be tourists and stay in Chicago. Ever been to the Swissotel downtown? I highly recommend it. They have water dispensers in the lobby with MELON in them. Wow. And dinner at the Signature Room at the 95th floor of the Hancock (That's right, baby, WALTZ on past the hour and a half elevator line to get up to the lounge.  The name of the game is: Reservation.) We had a window seat and I thanked P.J. for arranging the fireworks at Navy Pier directly below us. (You DID do that, yes?) We also partook in a lengthy and fabulous architecture boat tour, had brunch at Flatwater Grill on the river and hung out at all the Grant Park parky things. Plus, we shopped. Oh, how we shopped.

Sadly, the end of the weekend was marred slightly by the loss of my filling, causing jaw pain unlike anything I've ever felt in the mouthy region. (The next day I went to the dentist: repaired filling, another cavity, removal of a faulty sealant and subsequent awfulness underneath and an exposed root. All on the same tooth! My dentist- "You may feel some nerve soreness tomorrow.") Regardless of my intense fear of dentistry, I was ready for emergency brick n' hammer surgery. The actual process was far more pleasant.

And that's all for now. Actually, it isn't, but this post is becoming ridiculous and my fingers are sore. (Remember, I did some plumbing recently.) But happy 17 weeks to our little kiddo! Keep cooking! Congrats on the recent acquisition of fingernails, ears in the correct part of your head and a little bit of fat around your ever-hardening skeletal system. Take a nap, you've been working hard.

And stop kicking. No one likes that.