Crummy Crumbies.

...And then there are the days when you realize that you are actually too tired for coffee. Like, too tired to make yourself another cup, too tired to consume it, and too tired to acknowledge the caffeine (which, let's be honest, would be like putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun).

So you have another cup of coffee. And you sit on the floor while drinking it because- again- you're on borrowed energy, here.

And you look at your kitchen from the floor and think to yourself- Wow, but this place is filthy! Like, how many cheddar goldfish have to die in protest before someone wipes a damp cloth along the baseboards?

You look at the clock and realize that, by 9am, you've already had A Day. And there's a very real possibility that the same child has had two cups of milk while her sibling went without. This causes you to wonder whose overnight diaper you changed. (You know you did two of them...but were they equally distributed? Seeing as the eldest kid is currently at her preschool, you decide to chalk that one up to Moving On With Our Day.)

Then you realize that the only three coherent thoughts you've had about your household in the past 48 hours have been GRIMY and NEGLIGENT and HAUNTED. And then you get super depressed because you remember how not that many people commented on the previous day's post about your haunted nativity set- and specifically one of the Three Kings, the one who likes to spin and jig around the baby Jesus' cradle.

GOOD LORD, you say to yourself, IS MY HOUSE SO PUBLICLY HAUNTED THAT A SPINNING KING NO LONGER SEEMS NEWS-WORTHY?

This worries you.

You remind yourself that you are lucky to have a [haunted/crumby] house and even luckier to spend your days blogging about things like exploding washing machines and how social media makes you angry.

And you have a degree, you tell yourself. While sitting on the floor, drinking coffee out of a mug with bears on it. A degree printed on a frisbee.

Oh, this is not helping.

But then you remember that it's December 6th. The Feast Of Saint Nicholas. (And your half-birthday.) And you remember how you're married to a good little Catholic. So obviously there are treats waiting for you in your boot, and the boots of your kiddos. Chocolates and advent calendars for the gals, and your favorite eye cream for you. (Which, admittedly, to the uninitiated would seem like a pointed criticism of your beauty routine but, given how you've been weeping in his face about your under-eye circles, seems like a timely and thoughtful present. From Saint Nick.)

So you cheer up. And wipe away the damn goldfish crumbs.

At least you look perky while doing it.

We've Traveled So Far- Like, Really Far.

Pretty normal, right?

This is the nativity set that my sister gave me. It's quite nice. It's also slightly supernatural. BECAUSE. Every time I set it up with everyone facing baby Jesus (which generally only happens once in a season- I'm rarely in there playing with them and talking for each guy like miniature Weebles)... every time I set it up and leave the room...

I come back to find this guy doing this.

Y'all.
(Also, yes, they're on a chess board. Festive.)

One of the kings likes to do his own thing. He spins. He faces the wall. He is never in the position where I left him.

P.J. tells me all sorts of things: that king's a little uneven, he's on wheels, our house is on a fault line.

Whatever.

Haunted. King.

By this point, I'm pretty sure that my house was built on a Native American burial ground.

It's Coming From Inside The House!

So, I've always had an overactive imagination. But I've got nothing on my child. 

If you're a close n' personal Facebook friend, then this image got all up in your feed all day yesterday. Apologies. But it still just boggles my mind. Lemme 'splain:

Nora, since she was roughly eighteen months old, has always pointed at our kitchen cabinet and told us about her bunny that lives there. We're artists. We believe in imaginary play and all that other hippie stuff. So we humored her. 

"Tell us about him- what is he wearing?" 

Nora would always look vaguely disgusted and change the subject. But yesterday, after mentioning the bunny and hearing my agreeable tones, something inside of her just snapped. 

"Mom," she said, smacking my hand against the cabinet. "This. Is. The. Bunny."

I almost jumped out of my face. There's a frickin' bunny rabbit IN THE CABINET. (And he looks none too pleased with us for not paying full attention to our child.)

Yeesh. It's like the eyes follow you.

And for fun, I've added a picture from my 3rd apartment here in Chicago. This was an actual, non-retouched water stain on my bedroom ceiling. I called the landlord once to fix it, but didn't follow up. I had become increasingly fond of my mystical unicorn friend.

He's a baby unicorn, too. That means he's magickier. 

Mystical creatures just follow me around from abode to abode.
I'm clearly the best person to live with, ever.

Forget The Girls- I'M Going To Trade School.

ALL the furniture must be moved. All.

Sometimes I feel like I'm hosting a contractor convention- and I'm the keynote speaker as well as the janitor.

On Friday afternoon, we had our heating and cooling guys out yet again. "But Keely," you ask. "Didn't you just pay close to 4k for an a brand new a/c system?" Yup. Yes, we did. "And Keely," you insist. "Didn't they leave the job with only one floor cooled, completely undermining the crux of the project, which was to get non-polluted air into your infant's room, the one on the first floor?" Yes, but we'll leave that alone for now.

Last week we had one night that was in the upper 80s. And, being that the two larger bedrooms are in what is essentially a converted attic, 'twas boiling. We were excited(ish) to use our new a/c. And that jubilation lasted until hour six of having the system on. Because, even after six hours of "cooling," the thermostat read 86 degrees.

THAT'S NOT RIGHT, we said to ourselves. WE'VE SPENT WAAAAAY TOO MUCH MONEY FOR 86 DEGREES. 

So our guys came out. And found that the compressor was completely devoid of freon. Because there was a leak somewhere in the 3-week old system. AND THAT'S NOT GOOD.

It was found within an hour and easily [?] patched. The guy was slightly shocked at how sloppy one of the connectors was. I wasn't. If you'll recall, the a/c guy left our home a few weeks ago after telling me how much he hated our house. (I mean, I hate our house, too, but I rarely let it affect the job.)

And lest you think that, just because the plumbers have finished their two-week downstairs pilgrimage, the work is DONE...oh no. Because yesterday, right around the time we were playing Whole House Jenga in preparation of the renovation, we discovered a leak. In the tub. You know, the tub that wasn't part of this demolition? And in the under-stair crawlspace (where we were attempting to Tetris some more storage boxes), we found that the newly dug and re-cemented concrete was wet. Whether from the extreme rain yesterday or someone's tears, I cared not. Because it meant that the plumbers had to come back today. The day that the renovators were to have started.

There's really only one explanation: Ghosts.

Back when I was hugely pregnant with Nora and we were "fixing up" this place (hahahahahaha), I could swear that I felt someone behind me all the time. Then it stopped. Or maybe I was too tired with a newborn to care if someone was stomping about upstairs. But now? Maybe the previous owner is pissed that we're digging up his house. Or perhaps he's the one causing the splodey-ness.

It's honestly the only rational cause for this ruckus.

Have you ever had ghosts/a slum for a house? Do you have a drink for me? Doesn't having these questions in bold remind you of Encyclopedia Brown endings? Comment below. 

Or walk over with a drink. I'm not picky. (Clearly.)

Someone should really clean this kid up...

Workaday, workaday.

P.J. has returned and has brought with him a heart-shaped rock, so all is right with the world.

While it's exceptionally good to have him back (and Nora, who has still yet to see him due to irregular sleeping patterns, will most likely lose her petite li'l head), here are a few surprising things that I have learned over this long weekend:

1. The biggest fear I have about being the only grownup at home- more than burglars, murderers, exploding pipes, or running out of almond milk- is ghosts. The terror that, at around three in the morning, a ghost will stroll by my bed and flick me on the nose is precisely the reason that I sleep with a sheet covering my face. Happily, this did not occur. And, after the first few nights, I slept well. REALLY well. In the middle of the bed, using all the space and pillows and lounging on a cat or two.

2. Apparently, my idea of the perfect evening is to queue up a marathon of Ghost Adventures, order in some cooked maki, watch TV for an hour and a half, and then go up to bed and read until I fall asleep. At 9:30pm. (And really, I've just given away a huge secret- for it IS the perfect evening!)

3. A superbly tidy house makes me blissfully happy. And frees me up to play with my kiddo, write bunches of pages when she's asleep, and not snap at anyone out of guilt AT ALL. (I have no idea how I did it, but I already miss the ability.)

4. When P.J. is traveling, the Sunday paper does not sort itself into a "Keely pile." Apparently that's all my husband's doing. It was a shock to come downstairs with Nora on Sunday morning and not have a plate of perfectly crisped bacon (I guess he does that, too) beside a stack consisting of Parade Magazine, the Funners, the Tribune Sunday mag, the CostPlus circular, Travel, and- if it's featuring someone not likely to anger me so early in the day- the Entertainment section. And what's with the insane amount of plastic wrap within the Trib? Are the Parade mag and the Toys R Us circular really unworthy to touch "Rides (actual name of section?)" By the time I separated each part, I was clawing at the plastic like a trapped raccoon.

Other important (yet less P.J. travel-centric) discoveries of this past week include the happy revelation that consuming an entire green crayon will NOT harm a toddler (although it will make her mouth look like a bizarre, neon green, waxy wood chipper- for days, in fact, no matter the amount of tooth-brushin' I force on her face) and the joyful knowledge that a "serving" of liverwurst is actually two ounces. Now, I have no idea how much I'm actually mawing at each sitting [standing], but I'm pretty sure it's less than two ounces. Which makes me non-gluttonous! (Excepting the fact that I'm eating it with a spoon!)

This past Saturday also brought the neato keeno honor of being the SITS Girl In The Spotlight for my L.L. Bean vlog. (Some of you may remember that endeavor way back in October? Looking at it now, my only thought is how quiet N.J. is...) And because of it, I got a cool featurette on their site, tons of terrific comments, and some new readers! Stokiness abounds.

My heart is full. The kind of full that can only be attained by appreciative commentary, a sticky kid in strawberry pajamas, a husband in the same time zone, and an unopened tube o' liverwurst in the fridge.

I wish you the same.

Why are you gagging?

Maybe Haunted Posts need their own blog day.

How can she post again so soon, you ask yourselves? What could have POSSIBLY gone down since Tuesday that's worth blogging about?

Not much, really. But that's kinda the point- when one's main trifecta of posting involves bodily functions/petty grievances/insignificant minutiae, it's never a slow news day.

Update- 10pm bedtime month has been defiled. Disrespected. Nay- disregarded.

And by 10pm's strongest- and loudest- proponent, no less.

I'm talking to P.J., Mr. Falling Asleep On The Couch Until 11ish. Plus, PLUS, we had gotten completely ready for bed prior to the season finale of Psych at 9pm (saved by CST programming)...and he fell asleep during the first half hour anyway. He says it counts because at least he was resting, but I say J'ACCUSE.

I'm pretty well rested, for my part, though probably not as well as you'd expect. Rage is sapping.

Other things that keep me in a state of not-quite-restiness...How about the fact that, despite public opinion and lack of actual "evidence," I know that we are 1000% haunted? It's true.

The baby gates swing open when there is NO WIND. (And only when they're unlatched/Nora's asleep. That would just be downright unsafe, otherwise.)

Or when the doorbell went nuts the other day, chiming long and short and half-rings, only to find that NO ONE WAS AT THE DOOR. (Okay, so P.J.'s fairly certain this can be explained by my getting nails and screws from the storage drawer where the backup doorbell is also stored- but that seems TOO EASY.)

And there is NO explanation for the day the TV turned itself off multiple times. Not the cable box, DVD player or Wii- although, come to think of it, why were all of those things on?- but just the TV. And no one was even sitting on the remote.

And what about those eerie sounds and unintelligible babbling at every hour of the day and night?

...Oh, right. Those are our neighbors.

Every so often, it's nicer to be haunted.

Oh boy OH BOY!

After the psychotic terror of last week's escapade, I think I was due for some good luck. And what's luckier than someone else cleaning your house?

NOTHING!

I've always [since 1988] been excellent about keeping a room/ bed/ secret-detective-office, etc/ decently clean. I still do. But there's just something about that one area of the bathroom/kitchen/couch that always needs cleaning. And you always clean it. But every now and then (say, every five months or so) that you have an stark realization: if you must scrub that one terrible locale once more this week you will go frothingly mad.

And so you call in the experts. And they make your house look like the cover of Real Simple, Martha Stewart Living, even the Target circular. And things feel manageable again. For the next five months.

And Mom- I totally get it now. The pre-clean before the cleaning ladies arrive? I get it. When I was twelve I totally had a field day with this one- why should I have to clean if we're paying someone else to do it once a month? Maybe I should get paid!

No. I shoulda shut the heck up and moved my porcelain dolls. The idea of the person I hired not being able to clean every inch of dusty, spitty-uppied space is horrifying. I WILL MOVE THE SINK IF SHE NEEDS ME TO.

And my house is currently being cleaned. Which is why I am deliriously happy and incapable of the type of ire usually associated with Thursday posts. Okay, usually Monday is the bitter day. But I really really can't do it now.

Especially since Nora has recently started doing these gleeful belly-laughs accompanied by face-splitting grins. Really levels the playing field, mood-wise.

SO.

What do you wanna talk about?

How about the other night when I was putting Nora down for a nap? As I came back out into the hallway I smelled the unmistakable scent of men's aftershave. And not P.J.'s. (He occasionally wears Obsession, which I am not at all ashamed to admit- I am obsessed with. The irony is not lost on me.)

My FIRST thought- of course- is that we were haunted. (Why is that always my first thought? One of these days I'm actually gonna be haunted and then I'll be all like- this is NOTHING like what I was fearing. What a weirdo I've been!)

My SECOND thought- of course- was that P.J. would return home and think I had been cheating on him. (What is up with my linear thinking these days? Okay, fine. Years.) And I would certainly hope that P.J. would immediately know I could NEVER be with a man who smelled like dime-store eucalyptus. And, you know, that I loved him best.

I did what I usually do when things tweak me out: my mind plays possum with the idea and refuses to resurface until the following night.

I mentioned it. Casually.

"Oh," he said without blinking. "New AirWicks in the hall. Eucalyptus."

Ok, ONE) it never even crossed your MIND that it might be someone's signature scent/we're haunted? TWO) Why are you going and all changin' up the AirWicks? We're a strict lavender/apple cinnamon household! THREE) Thanks for refilling the AirWicks.

Also.

Children's programming- more dangerous than we had previously thought? Discuss.

I'll start. Now, some of you may know that I have a very real and very visceral reaction to the KidzBop(!) compilations. The commercial for the newest one, I believe it's number 17 (Good God), is currently airing. The track listing is INCREDIBLE. "Use Somebody" by Kings of Leon? Really? How about "Say Hey (I Love You) by Michael Franti? I adore this song. But there is definitely a line in there about 'druggies on the corner' and how they're 'calling [his] name.' And something a little unclear about 'ghetto games.' And how about Paparazzi? There is seriously some adult content going on around here. Singing them in high-pitched tones does not make them Disney. (Although, admit it- who among you played around with audio speed to make your favorite songs sound all Chipmunky as a kid? No?)

Also.

Have you watched the Noggin channel lately? The kiddos for whom I nanny dig a bunch of the shows, but I must ask- why the show disclaimers? I guess 'disclaimers' might be the wrong word, but there is definitely a thing before each show that says what each one provides, i.e. "Go, Diego, Go" teaches kids Spanish, problem-solving skills and educates them about the rainforest. Have they always done this? To whom are they preaching? You've clearly already DVR-ed that thing and have pressed play. It was gonna be watched. Maybe it's meant to be a "You're a great nanny and parent, go ahead, let them watch 25 minutes of TV. It's fine." Which is all well and good...except then I start to wonder why they're trying to allay my guilt. And then I get all defensive. Who are they to tell me what to do with my guilt? Maybe the kids shouldn't be watching a show right now, don't tell ME it's fine, this is the second show they've watched today and they're crabby to begin with! Great, fine, kids, turn off the TV, we're gonna papier-mache. THANK YOU, DIEGO PROGRAMMERS.

And then I weep and then the kids turn on a show for me.

Maybe Nora and I should unplug for the rest of the day. Maybe go all Laura Ingalls Wilder and read aloud by candlelight. Sure, it's the middle of the day and bright as anything...maybe just a blanket tent.

Can't touch the furniture, after all. I'm afraid to mess anything up.

Best. Fear. Ever.