Keely Works Out So You Don't Have To.

My sister Rachel gave me her Insanity workout DVDs a little while back *coughtwoyearsagocough* and I thought I'd give them a go. With commentary, of course. (If you can't blog about it, it hasn't really happened.) Some of you may remember when I was berated by my Wii Fit, and- for longtime followers- when I live-blogged Core Rhythms and came away from both with serious life questions. But yes, this is the third workout (and the first Max Interval training one) that I've documented. You guys, I'm practically an athlete.

SO. Right off the bat, the Cardio Power and Resistance disc (the one of the set that I've randomly chosen) is frightening the junk out of me. And we're only at the scrolling disclaimer. (The list of potential hazards is intimidating.) I do like that they've given me the option to play the DVD with or without music. (I'm a fan of muting DVDs and rocking out to GirlTalk whenever possible. It's not exactly family car-friendly fare, so I take what I can get.)

I'm offered the option to join the online community to compare workout results, etc. Uh, you mean hang out with people who exercise regularly? No thank you. Let's start the clock.

39:00- Jog it out. I like this. I can jog. Trainer Shaun T is getting all of his devotees to warm up behind him- and what a put-together bunch. I continue to be intimidated.

38:40- He's explaining something called power jacks. It's a combo jumping jack and deep knee bend. I hate this.

38:04- Onto the sideways log jump. It's been less than a minute. I am dying.

37:20- 1,2,3 jumps going from side to side. Ooh, choreography! Now we're "exercising." Part of me vaguely misses high school musical theatre.

37:10- Butt kicks while running in place. This seems to me like the whole "why are you punching yourself" thing. The high school nostalgia ends.

36:39- High knees. I do not care for this. This hurts. This is dumb. I'm gonna break a G-D knee.

36:27- The girl they did a closeup on has some sort of glittery writing on her waistband. Just noting that.

36:07- High jumps. No joke, my hand just hit the ceiling fan and I almost lost a finger.

35:48- The cameraman just ran across the floor with his camera and almost knocked a guy over.

35:35- The gal Shaun T is using as an example just began really jogging really professionally. Like, three seconds ago.

35:13- Power jacks. I regret my life choices. I'm sorry, did he just point to Glitter Belt Girl and say we're still just warming up?

34:37- Log jumps. Land softly? Like onto a pillow with a blankie? I'd love to land softly.

34:12- 1,2,3s again. Full disclosure: I just kicked over too hard, slid on the kids' playmat, and knocked into the pretend kitchen. It just warned me that stoves can get chaud. Turns out, our play kitchen knows French.

33:43- Butt kicks. Faster, he says. Dude being showcased does not care to be featured right now.

33:13- High knees. "Look what I'm not doing," Shaun T demonstrates with bad posture. Oh jeez, that's what I was doing.

32:45- Everyone has a wrist sweatband. But only one. Why? Is there a dominate sweaty wrist? I have no sweatbands. I do, however, have a very real possibility of drowning in my own sweat by this point. WHY WASN'T THE NECESSITY FOR SWEATBANDS IN THE DISCLAIMER!?

32:38- Oh, good. High jumps again. I'll just watch this round.

32:04- Seriously, the girl he chooses to show how to jog it out wants this. I am not Jog It Out girl.

31:42- Power jacks now. Faster, he says- but the screen is warning me to go at my own pace. I feel conflicted. Also really, really sweaty and maybe a little whiny.

31:15- Oh, wow. Log jumps again and one girl just started yelling from the back. Maybe it was me. I no longer have peripheral hearing.

30:50- 1,2,3. Yes yes. It's all about speed. Don't compromise your form. Shaun T shows which gal has perfect form- however, the girl behind Perfect Form Girl wishes she weren't on camera.

30:12- Butt kicks. "I know you're breathing," Shaun assures us. Hmm, let's not make crazy assumptions.

29:56- Shaun points at Glitter Waistband's butt to show what an engaged butt (or something) looks like. I've stopped paying attention, because now I'm uncomfortable.

29:47- High knees and, you know, Push It. My esophagus would be vomiting right now if it could feel. Dude in the back is totally with me on this one.

29:18- Vertical jumps. What is up with the one wristband, y'all?

***Water break. I just set my phone next to me and dialed "9" and "1." Hopefully I can manage the last digit when the time comes.***

28:50- A GIRL JUST WALKED TO THE EDGE OF THE COURT AND SPIT ON THE GYM FLOOR. Listen, I know we're all in dire straits here, but some poor janitor is gonna be like- Come on. Gross. Another girl angrily drank her water. Like, fiercely. I wish I were fierce. I'm pitifully drinking my water, choking it back like it's my first liquid since throat surgery.

28:35- Onto stretching. Flat back stuff. Hold, stretch, yes, this all looks great. Unfortunately, I'm viewing all of this from a prone position on the floor. Yoga triangle- I can do that! I get up to do it and twang my calf muscle so hard I may never walk again. I lie back down.

26:17- Oh, now we're balancing and shooting one leg up into the air behind us. (Factoid! As a weirdo 8 year-old, I used to do Jane Fonda's workout all the time. My favorite part of the video was when Jane warned us not to breathe in the carpet fibers.)

25:42- These people are lunging like they're not even off balance.

25:28- Stretchin' out the other side. I am cautious. I manage. I can still feel my face pulsing.

23:35- Doing a weird crotch stretch now, and all the girls are surreptitiously checking if their short shorts are covering their bizness. Not me, because, as everyone and their Wii Fit knows, I work out in a parka.

22:42- Quad stretch and balance! This was my best skill on the cross-country running team. That, and showing up for pasta suppers.

22:01- We're on all fours, now, contracting and relaxing our backs. My cats waltz in to inform me that I have terrible form.

21:49- We're given a 30 second break for water/rest/stopping our nose bleeds. And that's my cue to leave this party. That's right- there's over twenty minutes left on this workout, but I'm pulling an Irish Exit. It's okay, because feel like I have an insane body already.

It's totally twitching in the corner and talking to itself.

'Not Gonna Labor' Day.

In honor of Labor Day, I'm gonna do what I do every Monday of a long weekend:

Complain that we didn't get as much done as I had wanted...

And wonder why I completely lose my drive and energy as soon as there's one more adult in the house.

Don't be like me. Enjoy this day to its fullest! Eat some ice cream.

Stop and smell the flowers.

And don't even think about doing the laundry.

Too Busy For Hygiene.

Crawling towards soap.
The dirt makes her blurry.

My laziness has reached new heights. Or lows. (Let's go with lows, since I'm currently on the floor.)

This weekend was truly fun. Exhausting fun. But- let's put it into perspective, here. I wasn't scaling mountains with the girls strapped to my back. There were no death-defying underwater cave expeditions. (That's next weekend.) There was just good ol' fashioned Why Is Everything Covered In Food fun. The kind that you get from having two little kids (or one really sloppy husband or maybe a smallish dog).

Friday night found us with friends in Highland Park and then at Ravinia, picnicking with N & S and enjoying the croony croons of Lyle Lovett. (Two people snored on our blanket before the night was over. And it's not the two you'd think. I wasn't one of them. I've given away too much.) Our girls didn't get bathed that night. And they kinda could've used one. Maybe two. But by the time we got them home, they were asleep in our arms, and- this cannot be stated enough- we are lazy, lazy people.

Saturday brought us a BBQ with lovely pals (and their son, whom Nora informed me was going to buy her a ruby. A red one). The kids were having such a fun time playing with garden hose parts that I didn't have it in me to corral my girls for a bath. That's right, by this point you could've written your name on their forehead dust. Again, they fell asleep in our arms and we promised that we'd bathe them in the morning. Before breakfast, we told ourselves. Maybe we'd even wake them early.

But wouldn't you know it? They slept in[ish]. And it didn't make sense to bathe them in the midst of waffle-eatin'. And then the morning got away from us in a flurry of phone calls and a game that Nora calls "cupboard," whereupon she empties a section of the room onto the floor. (Did you see via my Facebook page that she also invented a game called "storage?" Nature vs. Nurture, folks. Nature vs. Nurture.) I also got wrapped up in the task of spackling, sanding, and re-painting parts of Nora's room, due to the gaping holes created when we moved baby furniture out, big kid furniture in, and when I realized that I had done a pretty junky job of some of it in the first place.

***Side note: There should be a manual that describes the various stages of fixer-upper homeownership, much like grief. One of those chapters should detail how a goodly month of your life will be spent undoing the subpar work that you yourself did to the place upon moving in. Maybe a footnote could be included about not using a drywall screw as a drillbit? Maybe?***

Anyhoo- it was Sunday night and I was fully exhausted from the act of neglecting my children's hygiene all weekend. I also had less than no desire to cook- and even less to clean. Because we do the trade-off; whomever cooks, the other cleans. Except that sometimes it's more work to put away the eight gazillion spoons and lids that P.J. utilizes on his nights than it would be to just defrost a pizza. But I couldn't even manage that.

I convinced Peej that we should order Chinese from the place down the street because the girls would love it (which is a lie: they are firmly ambivalent on the ordering of Chinese food), and because we could totally swing it in the budget this week (also mostly false, but I made up my mind then and there to not buy anything questionable online in this coming week). He agreed. Because he loves me. (And also because he didn't have it in him to cook/clean, either.) So we laid out a blanket, fed the children in front of the TV, and watched an episode of Wishbone. (For my husband is a media superdemon who can find any show he wishes just by thinking about it.)

After supper, we shook off the girls onto the blanket, shook off the blanket itself, and tossed the whole thing into the washing machine. (Not the girls, just the fabrics. Although I'm sure the kids could've used detergent by this juncture.) And then we finally finally washed our children in a bathtub in our house.

They now smell great.

And if you totally disregard the fact that we failed to leave the house on Sunday and in fact watched television from the '90s with our questionably young children...it was kinda like we went camping.

Camping's the best.

Boycotton 2: The Drawstring Strikes Back

It's fully been a week now of this whole Put On A Pair Of Pants Like You Mean It (And For God's Sake Maybe Comb That Hair), a.k.a. my attempt to not be Mayor McGrubbington.

For a solid week (actually, since last Wednesday- "counting" has never been one of my strongest suits) I've chosen a decent-ish outfit, sans sweatpants or hoodies, and attempted to style my hair and face. And here's what the past week has shown me.

I'm clearly bats**t crazy.

My hypothesis was that getting borderline purty all week would have an effect on my energy levels, my work ethic, and my ever-dwindling sense of self. Which, you know, it may have...if I weren't eyeball-poppingly tired from [being blessed with] a newly newborn from ILikeTheNightlifeVille.

Which explains my previous penchant for sweatpants. It's a vicious cycle.

But I did it. I completed the week. Every morning[ish] I would don my nicest pair of non-maternity pants that are not yet my pre-pregnancy size (it's a smaller pool from which to choose than you might think) and find a terrific shirt upon which to have someone yuke. Sometimes there were earrings. Generally wedding rings. (Occasionally I get dermatitis under one of the bands and- oh, we don't have time for that story right now.) My hair would be done in some mash-up of styles I think are cute right now and hairdos I know were cool back in '92.

I would have a fabulous- and yes, sure, drowsy- day with my two teensaroo daughters and then momentarily high-five my husband before we face-planted in a pile of Frog & Toad stories and tiny socks. In other words, no one really saw this glamorous transformation.

It got all Eleanor Rigby up in here.

My writing work output remained roughly the same, but I think that was less because of Professional Attire and more because of Blinding Terror Of Failure. (Also, I'm pretty sure I have a chapter that consists entirely of the phrase "The thing is..." over and over again. Word count ain't everything, folks.)

P.J. was kind, of course, and made every effort to compliment that day's Look, but he's also been known to insist that I don't need makeup. So, obviously he cannot be trusted.

As for makeup, that may have been the hardest thing about each day. Not so much the "putting it on" in the a.m. But if I have a sec to brush my teeth and change for bed between Suzy's clean plates at the all-night buffet, I want to make the most of it. Having to remove makeup has actually made me yell COME ON into my own reflection. Especially since I have apparentlyfound the most stubbornly water-resistant mascara ever to be created. (I am not a deep sea diver. I might need to think about downgrading the degree of elemental resistance.) But not taking off the makeup is a no-go as well; neither wrinkles nor raccoon eyes are exactly things that add to my overall hope of appearing well-rested. (And productive!)

So I'm back to my cozies today. I admit defeat. I am not ready to rejoin the race of Folks Who Look Awesome On A Daily Basis. (Okay, at best, I was a visitor to their ranks. Maybe a pre-frosh.) I did, however, pick up a new pack of hair combs for which to attempt hair-wranglin'.

And yes, I'm aware that I might be the only person who still uses hair combs. But they [sometimes] work.

They're made by Scunci, whose tagline "Effortless Beauty" is something I can really get behind.

Especially since that's exactly the amount of work I'm willing to put into it. Effortless. No effort.

They should have me as their new spokeswoman. Their tagline's tagline could read: Hey, At Least She Showered!

(Yesterday.)

Effortless Beauty.
(Hey, At Least She Showered!)
(Yesterday.)

Boycotton. That's Right.

Rainbow stripes are slimming.

And now, a half-week update on Boycotton (a term I've just now thoroughly invented to define my week-long ban on sweatpants):

I continue to not wear my cozies- excepting, obviously, those occasions wherein it is not only acceptable but expected; bedtime, early evening viewings of Jane Eyre, etc., etc.- and here is what I've found.

It is difficult. Because nothing fits. Nothing. I am too small to wear my maternity pants (you so rarely hear the upside of gestational diabetes), but haven't as yet been able to smoothly transition to my normal jeans. The operative word being "smooth."

And yes. I am temporarily boycotting sweatpants but have no issue with the denim.

So. Thursday I wore ill-fitting jeans and a sweater. Upon which Suzy promptly spit up, but which I continued to wear. Because I am fancy and was able to hide it under the baby sling. I wore makeup and brushed my hair. P.J., who reads this blog and was intensely aware of this project, told me that I looked "nice." (And when I announced that I was going to put on my pajamas, he gave me a look that I SWEAR asked if I wasn't already wearing them.)

Friday. That night was Neil's going away party, and I dressed up the gals- and myself- to have an early din out on the town. Because nothing says FUN like taking a toddler and a newborn to a pub by oneself. (Oh, the looks.) My pants and top were no match for my elder daughter's self-picked outfit of a sweater dress, skinny jeans, and shiny red Mary Janes. Hipster. (Susannah wore a clever hat and a baby sling. I wore Susannah.) I'm pretty sure that I did something different with my hair. I might even have used a styling product. Today's experiment went entirely unnoticed except for the Under-2 set. (Nora, for her part, has been amazing throughout this endeavor. "Mommy, are you wearing stripes? Is that an orange shirt? Your hair is pretty! Can I wear that shoe? There's a sticker on your leg!")

Saturday. I looked awesome on Saturday. Layers, boots, showerliness, all of it. We all looked really good. Why? Well, we had to jaunt over to our pals' home for the birthday party of their two year-old, Elijah. Which...is actually next weekend. (Sorry, Cassie.) And did I mention that they just had a baby and Saturday was their first day home? Yeah, we're that family.

On Sunday we went to Mass, so I wore an entirely different sweater and pair of bizarrely fitting pants...but paired with the baby sling (holding the zonked-out baby) it only served to bunch up the sweater. Causing me to look like a lady wearing an ill-fitting afghan and bizarrely fitting pants. I had put my hair half up but, due to the crazy gales of wind, I looked like Don King. In an ill-fitting afghan and such.

When we got home I gave up and put on my Hampshire hoodie.

Which is the new subtitle of my memoirs.

Keely Is A Grubby Grub From Grubville.

I used to rock it. Sure, it was my wedding, but...

This is getting to be a problem.

Now, I enjoy a good pair of sweatpants as much as the next gal...but the time has come to kibosh. Sure, I had a baby five weeks ago and absolutely, whatever I wear WILL be covered in glitter and squashed blueberries by the end of the day...but that's really no [long-term] excuse.

I've gotten lazy. Not about the childcare, laundry, energetic toddler activities or writing (sloppy, yes- but not lazy). However, insofar as wardrobe is concerned? Slothful. Slovenly. (Sleepy.)

I hate to think that I'm falling into the Mom Trap of overly casual attire. It's certainly not because I'm too busy to get myself dressed. (I always get so annoyed, for example, when people say they're too busy to do things like pee. For the love of God, you're not launching a timely rocketship! Go urinate already!) I was way busier when I nannied full-time with Nora as an tagalong infant friend. And I [mostly] came to work all dressed and such.

It's not as if I don't have super nice clothing. Although there is a wide discrepancy between my collection of hoodies/yoga pants (seriously- when is the last time any of you saw any yoga action on my part?) and the perfectly folded cashmere sweaters/Italian leather boots. Maybe I should ask Santa for some Middle Ground clothing. Chinos, maybe? Dungarees? I don't even know what they're called anymore.

And- definitely- it's a lot nicer for a newborn to sleep against/spit up on a soft, unadorned piece of clothing as opposed to something with buttons and weaves and bells and whistles. ESPECIALLY the bells and whistles.

It's just that it's really easy to feel like working from home is all Saturdayesque. You know, all Big Mug Of Coffee, Cozy Hoodie, NPR On The Radio kinda Saturday. (Which, I'm quite certain is what a goodly portion of people think stay at home momitude really is. And they'd be right, ha HA!)

But it's really hard to feel productive, like Full Day Of Work productive, in one's sweats. And I'm the first to admit that this could be easily amended by putting on a pair of, I dunno, khakis or something. But unless I get dressed at 5am, I'd have to maneuver a nursing/clinging baby and a climbing/questioning toddler to do so at 7am. Or 8am. Or even 2pm. Which can be done. But- and here it comes again- I'm lazy.

It takes a moment like having one's husband ask why I'm all dressed up- and realizing that it's because I'm wearing a headband. Or the fond, though faded- so, so faded- memory of waking up early to put on makeup so that P.J. would think I looked that good while I slept.

So I'm going to try a little experiment and post the results next Thursday.

For the next week- starting last night, in fact- I'll be wearing something resembling Clothing To Be Worn In Front Of Strangers every day. (Boy, that sounds creepier than intended!) Day One went wholly unnoticed by the Over 2 set. But since I had signed on to bring a toddler and a newborn to the doctor on a rainy night- at dinnertime- this oversight can be forgiven. Although I looked awesome.

I shall also be wearing makeup. Why? Because it's just the kind of whimsical time-detractor that I've come to expect from myself. My novel would be done by now if I put that kind of daily energy into it.

Or maybe this new routine will kickstart my productivity! I'll finish the darned book before the interested parties realize they no longer want it! I shall learn to iron!

At the very least, I'll be pretty.

Ish.

Er.

But Who Will Prepare My Latte?

Going A'Work.

We have had non-stop staff here at Chez Schoeny. And it's been great. Crazy and [slightly] hard to get used to [initially], but great.

My Mom flew in the Sunday before Susannah's birthday. She quickly set the kitchen to her order, all the better to stock the freezer with pans, Tupperwares, and Ziploc baggies full of our (okay, mostly mine- but Peej is NOT complaining) favorite foods. Also, there is no laundry hanging out anywhere in our bedrooms or bathrooms. I once saw the woman do a load of laundry with three items. Plus, she got the task of Nora-wranglin' while we jaunted off to have Suzy.

My Dad fixed and built things all over the house, including an incredibly impressive revamp of our laundry/work room. Like, one can now walk into the room and do laundry and/or work. Shelving, storage, and work benches, oh my! This room is also the home of P.J.'s new tool chest. It's an early birthday present from the Flynn side of the fam, and it's the manliest of manly accoutrements. (My Dad went to go heft that thing home, too.)

Bethany came over yesterday, right as my Mom was cabbing it to Midway- and a good thing, too. My Mom and I, while both extremely in touch with our weepy sides, are extraordinarily hesitant to do so in front of "company." (Even though B has a) seen me cry, and b) napped with me.) Thusly, my Mom leaving me forever to flounder in new Mommyhood was not as tragic as it could have been. Bethany followed up this gem by promptly making me a snack, tucking me into the couch with Susannah for a nap, and proceeding to play "restaurant" with Nora for close to an hour. Did I mention that she also brought piping hot lasagna, salad and rosemary bread for supper? (Bethany For Mayor.)

And late last night, my big sis Kate arrived via O'Hare- just in time for my late night lasagna snack. She's spent the a.m. chasing down N.J., dealing with some seriously serious diapers, snuggling Suzy, and giving us presents. There's also talk of taking someone out in the jog stroller if the rain lets up. (I don't know if she means me or the Biggie Bug, but either way- it sounds just lovely.)

This weekend will herald in the Week O' Schoenys, as my in-laws will take charge once Kate leaves...but I'm a little worried what will happen once my built-in staff takes their well-earned rests in the own homesteads. Am I going to have to do laundry? The dishes? Diapers? Who will hold my children when I shower?

Okay, that'll be the first thing to go.

We'll be just fine. And I'll start to be more hands-on with housework, et. al really, really soon.

Maybe after my nap.

Strangely, True Blood did not play into the dream AT ALL.

There was a fountain here a sec ago.

Emma and Dan have left. Boo.

However, we no longer have 8,000 glasses, cups, and mugs in/on the sink/ dishwasher/ countertops. (Flynn girls pride themselves on hydration.)

No one is making me laugh like a loon by announcing "Hey, brotherrr" (a la Arrested Development) every time someone enters the room.

But then again, no is giving me palpitations by making me wonder what train stop they're taking home/if the alarm is properly set/did someone grab an umbrella for the flash monsoon? (This must be what it's like to have kids...in their mid twenties.)

Seriously, in the past...couple...of years, I've totally forgotten what it's like to stay out past 9:30pm. I mean, I did it. There was a time when 6am was considered time for bed and not a toddler's brekkie. After all, Peej and I spent the formative months of our friendship in a late night show that ended at 1am. So obviously we had to get a drink around 1:30 or 2am. And you couldn't leave before the Tamale Guy showed up. (See? The Mexican food's not just a pregnancy thing.)

But these days, it's just another planet which I no longer orbit. Perhaps in a different solar system.

When Dan and Em suggested going to see an improv show at midnight, I actually laughed. But, as it turns out, these things still happen. (Go to bed, people!) On Friday night, after the four of us watched The Soup- which, uh, is the Schoeny late night event...at 9- they left for the 10:30pm I.O. show and stayed for the midnight one as well. By 10:30 in my house, we had watched the last forty minutes of Good Will Hunting, half an episode of House Hunters International (in Italy!), and fallen fast asleep...where we would remain until midnight. Then we groggily dragged ourselves upstairs to bed and remained there until the smallest and loudest of us needed bacon at 6:30am.

That said, we had a lovely, quiet morning (except for one impromptu mix CD dance party)- and even that wasn't until 10am. (Sorry, Em and Dan, who didn't wake until 11am. Hope you liked the ceiling music.)

I'm pretty sure I just sent a dozen people running to refill their birth control prescriptions. But- and here's the kicker- P.J. and I were early-fall-asleep-on-the-couchers way before we were even married. Homeboditude (read: lameness) knows no age. But the age thing doesn't exactly help.

Speaking of baby-related perks, I've been having more than my fair share of hormone dreams lately. These are a joy (for P.J.) and I can't tell which my tolerant husband least prefers:

A) The dream in which I have an epic relationship with someone whom I've not-so-quietly crushed on for the past few years. Most recently, Alexander Skarsgard of True Blood fame. I like him a lot. Now, these dreams aren't the kind where you wake up and wonder if you should mention anything to your faithful and devoted husband. Nope, these are the five hour sagas wherein a love affair begins, comes to fruition with a full blown Ikea jaunt, has each and every step along the way (even the Saturday Afternoon Listening to Vinyl On the Couch, Wondering Who's Gonna Make the Hamburger Helper phase) and its eventual breakup. All of these in EXTRAORDINARY detail. By the time I woke up from this dream the other morning, there was no question about whether or not to tell Peej. I was downright mournful (of my painful breakup with Alex) and contrite (about living with another man while carrying the first's child).

P.J. really didn't want to hear about that one. But he may actually savor those mornings over the ones where the other option has occurred-

B) P.J. is a jerk. A real meanie. For example, the other night, Dream P.J. was getting high in bathrooms with girls that looked like young Heather Grahams and Did. Not. Care. that this made me unhappy. Later in the dream, he changed religions to one where he could no longer be in the same room with me. (I have no idea why this was stipulated, it just was.) He also told me that I was stupid. (Because my worst dreams involve second grade insults.) This was also a really lengthy dream, so Peej got the pleasure of awaking to me glaring at him. I seriously had a good mad on for my first hour of the day. Which, admittedly, is not fair. But come on, Heather Graham?

I never said I was easy to cohabitate with. (In fact, I may have even suggested the opposite.)

None of these things (complete 180 of schedules/nighttime habits/things you couldn't possibly know for which to apologize in advance) are included in marriage vows. Part of me thinks that this should be amended.

The other part wants to gleefully wait and watch people find out for themselves.

Says the girl who has been married for three years...and has people watching her to "just wait."

In a nutshell, I'm a lame-o, I watch fabulous television, babies make you get up early, we consume a lot of bacon, pregnancy is crazy, illicit dreams are an excusable sin, and I have unfair rules and standards.

Also, I miss my sister and her boyfriend.

(Hey, brotherrr.)

You're driving me to snack.

Not me. Or Mii. 

My Wii Fit (Plus) and I need to talk.

Actually, it may be better if someone else spoke to him. (Her? Probably "her." No one condescends quite like a woman.)

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

It then asked me if I'd like to do my weigh-in. No, thank you. I really don't need a cruel piece of machinery documenting my slow descent into obesity. For real- they have a weight option of whether or not you're holding your dog. But pregnancy? Impossible to chart. So I've been refusing weigh-ins. And it's making the Wii Fit console antsy. I can tell. And it feels good.

After I [randomly] selected various workouts to be mashed together (totaling half an hour), the program paused to say- "Whoa. That certainly is a LOT."

WHICH IS IT, Wii Fit Plus? Am I a lazy heifer or am I gonna keel over during my Sun Salutation? 'Cause the ten minutes you programmed aren't gonna even break a sweat, nor will they begin to decrease the poundage you're clearly jonesing to document! So I clicked Yes, Continue. THAT'S RIGHT.

Onto more First World Problems. Don't you hate it when the Wii Fit graphics don't quite match up in real time to your HD TV? (I know.) Thusly, I'm throwing punches and the thing is berating me, asking if I'm still there or not.

We moved onto hula hooping. At this point, Nora was no longer content to dance along with the grating soundtrack, nor was it enough to merely laugh at the weirdo moves her mother was attempting. So I fake hula-hooped while holding a toddler. (Now THERE'S a workout. Betcha didn't know you could rock the triceps in that one.)

A few exercises later, Nora had decided that the room had had enough. She pressed the Wii's Off button and closed the doors of the TV cabinet, saying "Bye bye, show." And it's hard to argue with that kind of logic.

So then we did that calorie-scorcher called Lie On The Floor And Put Blankets Over One's Head.

I'm feeling pretty svelte already. Don't be jealous...this once a month workout lifestyle isn't for everyone. But I'm still just a normal gal.

I put on my third-day-in-a-row sweatpants one leg at a time, just like everyone else.

Nora's the coolest and her parents are the laziest.

You’ll have to excuse the tardiness of the blog today (cue Van Halen: I don’t feel tardy…) due to my inability to hold facts, dates, or appointments in my brain or on my phone.

You know when a good time to remember when you’re working the next morning is not? The middle of the night. A good, cold shock of adrenaline really starts the week off correctly. Hence the stellar packing of All Things Nora and the less than ideal packing of All Thing Keely, for example, a fully charged laptop.

But the important trifecta of Doc Bullfrog, a spare diaper, and a cup of milk made into the bag…so what else does one really need? (Besides a nitro tablet for my kickstarted heart.)

Yes. So. The weekend.

We enjoyed the most boring weekend known to man. It was fabulous. The amount of sleep that I got was kinda impressive. (P.J. and Nora? Not so much. But it's really hard to tell the floppy-headed mother figure on the kitchen floor that she CANNOT nap. Physiological terrorism at its finest.)

Nora rode an incredibly miniature tricycle for the first time.  Even though there were no pedals and she wasn't even rolling, she managed to flip over the handlebars and faceplant on the pavement. (She's just like both of her parents already!) Impressively, she laughed. Even more impressively, she tucked her head and shoulders just right. (Not like her parents there at all.)

Motorin'.

Last night also marked the second occasion wherein she used a potty for its intended purpose. Quite by accident, I'm certain (the shock on our faces was eclipsed by the shock on hers), but STILL. Not since college have I been more pleased to know that a toilet was being used.

To celebrate, we built her a castle tent. Okay, fine, we had already bought the tent. (But it's so cool!) And, to give credit where credit is due- her father, he of coupon-clipping, penny-pinching fame, found it on Kids Woot. And informed me that his daughter needed it. Which, once I saw it, I admitted that she really did.

Password?

And last night brought a thunderstorm of monsoon proportions. This, of course, after a grey day that threatened storms but brought nary a drop. It stayed rather dark and in the mid 50s to 60s. Then, as soon as the sun went down, the temp skyrocketed to 76 degrees. So, of course we went out into the backyard and enjoyed the peace and quiet of our bench...with sirens, irate neighbors, and traffic. (I closed my eyes and pretended they were waves on the shoreline. Really noisy, irate waves.)

And then the rain came. But no worries, by then we were safely ensconced in bed and watching Mad About You, season 2 on Netflix. (Anyone who tells you that marriage isn't awesome is a terrible, rotten liar.) And we got to see the sideways rain and pelting branches from the safety of our [closed] windows. Neighborhood Watch goes tropical!

The past couple of days also included a French farce (on Netflix) and an hour of radio (on NPR.) Sometimes it's nice to just consume all of your monthly media in one weekend. (I haven't even included the flicks that P.J. watched a) before Nora and I awoke, b) while he was waiting for me to watch our real movie, and c) that I boycotted but he viewed anyhow while Nora napped.)

I think we can see who has the real problem.

And it's not the girl who marathons episodes of Ghost Adventures.

There's no problem there.

Aaand...by posting time it's partly sunny.

Not to be all whiny about the weather...but seriously. What is up with this weather?

Having lived in Chicago for 8.5 years (yeah, it was originally supposed to be for under a year), this should not surprise me. Chicago does not have a Spring. We have seven months of Winter, followed by a week of rain, then it is SUMMER. But each and every year I find myself surprised- nay, angered- by the lack of springtimeliness.

Last week was a tease. A 70 degree (and sunny!?) day followed by a mid-60s (and SUNNY) day, followed by...grey sludgery.

Here is a vid from those happier moments. Nora had a superb time catching and playing with her shadow. Yes, those are the big sister jammies from the other day. And double yes, we're listening to an "End of Summer" mix tape of P.J.'s from high school. (We've recently gotten into playing our old teenaged/party/breakup mixes. This is an awesome thing to do. Also warranting of its own post.)

But, video:

Today is another jammie day, due to the fact that sludgery plus [Nora's] runny nose equals lolling about and [Keely's] whining re: weather. No sunshine, no shadows. What we do have is one snortle-y girl wearing an ever-changing assortment of bibs for which to dab her faucet-like nose. (Is that gross? I mean, I know that it is, but should I not have mentioned it?) I am keeping it REAL. Tissues are 'spensive and bibs have a never-ending dance into and out of the wash.

It's like a velcroed handkerchief. If I am gross, then so is the pocket handkerchief.

Onwards.

We saw some terrific friends this weekend, ate way too much decadent food, (hosted no less than three other pregnant women!), and watched five kids run amok. And walk amok. And climb amok. My daughter wore a miniature apron (because she was the hostess, obvie), and I completely failed to capture it on film. I mean, really. I took eight videos of her dancing with her shadow and a flipbook's worth of swingset pictures...but a day when my child held and ate entire potatoes and welcomed folks in a frilly apron? Nada.

Also, some of you may be aware of my ever-abiding distaste for the potato. (I dig them in things, but a plain potato undisguised? Blech.) We recently discovered that Nora loves them. Adores them. Eats them whole, like an apple, then points for more.

I'm questioning maternity.

And wondering if this next kiddo could possibly be a little more like his/her dark-haired taco fiend of a mother.

Or healthy. I'd be pleased with "healthy."

Which I'm sure a strict diet of liverwurst and Italian ice will guarantee.

Ranty McRanterson

Okay.

Listen. (And, incidentally, have you ever noticed how people only say "listen" when they're sick and tired of doing so, themselves?)

I'm tired of listening.

The studies and articles about delusional parents and the improbability of parental happiness need to dwindle out, please. It's getting really old.

This study from Time.com, in a nutshell, set out to prove that the more miserable parents were with their daily stress/boredom/noise levels, the happier they pretended to be. Even this one from Slate.com used the idea of chemical dependency in parents' brains to solidify the idea of happiness...but it still kinda missed the point for me.

All of these articles seem desperate to break down this idea that people could happy in their life choices. And really, that's all that parenting is. Not a status symbol, not a necessary milestone, but a job. One that- hopefully- you chose. Because this job, this one I took with a miniature yet noisy boss- would be hellish to someone without the desire to have it.

Because parenting is incredibly hard work. It's a 24/7 gig that requires non-stop stores of patience and energy. But the payoff is incredible. Seeing a kid say, do, or realize something brand new is an exceptional reward- and not just because it reflects on my skills as a Mom, either. The experience of creating a family member and then co-existing with her is something that can't be explained away by momentary levels of adrenaline nor can it be summed up by reactions to simulated stress.

And sure, there are lazy- and lousy- parents out there...but look around you. Aren't at least three of your co-workers playing Farmville right now? Work's what you make of it. (And yes, there are days when I'm a Farmville type of parent. That's why they send those Burger King coupons to you right in the mail.)

I've also been a nanny for close to ten years. And I love that job. I really dig watching these kids grow into fabulous, articulate people with exceptional collaging skills. Now that's a job surrounded by kids all day- am I deluding myself into thinking I'm content with my work there, too? If so, WHO IS ALLOWED TO BELIEVE THEMSELVES HAPPY?

There are so many things in life that people believe to be the height of adventure and excitement- deep sea diving, cliff jumping, eating terrifying foods- none of these are appealing to me in the least. But you won't see me decrying them as a valid way to live one's life, because here's the kicker: WHO CARES? And can you imagine if I wrote a series of articles on how single, childless people are deluding themselves in their supposed happiness and how their frittered away free time is actually a chemical response against boredom? I would be stoned to death. (More importantly- I'd be wrong.)

I could not possibly explain to the general public what I love about having a child, enough so to make you immediately want to adopt or give birth. P.J. and I have realized that the things we love about our little beastie are moments that sound unimpressive in the re-telling. Even between other parents the magic of your kid's hilarity isn't quite captured the same way. And that's just fine, because it's not my job to tell you how much you want kids. Just like it's no one else's job to convince me that I don't.

Am I ever bored? Elated? Tired? Hungry? Sure, but so are singletons, Asians, carpenters, and the obese. Everyone is happy and everyone is sad. And then it'll change in ten minutes and then it'll be the same for a month.

Listen. There's a really simple solution to this one. Don't want a kid? Don't have one. Want a brood of five? Mazel tov.

And take those kids/no kids water skiing, truffle hunting, and to the library. Go to work, drink eight glasses of water a day, and- at 103 years of age- drift away peacefully in your sleep.

Be happy.

I call dibs on this weather.

Okay, the whole "dibs" thing really needs to end. Like a week ago. For those not in the greater Chicagoland area or not aware of the debilitating bonkertude that a day and change of snow can inflict, I am not speaking of those delicious chocolate covered ice cream wonders. Those are permitted.

I am speaking, of course, about every single one of my neighbors and their household furniture. Holding parking spots. Ones that they'd shoveled. TWO WEEKS AGO. Sure, I totally get it. Some people couldn't even see their cars after the Great Snow. And I agree, if you spent the three hours necessary to undo the damage that a blizzard plus a snowplow digging a single file lane down the street by way of coating your vehicle with more snow, then sure. By all rights if you run to the store, it should be waiting for you when you come back. The next day when you return home work? Okay, fine. I'll give you that. Maybe you had a hard day and your arms are still screaming at you from the previous day's workout. But to expect that "your" spot stay available through the weekend? Dude. People need to go to brunch. Sometimes that involves parking. You may have to move the stroller/folding chair amalgamation that is currently marking your domain like so much pee.

And now? Two weeks later? It's 60 degrees. There are rivers of melting snow washing away your grandpa's walker. (Doesn't he NEED that walker?) Put your questionable belongings back into your foyer and let's all pretend that we don't know how many laundry baskets you own.

No one pities your inability to find parking on a damp street.

Onward. My darling daughter Nora went out yesterday without a hat. For the first time since she began walking. (This is true- she took her initial steps mere days after she turned one. The next day? Whomp. Frostbitten baldish head.) The mild temps shocked the both of us on our jaunt to Cermak Produce, so I whipped off her whimsical animal-eared cap and encouraged her to let some breezes tousle that tuft of hair. Maybe take some deep, cleansing breaths- but not towards the alley. Or Montrose.

She reacted the way any stoic Chicagoan would after a particularly bitter stretch of winter- she began to laugh. And squeal. (Sure, the baby noises o' happy are reserved for a special group of smallish person- not necessarily Chicago At Large- but she embodied what I was feeling as well.) After a few moments of joy, she stared mistrustfully at the clear sky and sunshine, wondering Just What Was Their Game. She then jolted and peered over her shoulder each and every time a gentle wind would tickle her ears.

Perhaps the abrupt (and temporary) change of seasons has made her more than a little crazy. Perhaps her parents' decision to live in the Midwest has given her a lifetime of nervous twitches.

But just wait 'til Real Spring and...dare I jinx it? SUMMER. The ability to run around barefoot- in specific locales- and watch [fewer] outdoor films and eat unhealthy stick foods at street festivals and splash in the positively frigid lake waters... Oh, I cannot wait. And dearest N.J., you're gonna forget winter. You will. It'll be like the last ten months didn't grate on your nerves like so much rock salt on the floors.

It'll be fabulous. Maybe we can even built a sweet fort from all the Dibs debris.

I call the ironing board.

***

And I gotta do one final blogesque plug: this is the last post before The Bloggies voting closes. Go! Go now! I promise not to say anything too meaningful in the last couple of sentences.

Truly. You're only missing this one bit.

And this. Okay, I think we both know that I can just do this all day. Be the bigger person, please.

 I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Say it with clowns.

Way too big for love.

It's Valentine's Day! That wonderful time of cellophane and glitter and overindulgence and tutus and sugar-crash naps.

This year, I've included a pic of Nora's valentine for everyone to see. First things first. You may be asking yourself why the card is so garishly big. Noted. And. Secondly, that is a grapefruit next to the valentine for size comparison.

Here is what went down. I made a handful of normal-sized valentines for the usual crowd. Nothing crazy opulent; just a nice graphic, some cool textured paper, a fancily scrolled phrase or two. Cinchy. But could I do that for Peej and Nora's cards? No... I happened upon this really fabulous site that featured vintage Valentine's Day images. How could I resist? Sure, the lack of a functional printer (long story) and a positively bewildering experience with FedEx Office led me to believe that I ought to have resisted in the long run. (I could more easily land a jet with their convoluted and excessively powerful website than do a simple upload. When I unchecked a box for 'collate,' the site crashed. It's two pieces of paper! Put them in any order you like!)

And of course, I had to be fancy. I ordered the two images to be printed on transparency paper. Why? Dunno. Maybe to justify paying six bucks for a simple procedure. Perhaps to alleviate my guilt at not dealing with the printer. Or it could just be 'cause it looked more awesome that way.

So. Yes. The hugeness. Well, I sized each image to 3x5in and sent them along. Got a confirmation of such. However, when P.J. returned home from running errands with the two pictures in a folder (I had asked him not to look- IT WOULD RUIN THE SURPRISE), I found that they had blown them up to near life-size. I did not feel like returning them. (Surprise, honey! Your wife is lazy! Here's a terrifyingly big graphic!)

And without giving away any details of P.J.'s card- other than its largetude- I can totally acknowledge that perhaps the images would have been charming in a slightly smaller size. I fear that at the current measurements of Nora's plastic clown, it'll put her off of valentines/clowns/transparencies forever. (Also, guess what the toughest material is to glue anything to? You got it! Transparency paper!) I hope she enjoys her wobbly, mushy, mildly threatening declaration of love. Happy Valentine's Day, daughter.

We also celebrated the day by making a sizeable donation of housewares and clothing to the Epilepsy Foundation. (It's really not that philanthropic- they picked it up from my front stoop. Does my laziness know no bounds?!) Also, perhaps my intention of saying 'I love you' to the Epilepsy Foundation will not be as well received as I had intended- I chose to say it with mismatched steak knives and oversized shirts with hilarious verbage. How they read into it is entirely up to them.

On Saturday, P.J. and I went to Bonsoiree, a delightful- and redonkulously expensive- French/Japanese fusion joint o' small plates. (We used a gift certificate from OUR ENGAGEMENT. Yep, that would be four years ago this April.) It was eight courses of awesome. I embarrassed myself by openly weeping over some of the dishes. And yes, sure, I might have made some of the teensy pieces of food talk to one another. But for the most part, I was quite adult. (Except for when 'Long Time' by Boston came on. Did I mention they had the best B-sides classic rock mix playing? I almost moved in.) Another highlight came towards the end of the meal, when P.J. and I could not determine if the couple recently seated next to us were old friends, a hot new item, or brother and sister. It was- at once- hilarious, quaint and disturbing. This is so true.

And now I must finish preparations for tonight's fabulous gala in the dining room. I call it- We're Having Dinner In The Dining Room. It will include mammoth valentines, something I should probably decide upon and begin to defrost, and a few trinkets purchased via Amazon. (And, funnily enough, I know what every single item is! And here is why! My husband, ever the practical gent, decided the free shipping option on my Amazon Prime would be the best to use. And then, afraid that I'd figure out what he had bought me, he went into my email account and deleted the confirmation email from Amazon. Unfortunately, I had also bought his present from that same site. Killing all semblance of surprise on his part when he spied that email. And when he forgot about the 'item shipped' email that would come later, surprise died on my end too. It's like a bizarro, reverse Gift Of The Magi. For lazy people using the same online account and credit card to buy each other items under ten bucks in cost.)

Ain't true love grand? (Answer- yes. Always yes.)

  I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

This was no ordinary unicorn...

Get to work. Maybe comb that hair.

The other day I was asked- by more than one person- what I was "working on" these days.

Writing, I replied.

Real writing? They asked. Or just blogging?

Which made me think. 'Cause it's true- what initially began as a creative outlet for my projects and an incentive to keep going has rapidly become the norm in terms of output. And it's not like I don't have a plethora of other thingies on which to work. I do. Tons.

But here's the kicker: none of them are [yet] on the interwebz.

Thusly, the instant gratification of publication and glory of crazy page views is nonexistent. Meaning- I have to write it for good ol' fashioned personal purposes. And hope that someone with the ability to dole out paychecks will a) read it, b) pay me, and c) put it on the interwebz. Sure, the majority of stuff that I write about on this blog is Not Art, but do you see my conundrum? I'm already attaining the end result of publication, sans paycheck. Or glory.

Okay, it's not a conundrum so much as laziness.

'Cause here's the thing- I AM lazy. I can hear you thinking to yourself [Mom]: Keely, you are NOT lazy. You are energetic and wonderful and beautiful and fiercely intelligent.

And while two of those things are undoubtedly true, the busy work with which I exhaust my husband is not the product of non-laziness, but rather a childlike and irritating OCDesque tendency to do what feels right for that very moment until it stops being exciting and then it's time for a nap. I am a furniture-moving hedonist.

How does this affect my Good Writing? Well, it's a two-fold answer. The first part is this: anything remotely witty or funny or weird I immediately reserve for the blog. And use a ton of energy to [stupidly] make awkwardly long essays on Mondays and Thursdays. (Why are they so long? I have no editor. That's another one of those "paycheck" things.)

The second part concerns the snippets of time wherein I actually feel like producing actual words on paper. If and when the stars align- Nora is napping/I am caffeinated/the furniture isn't bugging me- then I usually feel a guilty twinge about starting the next blog post. Because- and this is the special part- the [minor] success of the blog has ensured that I value [obsess over] reader comments and feedback. And since I've been gently reminded [berated] to post when I'm an hour or two late, I certainly don't want to offend/lose my audience/feel even more guilt over my inability to just get one more thing done OH MY GOD THAT OTTOMAN IS ALL WRONG.

This is a very long-winded way of announcing that today's blog may suffer a tad in Awesome. As will the state of Feng Shui in my house. For my resolution in the month of December (New Year's? Yeah- anyone can do that) is to stop being such a leech of time and energy.

For example, if I played Farmville? I would stop.

That hour after Nora goes to bed and right before I watch some programmes? I will stop whining to P.J. about How. Much. I. Have. To. Do. And I may actually do it.

I shall expand my workable [writeable] hours to now include right before bed (too sleeeeepy), while Nora's happily playing with her Miniature Army of Cute ('cause while I usually say that I'm trying to be In The Moment with her...I'm really just checking Facebook statuses on my iPhone) and I may even start to include some unorthodox methods of writing such as using actual paper and pens.

I will finish plays and one-acts and short stories and essays and that book about snarky unicorns. (Intrigued? Okay, it's really about babies and falling-down houses. But that raises an excellent question- would you buy a book about a snarky unicorn? 'Cause that could totally be bumped up on the priority list.)

Starting now.

Or maybe after work.

If Nora goes to sleep smoothly and there isn't too much carnage to pretend to clean.

But definitely tomorrow morning.

Because a [writing] writer's lifestyle is possible to maintain and that's my point. It is. Possible and my point. Both.

The End.

For now.

Times a million minus a nap.

***

"Once upon a time, there was a marvelous horned beast named Chester..." <---(How's it done.)

Anyone wanna play Clue?

I've been trying pretty hard to adhere to 10pm Bedtime Month- though it's well into November. It's been pretty tricky. For example: Did you know that most Evening Events start at 7pm? Sometimes 8? (Yeah, and some begin even later. They will not be delved into here, as I am no longer interested in your positively hooliganistic plans. If I can no longer place an order at The Taco Burrito King once your show/party/film has ended, then go ahead and take me off the Evite. Right now.)

Speaking of that- going out, not the tostada bowl- I'm finding that I've become more hermit-like every single year. (Or "hobbit," as my sister once said, never to be forgotten. Ever. Times three.) I've always been a bit of a homebody. In high school, my friends had to drag me out to the mall and sleepovers and coffee shops. Sometimes it took some prying, especially if I had just gotten a new BMG shipment or was involved in a particularly taxing EverDark quest. (Did I just out myself from the geek closet? Oh well. At least nine readers are nodding their heads and guessing which one it was.)

My days at Hampshire were a tad more social, due to- shall we say- its slightly polarizing social scene? However, I was still only a few choices away from being that weird, solitary girl in the dark- on a Friday night- in her substance-free, single sex, quiet hall. Who wore a cloak.

Then came the whole Chicago theatre scene...and there went sleep. But what the heck does a 24 year-old need rest for, anyhow? We did shows. And more shows. And had late-night shows. Then had talkbacks, meet n' greets, galas, post-show parties, after after parties, and- most importantly- 4am tacos. And, crazily enough, we made it to our 8am jobs, cup of coffee in hand. Ready to teach kids, clean houses, sling overpriced food. Then on to that evenings' events! Our friends' shows, maybe a free night at the Art Institute, perhaps a midnight showing at the Music Box, most definitely some dancing at Spin, a Chinatown run so "late night" as to be positively mid-morning. And on and on and on until somewhere in the vague '29th year' neighborhood.

Sure, by that birthday I was busy cookin' a wee babe in my middles, but this need for home had slooowly been creeping up on me for a while before then. Sure, flirting with Peej against the jukebox at the Blue Light was super fun, but you know what else was? Waving at him from across our living room. (And it's, oh- about fifty bucks cheaper. Babysitting fees-wise, of course. They practically gave the beer away.) And wild n' wacky nights out with the girls are always divine- as are Netflix marathons with popcorn bowls the size of Guam.

The point being? I enjoy using Nora and the falling-down house as an excuse for my housebound slothitude. I have slowly lamed my way out of rotation. And that's cool. People have asked- doubtfully, scornfully- Don't I miss auditioning?  Eating regrettable amounts of food at unwise hours? Yeah- the stress/panic/euphoria tango with a heartburn chaser will be missed. For now. But the only guilt regarding this euphoric chapter in my adulthood is that I didn't treat myself this well sooner.

And make no mistake about it- it is good livin'. I make meatloaf once a week. I never even knew I LIKED meatloaf! P.J. recently taught me to play chess. And sure, I suck at it, but that's not the point. The point is that I get to listen to a Sirius XM oldies show in my sock monkey pajamas whilst P.J. trounces my players right offa the board. I take near-nightly soaks in the glorious (rat-free) lower level bath. I rearrange furniture monthly, a sorta 'Hi, how are ya/I OWN YOU' kind of acknowledgment to every single thing in my possession. (It helps my writing process to know where everything is forever and ever Amen.) And sometimes- just sometimes- when I've finished wiping mango bits from beneath the dining room table and folding an improbable number of socks- I climb into bed and pull the blanket up over my ear (so nothing can crawl inside, obvie) and sleep. And I do not feel lame. Not at all. I feel rested and warm and cozy and- sure, a little irritated at the sonic boom of a snore coming from my husband's face- and content.

It doesn't always work out that way. For example, the other night as I was drifting off way too late in the evening, I was jolted upright by the question of whether Emilio Estevez changed his name or Charlie Sheen did. (I mean, they're brothers so, what gives? Turns out, Martin Sheen changed his name. Used to be Estevez. Seriously. Also, did you know Emilio is older than Charlie? Blew. My. Mind. God bless you, imdb.com.) And certainly, blissful evenings can stall out while waiting for SOMEONE to finish pouring his  Ovaltine and come to bed after setting the alarm...so we can read magazines together. (Back off ladies, he's all mine.)

Those folks not super close to me often mistake this activity as inclusive gloating. But it isn't. Not really. I can name half a dozen people for whom the idea of dinner-makin', baby-tendin' and husband-keepin' would be an absolute nightmare and not a reward at all. (Conversely, I can think of a few people with evening careers with whom I would gladly trade places for a night or two. For example, Go Go dancers. Do they not just look like they're having a blast?)

But this Staying Innyness? It's become MY nighttime event- no more important than your reading or wine tasting- but certainly no less, either. "Projects" that require "pants" will eventually pique my interest again, but for now I'm cool.

The world isn't running out of pineapple fried rice any time soon.