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

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

Even the Russian judges liked us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We all have our limits, I guess.

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

Burning Questions, Part 251: Disney.

Be our guest [to supply some answers].

We've recently begun unrolling the classic movies to our kids, and we're currently on a Disney kick. (I'm digging this phase, as I can recall seeing most of these in the theater and thoroughly enjoying them then, too. For instance, I once had a date take me to see The Lion King. The Lion King. Like, not even the Broadway one. The animated Simba. I was sixteen. I so digress.)

Anyhow, yesterday afternoon we watched Beauty and the Beast. Again. (Nora loves her some Belle, but does not care for Gaston or, as she refers to him, Moonstone.)

P.J. walked in during the prologue and was struck by a crucial, heretofore unnoticed point: The enchantress has cast a spell on the horrid prince whom, we're led to believe, is of Key Decision-Making Age. (In my experience with males, this would be roughly 26 years old. But let's give Pre-Beast the benefit of the doubt and say he was mid teen-aged.) And, as everyone knows, the enchanted rose is to bloom until the Beast's 21st birthday, at which point it will start to wither and die tout de suite. Unless someone learns to love and be loved by a beast. (Impossible!)

So.

You're telling me that there's an orphaned, teen-aged prince living somewhere in France, who suddenly and irrevocably is turned into a monster and NOT ONE PERSON IN THE SURROUNDING DUCHY NOTICES? And it's just to be assumed that he did not know one single body who lived outside of the castle walls? No occasionally visiting ambassadors? Tradesmen, troubadours, apple vendors- no one?

Even Belle and her father- who are apparently within a five hour hike of the place- have never heard of this guy? I call shenanigans on his royalty and demand to see some papers.

Also, curses aside, am I to believe that an entire castle can turn to ruins in a matter of five years? We've seen that the staff of candles, clocks and teapots can quite obviously shine up the place in the time it takes to sing a welcoming dinner song, so what gives? If it's a Doom and Gloom kinda spell (and/or the kind of magic that prevents a person from knowing something exists), then the castle crew shouldn't be able to just spring to life for a visitor- nor should Belle ever have been able to just walk into the joint like it was a Howard Johnson's [with shredded tapestries].

QUESTIONS.

This might be a stellar time to take a second and thank all of our veterans and those brave souls currently serving our country. I do realize that I am freed up to blog about film inconsistencies, creatures residing in my house, and awful song lyrics because of the terrific men and women who have protected it. So I thank you. (All.) I could never in a trillion years do what you do (and have done).

Some of us are just slightly better suited to the Yelling At Inanimate Objects line of work.

Who Posts About Halloween Movies In November?

Most people who grew up with me have seen this movie and/or video clip. (So have most people who spent any time with me at college. But those were two very different types of viewing parties.) It's from a eye-poppingly wonderful film called The Worst Witch, and it features a young Fairuza Balk. Yeah, that's right, she of The Craft fame. (Typecast?)

And yes, the movie has elements of Harry Potter (kids away at a boarding school for witches) without any of those details that make us crazy for Harry Potter (i.e. a gripping story line, fully fleshed out characters, classes that last longer than three and a half minutes).

But what keeps The Worst Witch in the upper echelon of filmmaking is this one sequence. It features Tim Curry. He is the Grand Wizard. And he gets a song. Go on, I'll wait.

Did you watch it? Are you crying jubilant tears of awesome?

If not, did you see (and I mean really see) his cape change colors? Were you unmoved by the green screen effects unrivaled by Pixar (or your friend's basement studio)? Did you not see the dog turn into the cat?

Most importantly, Tim Curry has NO IDEA where his tambourine is. Are you made of stone?

They, quite literally, do not make them like this anymore. I don't even think we have the technology to make something quite so low-budget these days. Even the average camera phone has better capture than this synthed-up wonder.

But the point is- it doesn't matter. It will remain my favorite Halloween movie of all time. I will watch this clip multiple times between August and November 1st for all of eternity. (And so will my confused children and tolerant husband.)

Because it brings me back to a time when I was thoroughly blown away by these graphics. I so badly wanted the Grand Wizard to see how hard the witches had worked on the Broomstick Display. And this movie- this movie my whole family adored- could only be watched once a year when it aired. There was no YouTube. No internet to speak of. It was a lot like the radio request hour- it came on when it damn well felt like coming on, and sure, eventually you managed to tape it on VHS, but even then you missed the opening sequence because your VCR meshed it up with a cat food commercial.

AND WE LIKED IT THAT WAY. (Of course we didn't, but it's fun to be a martyr about times past.)

And my kids will never ever know the feeling of not having every single bit of media at their [hologrammed, flying car] fingertips. I envy them.

But then, when I watch an earnest clip like that and remember how special and new that technology was, I think that maybe they should envy me a little, too.

Spoiling A Movie In Three Panels.

So, this is nowhere near "wordless" today, but I think you'll forgive the loquaciousness when you behold THIS:

This movie has already aired. You may have missed your chance to see it. But it still needs to be discussed.

The promo features three distinct pictures slashed across the page: Cuba Gooding Jr. looking concerned. A female behind a chain link fence looking, I dunno, hopeless. And, inexplicably, a group of what I can only assume are jumpsuited prisoners laughing on a bus.

Because of these three pictures, I feel like I've already seen the movie. He's tenacious. She's heard it all before. They're laughing on a bus.

My favorite part, however? The tagline: She never had a chance until he gave her one.

Which could easily be changed to: She'll have a chance in the near future, maybe like in a year or so. Don't do anything regrettable behind that chain link fence. Just hang out with your friends- they look jovial. 

I am really sad that I missed this movie. But, come on, don't YOU also kinda feel like you've watched this movie after reading today's breakdown?

Cuba Gooding Jr. is going to beat me to death with a shoe.

She never had a chance...

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!)

These Are My Current Events, Darnit.

THIS is what "30s With Kids" looks like.
Hoodies and kitchen floors.
Nary a sensible handbag.

Okay, now I'm not one to dwell [overmuch, publicly] on things, but...

Seriously. The ending of the seventh Harry Potter movie (Part 2, if you will, of The Deathly Hallows). And I swear that this is not a spoiler. Not unless you like wardrobe choice to be a tightly held secret. (Like a royal wedding!)

Yeah, yeah, Voldemort (we can say his name now, yes?) and Snape and Harry Potter and yesyesyes, all of that.

But that last scene on the train platform? Nineteen years have passed. The "kids" are sending their own kids off to Hogwarts. They are a mere five years older than I am at the very time of this posting.

So why are they so frumpy and old-looking?

It looks like they're playing dress-up. Ginny Weasley has a sensible bob and the mommiest purse I've ever seen in my life. Ron has a paunch and a wide forehead. Harry has prosthetic wrinkles (wrinkles!!) and a blazer. HERMIONE HAS HER HAIR IN A FRENCH TWIST.

Seriously. I understand that they needed some props to age these youngsters, but really? P.J. and I discussed what we'd be wearing if we drove to the train station to see our kids off to boarding school; jeans and hoodies. Same as we wear every day. And sure, the Harry Potter kids have been wearing that very outfit since movie One. So it wouldn't really have the aging effect the studio was looking for, I get that.

But there is an awfully big difference between looking 36 and looking 76. (There is, isn't there? Tell me there is. Would I look that old on a train platform? Tell me my butt wouldn't look that wide as I embraced by 11 year-old. TELL ME.)

I saw this movie exactly a week ago. And I am haunted- HAUNTED- by this scene. Basically what the film industry is telling me is that- barring turning yourself into some sort of "real" housewife or glamorously and vigorously anti-aging yourself into a Botoxed wonder- the rest of us jerks look like this in their mind's eye.

At 36.

I am going Sexy Purse shopping.

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.

Beyond Thundersnow.

The beginning of the end (for the patio furniture.)

The Snowpocalypse is very real, people. So is the seemingly improbable "Thunder Show." (Two men enter, one man leaves. That man is very likely my husband, shoveling out the neighbors' walks and making snow angels.)

We got pummeled. And there's nothing quite like seeing Mother Nature make your one-way street a hilly snow tundra (complete with a light show to rival Pink Floyd's) to make you thankful for heated ceramic tile in the basement. (The only intact part of the house two years ago, oddly enough.)

And what will we best remember from the 20-inch Snowmaggedon of '11? Is it the buried cars and stranded buses on the defunct Lake Shore Drive? How about the fact that Chicago Public Schools closed their doors for the first time since 1999? Nope, what we're really gonna think of is our 15-month old's raging fever of 103.1.

I've been a nanny for almost ten years. And a mother for almost one and a half years. And an accident-prone, ER-friendly miracle of science for three decades. However. Nothing- not even that time that I locked infant Nora inside our home- has ever made me feel more helpless. (And hey! It's almost that event's one year anniversary!)

Staring at nothing.

Anyway, the fever. There was the head-lolling. Refusal of food and baths (my kid would choose a waffle and splash time over me on some days. Especially together.) The moaning of 'Dada' and 'thaaaaaat'. It was equal parts The Exorcist and Firestarter.

So we dosed her. And tortured her with cool washcloths and mango Pedialyte. We watched four hours of Pingu. WE ONLY OWN TWO HOURS WORTH.

Last night we put her to bed at 7:30...and we headed in at 9:30. (That's p.m., people. Back in the old days of crazy snowstorm pre-baby revelry, that would have read A.M.) And when I awoke to check her temp and change her sheets at midnight (we did force a grove's worth of juice and the 'lyte on her innards, after all), I was way groggier than that normal hour would usually warrant. (It was, however, better than two night's ago when we stayed up for an embarrassingly late viewing of Three Men And A Baby on cable. A few side notes on that one: a) the movie has aged remarkably well, b) it's quite different now that I have a baby, even if only with one Man, and c) that cardboard cutout/ghost boy thing gets me every time!)

Back to Nora. This morning she's totally fine. She went over to the cabinet and asked for a bowl of oatmeal- she housed the entire thing in under three minutes. She's been bossing around her toys with the aplomb of a seasoned dictator. I've never been so glad to have someone shove a plastic bowl of fruit into my eyeballs and a My Little Pony up my nose. (Never!)

It's good that she's on the mend, however. She needs to brace herself for the -11 wind chill of this week.

Get used to it now, Sugar. You're gonna be attending one of those ne'er-closing, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Snowdays schools in a few short years.

(Okay, now I need to be dosed.)

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

Fall is for Nostalgia.

There's something so freeing about chilly- and overcast- Fall weekends. They totally give you permission to do what you whine about wanting to do all week...nothing at all.

So we snuggled in. Ate junk food. Watched the '80s version of Pippi Longstocking- for Nora. In case you're curious, it completely stands the test of time. (Life is a breeeeeze...) We also watched a classic episode of Sesame Street- from the 4th season, once they'd ironed out most of the kinks of Snuffy not being invisible, Oscar not being orange, and Big Bird not having a shrunken head. That said- who is this man with the 'fro they're still trying to pass off as Gordon? And Luis was a stud! P.J. and I gleefully clapped along when our favorite animated shorts aired...while Nora, quite neglected, wandered into the laundry room to poke at unmatched socks.

Also. Ernie told Bert that he hated something in that episode. P.J. and I nearly jumped out of our skins, which poses the question- When did saying 'hate' become so darned taboo in children's TV? Obviously sometime between the late '70s and now. I honestly can't remember, which means it was probably on the earlier end of things. Discuss.

We had a date night- another of the 'no cash/no leaving the house' variety. We made our favorite cold weather drink of Hot Todgers- think Hot Toddy, but with ginger beer. We invented them. Watched Before Sunrise- which also remained a good flick. At least the first half did. After that, Mr. Snorey VonI'mStillAwakePants was "thinking about the movie" behind heavy eyelids.

But it still counts as a date.

We only left the house once this weekend and had a stellar brunch at our pals' Heather and John's place. The event had three major things going for it: It was in Albany Park(!!!), the shindig was kid-friendly, and they are exceptional cooks. I filled a plate to share with Nora- and she ate most of it. (Sure, I'll give you my pulled pork and goat cheese cornbread- but the Bloody Mary is Momma's.)

But this past weekend wasn't without its unnecessary display of hormonal tears, either.

*****ALERT- I WILL BE TALKING ABOUT BOOBS*****

I've slowly been weaning Nora onto bottles and sippy cups. And I'm totally fine with it. Absolutely. Except when I'm not.

The middle of the day feedings? Sure, give her a cup of formula. (Once I got over my initial feelings of neglect and abuse, I realized that not only was she not sad about the formula- but that she really, really liked it. A lot.)

But last night was the last evening nursing, leaving only the a.m. feedings for just a little while longer. So keep this in mind- this was the second to last feeding to be dropped. Nevertheless, as soon as she was done and started to doze off on P.J.'s shoulder...I lost it.

She was wearing footie pajamas that, mere weeks ago, flopped behind her like a cape when she crawled. Now they were snug. (And yeah, sure, they're still 6-9 month jammies, but STILL.)

It doesn't seem like that long ago that she was doing her little kitten snore in the bassinet next to the bed, waking at 2am for a feeding and having absolutely zero stuffed pals that traveled with her from locale to locale. What happened to that bundle that Peej would sleepily hand me? (Perhaps too bundled- between the hat, sleepsack, jammies and mittens, I could only see a small pair of irate, dark eyes staring up at me with a mix of hunger and baby rage.) And then I'd feed her and watch the tight little fists pressed against her cheeks relax. I'd see her eyes dart around in curiosity. I'd witness her valiant struggle to scoot around and do something to those bright lights and colorful shapes...and then fall back to sleep like a miniature drunken elf. I'd watch the rest of our late night programming, hand the wayward sprite back to her father, and then snuggle in until I got to hold her again.

And I already miss it. I never minded waking up with her. Sure, maybe the DuraMorph was extra Dura, but the euphoria of finally having her here trumped any petty ol' need for sleep.

Our bedtime routine was my favorite part of the day. We'd get her all cozied up (less bundling was completely okay, as we quickly learned) and I'd feed her as P.J. would alternate between reading her favorite books and singing her favorite songs with an [intentional] voice that somehow mixed Tom Waits and Neil Diamond. (This is 1000% true.) And, smiling sleepily, she'd be placed in her crib amongst a small army of hand-selected animals.

And P.J. and I would high-five. (This is also totally true.)

So, as P.J. carried her off to her room last night, these were the thoughts careening into my brain. And I cried. A lot. (As my friends can attest, I do not possess the ability to cry a little.) And neither P.J. nor I can be sure why it is that I think The End of Nursing= The End of My Bedtime Routine with Nora. I mean, I still live here.

And I can totally give her a bottle at night. And be an extra pair of  hands for jammies and books and snuggles. But I'm rapidly losing the one ability that no one else in her universe can even begin to emulate.

Which kinda made me a superhero for a little while.

With a superpower that she'll never even remember.

But we'll always have the opening strains of The Office. She'll hear it and laugh and become inexplicably hungry and that will be our little joke.

And it'll be okay.

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

Can we talk about Avatar?


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


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


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


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


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


Friday night is also, as everyone knows, when P.J. and I watch The Soup. That's right, this half hour program at 9pm Central Time is something I look forward to all week. It means: Nora will be asleep, work is done for the week, I won't be starting any new projects before 7am and a beer/lemonade/embarrassingly herbal tea will be in my hand. <---lame, I know. However, as we got Nora ready for bed (jammies, sleepsack, sleep cap, sleep mittens- it is chilly in her bedroom- two books, five songs, sponging of her gums under the guise of toothbrushing, monitors on, humidifier elephant on, mini spaceheater on- it is COLD!- and noise machine on- her room faces the Kedzie alley, woot woot!) I noticed that Peej was extremely tired. His rendition of Corduroy was, shall we say, sleepy. By the time Nora fell asleep in her crib (I think the bedtime routine wears her out, frankly), P.J. had also faceplanted on a giraffe blanket, a copy of Goodnight Moon and one of the cats. 


Boy, was I peeved. 


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


Peeved.


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


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


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


But the show was still terrific. 


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


It was delicious. Obviously.


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


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