10 Signs You May Have A {Slight} Social Media Addiction.

{1} You hit your four digit iPhone passcode into your microwave. Twice.

{2} When spying your toddler do something hilarious over the video monitor, you’ve attempted to “like” it.

{3} You've texted your spouse to come watch this hilarious thing on YouTube with you. From one room away.

{4} The instant you get a good photo taken, you mentally crop it for your profile pic.

{5} If a tweet gets no comments, no RTs and no stars, you threaten to quit Twitter. Forever. I mean it. 

{6} You roll your eyes at every single someecards and Imgur meme posted…but still click through and chuckle. (It’s like they were talking about me!)

{7} It takes a second to pinpoint which of your kids has had her vitamins, but zero time to recall whose turn it is in Words With Friends.

{8} You sometimes look down at your hand to find that your thumb has been hitting “refresh” on a feed you don’t recall opening.

{9} Unsubscribing from mailing lists and creating new filters feels like a pretty productive use of three hours.

{10} The line “I read it on a blog” has been used to successfully prove your point more than once. ‘Cause that’s where all the knowledge is.

I Survived Election Season And You Did, Too.

Happy Day-After-Near-Electionpocalypse, all!

Here's what I don't wish for you in these upcoming four years: Divisiveness. Polarizing memes on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/Tumblr/blogs/email/text/smoke signal. Anger, rage, fear, panic, snackiness.

But considering that the election is finally over, I think we'll be okay for a little while. (I can't, however, help you if you're still feeling snacky. Me, I'm a stress-snacker.)

I do hope that these four years grant us [all] our freedoms. Smart financial and healthcare decisions. Personal choices that remain personal. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of snacks that will ultimately make us happy. And at the risk of sounding like a total Pollyanna- would it kill us to maybe up the niceness factor for a few months?

Regardless of how the election had turned out, my family's plan had always been to keep on keepin' on. Work towards things that make us thrilled to be alive. Help those who maybe aren't having such a grand time. Fight for the right of all to equality [as well as to party]. And continue to remember that the world is, at once, massively humongous and impossibly small.

Hope we can all meet somewhere in the middle, America. Like Chicago. We're pretty centrally located, and have some incredible shopping and theatre.

Here's wishing you all four years of Chicago.

Love,
Keely, P.J. Nora, Zuzu, and our ward's darned impressive electronic voting machine.

I wasn't kidding about the e-voting machine.

Keely Saves Money. Keely Lives Better.

She's awfully yellow.

So, shot a commercial on Monday.

And it was for Walmart.

I shot a Walmart commercial.

My name is Keely, and I played a Real Mom who shopped at Walmart and took the Walmart Challenge.

And it was awesome.

I got this gig through an agent and my friend Bradford (thanks, Bradford!) and was able to go to multiple auditions because my neighbor and friend Angie watched the girls (thanks, Angie!) and spent the day at the shoot due to the generosity (and generous sick day policy) of my husband and his job. (Thanks, P.J.! Thanks, MSDS Online!)

The location of the shoot changed on Sunday evening, and I received a phone call from the producer. "It's in Mount Prospect, Illinois," he cautiously told me. "Do you know where that is? I think it's past the airport." Being that he was from California, it was a fair question. "Past the airport" could easily mean "Wisconsin."

And my calltime changed from 8am to noon. Noon-ish, in fact, since they had a feeling it would be running a little late. (Running late before we even start? Awesome.) So I found myself leaving the house a little before lunchtime, giving myself plenty of time to get there- because, uh, I know me. I already missed Nora and the idea of leaving Susannah was like chopping off a limb. Plus, I suck with driving directions and was a little stressed with the [new] knowledge that they were filming the commercial twice. With two separate Moms. Which was not what the agent had told me, but which was apparently happening anyway. Because they wanted to take it in two different directions and would see which one "read" better. I wanted to be the Mom who "read" better. And that is why I was stressed.

Made it there in the nick of time- actually, the drive took twenty minutes, but I cheerfully veered onto the wrong highway and Google-mapped my way back to civilization in just under an hour- and arrived at the Jewel-Osco. That's right, I met with a representative at the competitor's grocery store and proceeded to buy a ton of groceries with a sweet lady named Alix. After we loaded up my haul, we drove over to the nearby Walmart and unloaded it all into Walmart coolers. I was sent into the staff break room to await directions...and found a ton people just starting lunch. I was told I could join them in eating. Which I did, making me feel like a total mooch. (This did not stop me from enjoying a very nice sandwich.) I did feel a little awkward, however, which is the only way to explain how I found myself quietly sitting against a wall and eating a bowl of iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing. (I abhor ranch, but didn't want to cause a stir.)

The other Mom was there, too. She was really nice, though exhausted. In fact, they were ALL exhausted. Because they had been shooting the commercial with her since 7:45 that morning. And there were all sorts of technical difficulties. And they were cold. And they weren't done with her shoot yet- not by a long shot. They did, however, have plenty of laughs and inside jokes with the other Mom.

So I sat and ate my lettuce and wondered if they'd ever have inside jokes with ME. (Short answer- no.)

Can you see where she's miked?
THAT'S RIGHT YOU CAN'T.

About two hours later I was sent to hair and makeup. I was supposed to look like a Real Mom, just on my way to take the ol' Walmart Challenge...but I think I was done up to look a lot nicer. In fact, I was wearing so much makeup and had such a pretty half updo that- even if my commercial were chosen- you may not even recognize me. No matter.

Finally, it was Ebony's last shot of her commercial and the first shot of my commercial. Since they had filmed hers backwards, it was the same shot as the start of mine. When they switched over to me, I actually heard three crew members groan. (Tired/cold, etc.) I had sadness. But I overcame with Pep.

We did multiple hours of filmed whimsical price comparison (and for real, guys, IT IS STUPIDLY CHEAPER TO BUY NAME BRANDS AT A SUPER WALMART), and I got to feign surprise- which was, more often than not, actual surprise- at how much I could save at Walmart. There were shopping cart races. There was berating over how much cheese my family consumes. There were many, many deer in the headlights shoppers with incredibly daring outfits that continuously got caught on film.

There were also, sadly, many Jewel-Osco stickers on products that got accidentally filmed. And thusly could not be used. Many of those shots contained my bantery best. I started to lose hope [again] that my commercial would get chosen.

But overall, it was a really fun time. I got paid exceptionally well AND got to keep all of my groceries. Diapers for weeks! (Maybe days. Sigh.) Someone fabulous did my hair and makeup. And I still made it home to kiss the girls goodnight.

And I'm not kidding about that price comparison thing. I saved almost ten percent off of my Jewel receipt. (And that's only the stuff that had an exact item-for-item comparison- it would have been more of a savings if I didn't have such a predilection for Fage's fat free Greek yogurt. Yet again, this penchant shoots me in the foot.)

Professionalism.

If they chose my ad, it actually would have begun running yesterday. Or, I suppose, the same would be true if they chose the other gal. (I didn't see mine. Although my method of checking for my commercial was to set up a camcorder and leave it pointed at the TV all afternoon. Very scientific.) If you live in the Midwest, you'll see it. It may even run in other pockets of the country.

And, as soon as I go through my daily Sony footage, you'll see it here.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some difficult-to-compare Greek yogurt to consume.

That's some Real Mom action for you, right there.

Can't Put That In A Trapper-Keeper, Though.

Do the Wonder Pets have
 a Twitter account?

I have finally- finally- figured out what to do with the darned playroom.

I realize that this is of little consequence to anyone not spending nearly ten hours a day in, on, or around this room (a narrow li'l group, to be sure)...but for those of us who are, well, it's just fantastic news.

The baby swing is no longer randomly against a wall, smacking into an exersaucer and/or a train table. (Swing- rattle- swing- choo, choo!, etc., etc. No longer.) It is possible to enter the guest room/P.J.'s office without tripping over an impossibly small set of table and chairs- although I make no promises about the rocking horse on the other side of the wall. (Sorry, Peej.) The couch is now centered with the TV- an issue that was formerly (and apparently) driving one of us to the point of insanity. (Sorry, Peej.) A new focal point is a streamlined corner with neat cabinets and a gigantic pink dollhouse bookcase. (...Sorry, Peej.)

All of this Feng Shui correctness (how do you know when it's "correct?" Easy- your mind will allow you to sit down and stop rearranging the damn room) freed up my time enough to let me ponder the ol' days.

Remember when you actually had to write a fan letter to get a superstar to respond to you? (You're looking at the proud owner of, among other things, a complete set of autographed Mickey Mouse Club cast postcards, circa 1991.)

You'd write the letter, usually posting it to an address that you found in a fanclub section of Teen Beat.

For example.

You'd write the floweriest, wittiest, coolest prose that- you were certain- would rocket you to best friendship with Jonathan Brandis.

For example.

And then, roughly three months later, you'd get a form letter response with a signature (or, at worst, a stamped "signature") which would cement the idea of how fantastic that celeb was. ("Keep on watchin'!" I WILL!)

But now? We've got Twitter. And I imagine that waiting to be re-tweeted by a celeb is akin to waiting by the mailbox for a response, or not making after-school plans in case your letter is read on the air by The Mickey Mouse Club.

For example.

I have never been re-tweeted by a celeb. But I can take the credit for- quite possibly- prompting Rainn Wilson to change his Twitter account's avatar. Early yesterday morning, upon seeing the image of a young Newt Gingrich mashed up against The Office's Dwight Schrute, I was inspired to pen a [witty? flowery?] tweet to Mr. Wilson himself, asking if he'd seen the magical picture.

No response.

However.

Not too long thereafter, his picture was changed to that of a young Newt Gingrich. His fans began tweeting and re-tweeting about the crazy awesome picture that he had selected.

And I realize that the picture itself is old news, as the image in question had already made its rounds from Facebook to The Daily Show.

But I may have been instrumental in inspiring a photo change for one of my favorite actors on one of my favorite shows.

Sure, it's no Thanks for the love! from J.C. Chasez...

...But I'll take it.

Zuzu Wishes To Watch Wonder Pets, Says Nora.

Who's ready for the theatre?
THIS GIRL.

'Twas a good weekend. A great one, in fact.

I went on three- count 'em, three- dates this weekend.

Date One was with my husband to see the stellar Sky's The Limit, Weather Permitting at Second City's etc stage ('cause we know people in the show)!

Date Two was with Nat n' Rachael n' P.J. to see Underworld: Awakening in IMAX and 3D...at the behest of Nat n' me.

And Date Three was with my darling Nora Jane to see Emerald City Theatre's Snow White at The Apollo.

During Date One, P.J. screamed "Apple!" and "Korean!" at the improvisers, much to their dismay. (They hate "apple.")

During Date Two, Nat and I screamed "Too close, too close!" at the screen while bone fragments and glass flew at our faces.

And during Date Three, Nora screamed "I DO NOT LIKE HIM" at the magic mirror. Also, she requested that the lights come back on, please- I SAID PLEASE.

We also started ramping up for one of my very favorite holidays- Valentine's Day. This year's cards prove to be some of my favorite yet, most likely because I've [started to] let go of my OCD tendencies of card perfection and allowed my miniature Jackson Pollack wannabe to take over as Art Director. The result? Lots of glitter. The surprising and completely non-limiting choice of holiday and calendar stickers. Color pairings  that ought to hurt the eye...but somehow make us really, really happy.

And sure- absolutely- glitter has ended up in the bathtub, on dinner plates, between Susannah's toes, etc., etc., but I think we can all agree it's all worth it in the grand scheme of things. (Sorry, Suzy.)

This Valentine prep has completely derailed such tasks as Completing The Book For An Interested Party, Tweaking A Play So That The Ending Makes Sense/Doesn't Anger The Reader, and Pre-Treating The Baby's Laundry With Stain Stick.

I am just now realizing that in all of these stories, Susannah is getting the short end of the [stain] stick.

We'll make it up to her. In fact, we'll spend the rest of the day doing whatever she likes best.

As translated/decided by her big sister, Nora.

(Blanket tents and warm cocoa for everyone!)

I read The News, too.

Am I the only one who thinks Bruno Mars' song 'Grenade' sounds like it could be a B-side from Thriller? Anyone?

(...Aaand I just Wikipedia'd him and saw that the singer/songwriter/producer is heavily influenced by Michael Jackson and Motown. RESEARCH.)

But seriously. It does.

And while I generally leave the in-depth musical analysis to my darling sister Em, I'd be remiss if I didn't comment on at least a few of the [startlingly dark yet catchy as anything] lyrics:

I'd catch a grenade for ya

Throw my hand on a blade for ya

I'd jump in front of a train for ya

You know I'd do anything for ya

I would go through all this pain

Put a bullet right through my brain

Yes I would die for you baby

But you won't do the same (no no no no)

Okay, now, not to be all Sassy Gay Friend- but What what WHAT are you doing?! None of these are declarations of love. None of them. I would never ask these asinine things of you...yet you're ticked because I won't stand on the train tracks for you? Clearly you have misjudged the level of angst in our relationship. I ain't no Juliet, and I'm sure as heck no pre-teen. 

Here's a love song I'd really swoon for:

I'd fold up the sheets for ya

Put the baby to sleep for ya

Warm up the car with heat seats for ya

Netflix a funny release for ya

I would clear hair from the drain

Salt the steps during the icy rain

Yes I would fry for you-

Some bacon in the flame (wo wo wo)

See that? LOVE SONG. 

Also, Bruno Mars? I think you need to take a page from the Ricky Martin 'La Vida Loca' book and realize that a bullet through the brain does not prove anything- nor, according to Mr. Martin, does it make you "insane." It makes you dead. La Vida Muerta. 

God, between this and Taio Cruz's "Dynamite," it makes me kinda long for simpler, less violently named songs. Like "Sister Golden Hair."

In other Media Sound-Byte News Of Stuff That Bothers Me:

-Hello, Jello? Yes, thank you for your new Mousse Temptations ads, but the next time I reference anything as being "Me O'Clock" I sure as heck won't be referencing pudding. Maybe some chips. But my point is that the "time" won't be defined by eating. At least not entirely. (Can I eat pudding while napping?)

-Hey there, Hoverround. I agree that your electric wheelchair/scooter amalgamations sure look helpful. But perhaps we shouldn't still be offering to send out informative VHS tapes for the first people to call in. Because really, tapes? Lemme crank up the ol' party line and wait for the Pony Express. (I realize that those are two very different time periods. At least I'm aware that I should be aware of that. I'll Wikipedia it in a few.) VHS is old.

(Yes, I realize this isn't the commercial 

that offers a free VHS tape, but I really 

had to include it anyhow.)

-And "iRenew Bracelets?" Do you realize that, at a certain part of your infomercial, it sounds like your spokesperson is saying that the "customers" are unable to stay balanced "without irony?" I realize that he is saying the phrase "without iRenew." I do realize that. But the fact that these Man On the Street people can barely remain standing when you tug on their arms- wearing electromagnetic frequency bracelets or not- smacks of falsity to me. Or maybe scurvy.

And sure, perhaps it's not exactly irony so much as it is bad acting, but maybe it could be construed as irony in the Alanis Morissette-extremely-loose-definition-way?

I miss books.

Yelling At Inanimate Objects (And Other Fun.)

This photo, originally in the January '10 issue of Parenting magazine, nearly gave me a brain aneurysm when I first saw it.

So, so many things.

For starters:
-She is eleven years old.
-She is holding a doughnut and wincing at her weight on the scale.
-She weighs 129lbs.
-To get a full body shot like that, she must have a positively Louvre-like bathroom. Or the photographer is standing directly inside her full length mirror.

Am I to feel any sort of connection with this image? Any sympathy for her plight? I do not believe that she either a) feels badly about herself or b) eats doughnuts. Maybe even c) has kids. (LOOK at those HIPS! Eleven.)

And sure, I'm not compelled to immediately identify with every single picture placed in front of me- but come on. The magazine is called 'Parenting'. Not 'Awesome Thin People Eating Junk Food'. (Although- sign me up for that one.) But its target demographic is the young Mom and Dad. Who presumably, if they have body image issues at all, have legit ones. (If I looked that good and had a doughnut, you would surely not hear me complain.) The article goes on to extol the virtues of being easy on yourself after the holidays, that a new diet is sure to fail now and again. The important thing is to not beat yourself up! Have a doughnut!

At the time that this magazine entered our house, I was a hot mess of hormones, sleep deprivation, Chicago winter skin/body/hair, and forty extra pounds of taco. You think you've seen tears? You have not seen tears. And a frightened P.J. did not think that a bag of Mexican food could solve it this time.

Instead, he told me to hang on to the article. Maybe even hang it up in my office. Before I could projectile weep at him, he delicately suggested (from behind protective forearms) that I take my own picture when I felt good about myself. Compare the two. Laugh. Have a snack.

And ten months later, I did.

I made a few executive edits:
-Wasn't so much feelin' the underpants thing.
-My shirt is crazy cooler.
-Martinis make scales easier. (Also- we don't "keep" doughnuts around. You either walk in and have them in a box, or you've just run out of doughnuts.)
-I've definitely got more rage than consternation.
-My camera was propped up in my toddler's Snack Trap.

So, what's my point? Am I coming almost a year late to The January Issue Of Parenting Made Me Feel Badly party? Am I railing against unfair depictions of actual Momitude in the media? Do I believe that only hefty people should consume baked goods?

Nope.

Oh sure, I was all set to be a stoic example of what a Real Mother On A Scale Holding A Highly Caloric Object looks like- a super zoom would reveal my lack of makeup, poorly patched "pedicure" and yes, those are a series of small holes on the front of my favorite tee- indeed, I kept it REAL. Until I stepped on the scale.

For you see, I didn't weigh 129lbs. I weighed slightly less. (Take that, MODEL.)

Now I was in a wicked pickle. There is NO humor in being smaller than the teensy person whom you are in the act of condemning for the samesuch quality! NONE.

But there was a smallish bit of pride. Not just that I was [fleetingly] thin, but that my self-created diet of tears, once a month Pilates, stress, more tears, some yelling, okay- more yelling, forgetting to eat, more than making up for it and crying out the difference, and playlot shame WORKED! For the time being!

Sure, it was nearly inevitable that once I stopped eating for seven- loooong after I'd had the baby- that I'd shed most of the weight. But should I should call Parenting and have them feature me as January's obnoxious example of unattainable long-term lifestyle goals? No way. Here's why:

Because in my quest to mock an unfair depiction, I've unwittingly become closer to the actual image against which I'd raged, an act which demands that I- momentarily- dislike and scorn myself. I'm basically required to wonder about what it is, exactly, that I'm trying to "say" to Me in general...and then spend way too much time agonizing about how I'm presenting Me to Myself in the media. It's kinda like Time Cop. Also- the weight of Not Real Problems is staggeringly heavy and hubris adds about twenty pounds. Oop, there we go. Back to normal. Thanks for nothing Parenting.

But I'm not gonna beat myself up about it.

Doughnut, anyone?

Clearly, I need a hobby.

Yes, I realize it's Monday. No, I'm not confused (about the day.) I've decided to go forth and blog TWICE A WEEK.

AT LEAST FOR THIS WEEK!

We'll see if I can go, say, for two weeks. I dream big.

It turns out, I have waaay more questions than can be asked in a once-weekly posting. Such as:

Why, oh why is the most common email or chat smiley the wink? Why do we do this? WHEN was the last time you actually WINKED at someone? Think about it.

I'll wait.

You haven't. Do you know why? It's because the wink is slightly smarmy and more than a little creepy. Think I'm wrong? The next time you say something slightly jokey or sarcastic to a friend...wink at them.

"Hey Peej- you like that pb&j I made you for lunch?"
"Yeah, it was a good sandwich, thanks."
"Glad you liked it- you're eating it all week!!" *WINK*
"You okay, Keely?"
"Sure am! Nothing a little pb&j couldn't fix!!" *WINK*

Totally weird.

Also- and this is NOT an inflammatory 'how could you ask that about vegans' comment, I truly do not know: Do vegans breastfeed?

I'll let you think about that one for a sec, too.

I am not ashamed to admit that I do not know the answer to this one. I have an entered a No Embarrassment phase of my life (see: Michael Bolton post). Can you help me out? Are vegans anti ANY sort of mammal product or byproduct? I mean, I can't imagine they're against animals out in nature feeding their young. That would be ridiculous. And nearly impossible to enforce!

Thirdly, why do pre-teen girls (yeah, that's what it was called when I was 12- we didn't have this tween nonsense) waste all this time and energy on beauty rituals they will have no time when they actually need it? When I was in middle school, my friends and I spent DAYS putting mayo in our hair (excellent conditioner), putting masks and scrubs on nearly baby-smooth skin and indulging in twice-weekly pedicures. It was good practice, we told ourselves. We were going to be gorgeous WOMEN someday!

I should have spent that time learning Chinese or trying to pass pre-Algebra (for the third time). When's the last time you gave yourself any sort of at-home treatment that took more than five minutes? I currently possess chipped nails, sad-looking skin and split ends you could weave a basket with. Every now and then I rub the excess apricot oil from Nora's bath on my arms (sometimes with the baby as an applicator- hey, waste not, want not) and occasionally enjoy a facial steam as a serendipitous result of Nora's late night sickness-fighting shower steaming. But that is it.

I blame YM magazine for telling me that I needed all this. I blame YM for many things, actually. My mother eventually took away my subscription, which I DO NOT BLAME HER FOR AT ALL, once we realized it was a little racy for a twelve-year old; especially a twelve-year old who played with porcelain dolls for WAY longer than was age appropriate. What business did I have learning how to drive 'him' wild? (I still don't know how to drive anyone 'wild'. But, as a married gal with a mortgage and a newborn, perhaps that ship has sailed?)

And final question: who the heck ARE all you people? According to Blogger, you hail from Canada, India, Spain, Italy, New Zealand, Australia, Belgium and locales I am afraid I'll typo and thusly embarrass myself. I can guess at some of the cities: I went to college with half of Los Angeles and NYC, apparently (is it cool to say I'm "big" in L.A. and NYC? Yes? I will anyway) and am related to and/or spent my childhood with the majority of the Boston and Berkshire County following. But who do I know in Waterloo?! (Hi!)

Or maybe you're one of the folks who found me by Google-searching about the kid who played Duck Lips on Full House? (That was YEARS ago, people, I posted about that on a DIFFERENT BLOG!) But it'll probably pop back up on here now. Also, to those of you who found me by searching various disgusting "medical" techniques- have I helped?

I think you should let me know how you got here. It's important for me to understand my demographic. That way I can keep the stories of diaper fails, Michael Bolton and improperly-placed furniture at a minimum. Or at a maximum! If that's what you dig! So, uh, keep in touch.

Except for the guy who got here by researching "roadkill" and "puppets."

I think we should just agree to disagree.