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.

What A Guy.

Home sweet miniature home.

And Now...

A Love Letter To My Husband To Thank Him For His Endless Works O' Awesome (A.K.A A Very Public Plea To NOT Leave His Increasingly Insane Wife)-

Dear P.J.:

You are terrific. Really. No, wait, lift your head back up out of your coffee mug/desk/computer screen- this'll be worth it.

You are so incredibly tolerant and so incredibly choosy with your words. Specifically the cuss ones when you think Nora/our unborn child will hear them and be forever negatively affected. I especially admire this when things don't go according to plan/the door frame cracks/THE SCREWS ARE SOMEHOW ALL WRONG.

Here is what you accomplished this weekend for me/us/my neuroses/the children/the upcoming cold months known as The Rest Of The Year In Chicago:

-Doors on closets and remaining bedrooms that did not possess them. This endeavor required multiple backyard sawhorse projects which you pulled off in a timely manner...despite the fact that your daughter has a near-crippling fear of the sound of a saw in use. And can only be consoled in such moments of terror by you, her Dad. This slowed you down only slightly.

-The moving and painting of three laughably heavy pieces of the furniture in the baby's room. This was because I got a bee (hormone) in my bonnet (face/tears) about the slapdash nature of this new kid's possessions. Forget the fact that mismatched and chipped furniture was good enough for Nora- I was not having it this time around. And now they look great. Hope that hernia heals soon.

-That break you took to read at Mass, do a Costco run, and put both Nora and I down for simultaneous naps. (I'd be embarrassed to admit that I still need someone to put me down for a nap...except for the fact that it was the best nap ever. And nothing beats being tucked in to the words of "I'll take care of everything." Not a thing in the world beats it.)

-Removing the ceiling fan blades, helping me soak them in the bathtub, you scraping decades of grease from the undersides (I'm pretty sure our kitchen used to moonlight as an Arby's), and then reattaching them to the fans at midnight- despite the knowledge that most fans are assembled safely on the ground and not teetering in midair.

-Making sure that you and I sat on the couch- together- to watch The Soup and a goodly bit of House Hunters International before falling asleep. DATE NIGHTS ARE IMPORTANT, DARNIT. (I had been ready to tuck in with a bottle of seltzer and the newest Professor Layton game on the DS, but no sir. Not when romance is alive and well.)

-Drilling that hole to run those cables, saving us crazy ADT rewiring fees and allowing the closet door to close, no longer impeded by the bundle of wires acting as a doorstop. (It's almost like a real house, now! Also, who's been authorizing us to just have bundles of wires acting as doorstops?)

-Taking a "break" to supersonically speed-clean the house when you received the intel that your out-of-town uncle was not only stopping over for a surprise visit...but was, in fact, parking the car up by the neighborhood bar as we spoke.

-Dishes, dishes, dishes. Also, the recycling.

-Taking a break to drive to a friend's house, disassemble a playhouse in their backyard, strap it in, out, around and through our car, drive it back to our place, reassemble the awfully heavy and realistic house...and then spend a copious amount of time in said structure with your toddler. And lots of chalk.

None of these things include the little activities you do daily, like the cat litter (which I haven't done in years, despite not being pregnant for "years"), Nora's nightly routines, or making sure that I nevereverever run out of almond milk.

You are swell. Let's not abandon our wives five mere weeks before she has yet another of your clone-like offspring, okay? But I understand if you need some downtime.

I hear there's a super sweet little house in the backyard these days. What say I toss a beer through the shutters, yeah?

You've earned it.

This Is How I Nest.

Mama, please stop being a Nut.

Just shy of six weeks until this kiddo makes his or her Monkey debut. Sounds like a ton of time, right? Sure, if you're a sane being.

Which- in all fairness- I must not have been to get pregnant so soon after my daughter's first birthday knowing full well that the end of this pregnancy would align with multiple heat waves. But that's nothin' compared to my recent jaunts from reality.

Last night, right before said daughter's bedtime, I implored my tolerant Peej to bring some gender-neutral newborn clothes out from the storage area over the stairs. While he was there, I inquired about the bassinet. (IT NEEDS TO AIR OUT, PEOPLE.) Also, the BundleMes and winter blankets. Because- sure- it may be really warm now...but what the heck will I do when the cold snap hits and I've got abdominal stitches? (Who's laughing now? Probably...all of you.)

And then once the clothing was safely accessible down in our laundry room, I gently requested that he move the tall dresser from the new baby's room up to Nora's room. And maybe- just maybe- he could move her dresser to the nursery?

There is logic to this, I swear. The new dresser is way bigger, and Nora has a killer [hand me down and gifted] wardrobe that cannot be confined to a regular ol' dresser. Besides, her closet is rather eh in terms of space...whereas the baby's room features a tricked-out closet into which we could place an easy chair. If we were so inclined. Probably wouldn't shock anyone at this point. (Least of all my husband.)

I would have left me years ago.

The level of cleaning going on in this house would lead one to believe that a visiting dignitary will be boarding with us this Fall- and not a squinty baby who will (if I'm lucky) be able to barely make out my features.

And I've been cooking with a vendetta. Last night I made my Tomato Thief of a daughter some garden Roma tomato gazpacho with sweet peppers...so that she'll always remember how much I loved her. Same with P.J.'s daily sandwiches (with included "love" note, thankyouverymuch- okay, sometimes they're just random observations, but I try to create them on something resembling a heart).

I'm not entirely sure where it is I think I'm going, but I've made sure that my family is well fed.

My photo albums are almost up to date. Because can you imagine the horror if I gave birth and no one at my house could easily locate the pictures from Thanksgiving '08? CAN YOU?

And just yesterday the fabulous Peej gave me a gift to actually help the nesting along- a Groupon for a closet makeover. That's right, the haphazard jobbie that I threw together whilst nesting for Nora can finally be put to rights; the plank of wood that I staple-gunned to the ceiling for a shelf, the one foot hanging bar propped up by a bookshelf and a dresser, the shoe rack nailed into the wall...it'll almost be like it never happened.

I am stupidly excited about this.

Because sometimes- to truly nest- you've gotta call in the pros.

I'm half kidding about the pine needle project.

This post, by all rights, should have been ready for publication about an hour ago. However, an incredibly cute and persistent toddler has been giving what I like to call The Adorable And Timely Awareness Of Fleeting Moments Face.

It involves a lot of belly laughs and doe eyes.

Thusly, a good portion of my morning has been spent rocking any combination of four baby dolls (rotated at will by The Empress herself) with a pointed finger and the simple direction to "La la la." That's my cue to sing the babies to sleep- accompanied by Nora's wiggling hip dance. When she stops, so do I.

She never stops.

Another of Bossy Belinda's recent habits is to protest any action or removal from a situation or transit she deems unnecessary- by twiddling her lips in a grumbly manner. (Side note- what is that called? Recent Google searches term it 'flubberdubbing,' 'wabba wabba-ing,' and any other multitude of highly improbable, slightly pornographic monikers. Side side note- Do not attempt this search on your own. Sometimes I do not feel like the interwebs are as innocent as I pretend them to be.)

Nora has also recently acquired a [hopefully fleeting] fear of nose-blowing. Not her own. She's always hated that. No, what she protests is the action of someone else clearing their nose. I have no idea why this noise bugs her so much. We live a block and a half away from a fire station. Random parades are known to break out on our cross street. She is frequently awoken by striped tabbies demanding attention from her negligent parents. But regardless, as soon as you blow your nose, there she is- finger pointing like the evil monkey from The Family Guy. If you ignore her polite request, she flubberdubs her lips like the most scorned woman in the world.

People can no longer suggest that I have not negatively impacted this poor, sweet child.

Speaking of loved ones whom I have beaten down with my crazy, P.J. was awfully busy this weekend. It was the traditional Christmas Ended Two And A Half Weeks Ago Tree-Taking-Down Festival. (Our poor balsam was so beyond dead that its needles were shedding needles. While we were cleaning the living room, I half-convinced Peej to start a new business of making pine sachets...mixed with cat hair and dust. Also some crayon shavings. Who wants in?!)

After the house was cleared of all our lovely decorations (dead and/or alive), the natural progression of the afternoon was to move my office from right off of the living room to the third floor nook. Obviously. P.J. was less than convinced that this had be done on free weekend...but I bribed him with a solo trip to Home Depot. He could get all of the thunky, bangy, pipey Man Projects that his heart desired. (Shameless!) But, boy- did that desk move up those stairs!

Here is what the nook between the bedrooms looked like in July of '09:

Pretty spectacular, right? I personally enjoy the fact that no doors were on any frames during this time period. And forget about what's going on in the bathroom to the left. (It was three months before I would be alone on this floor.) Up until this past Saturday, the nook had hosted a miniature library of Nora's books...and Nora's friends' books...and a gigantic giraffe, courtesy of my mother in law. You've seen this giraffe before.

Here's what My Office Of Awesomeness looks like now:

You'll notice how spectacularly clean and organized my new office is. This is partially due to the fact that, during the move, I failed to relocate any of the clutter which had disenchanted me from my previous office space. I have no plans to amend this.

It is also not usually this pink nor is it quite so vintage. But I've found that the Hipstamatic hides dustballs and cat hair quite nicely.

Am I giving away all of my housewifely secrets?

You're the welcomest.

***

And now, random begging. If you stop by the Bloggies and feel like casting a vote for Lollygag Blog for any ol' category which you see fit (and Mama Moderne- mamamoderne.com- for Best Parenting and Design), well, that would just be great. Sure, you need to nominate a few others for each category, but that's not too hard, is it? Heck, you're on the internet right now! Clearly, you enjoy some websitery. The nomination process ends this week. After that, it's just a hop, skip and a jump to piles of cash and corndogs for all.

Which, just a reminder, you love.

But not half as much as I love you.

Nora got to choose a punkin'. We didn't COMPLETELY abandon her.

Did they leave me AGAIN?

I've pretty much guaranteed that P.J. will never again leave the house- for real this time.

Saturday was innocuous enough; a few errands and appointments and general loafishness. It was Sunday that hit him like a ton of bricks. 

Over coffee (mine), Ovatine (Peej's) and Costco waffles (all Nora's- she doesn't even begin to think about sharing those), I made a list. A little list. Of stuff we HAD to get done before this coming week. And before the winter. Or really the shank of the Fall. And certainly before we left our daughter for four and a half days. 

P.J. agreed. Warily. Because, sadly, there is no "right" answer. (You're either on board with the overhaul or against my personal freedoms.)

So I sent him out to Home Depot (where everybody knows your naaaaame...) and I got to work. You see, regardless of the heaps of laundry, personal correspondence or the positively Sisyphean battle of child-proofing left to do...I had a little thorn in my side called the Storage Room.

It should not have been called the Storage Room. It's actually a second kitchen, on the lower level. Same size as our main kitchen, huge picture windows, enough room in which to house a bouncy castle. (Ooh!) But it has been a way station for building supplies, actual storage, and friends' furniture. And it was filthy. And more than a little musty. And- most importantly of all- the paint was awful.

SO. Despite all of the tasks looming before me, I'd decided that I could not live another day without putting new paint on those walls. Cinchy. 

Trouble was, to even get to the walls, I needed to remove an entire Home Depot's worth of oak doors, baseboards and planking, and random pieces of wood that WE ABSOLUTELY NEED, KEELY. 

During Nora's first nap, I secured the cats in the laundry area, propped open the side door, and lugged a potentially unwise amount of heavy lumber up the stairs and into the backyard. (Once there? Who cares? It's like I tell my Littles- if we don't find places for your toys, maybe we should put them in the yard? Where other kids might like them and want to put them away? Honestly, the best case scenario would've been if someone robbed our yard then and there.) I got some serious elbow splinters and more than one ugly scrapes from broken hardware. The neighbors think I'm totally crazy. Crazier.

Side note- Did I mention my tetanus shots aren't up to date? I have a bit of a sulfa allergy. Not sure whether it's worse to be violently ill for a week or get TETANUS, but we may soon find out. 

The look on P.J.'s face when he returned home was one of shock (How did you CARRY all of that?) and dismay (So- we're doing this?) And I kept on keeping on: scrubbing, degreasing (did I mention it was an olllllld kitchen?) and paint-taping until my fingers threatened to fall off. And this was just the prep work. 

Long story kinda short, I finished up at 10pm. (Fun tip: Find a paint edger at around 8:30pm. Then you'll realize how much of your edging/paint taping/finger misery was rendered completely superfluous! Seriously. Then go back and re-edge the entire room in- oh, about five minutes. Then- and this part is really important- jab out your eye with a corner of the paint edger in protest of your lost afternoon.)

And I fully realize that the cleaning and organizing frenzy of which has consumed the past month is solely due to the fact that I am freaking out over my impending trip. (Not the trip so much- that part will be AWESOME- but the leaving of my kiddo.) So yeah, nothing has been done in terms of actual Stuff We Needed To Get Done...but hey, at least Nora has a rec room in which to console herself over the lack of clean clothes/secured cabinets. In "spring morn" [green], no less. 

That sorta makes up for your parents jaunting off to northern California for awhile, doesn't it?

Doesn't it?

(p.s. Please go vote for her on the left-hand side! The sting of bad parenting is easily soothed by a huge prize from Baby Gap.) 

Her therapist thanks you.

Insulation Confrontation- The Sequel

This needs insulatin', too.

The insulation guys are upstairs. So, I'm assuming that our crawlspaces are being done up. (Hopefully the right side up this time.)

There was a momentary glitch this a.m. when a neighbor flung my lawn chair (previously gracing a parking spot in front of the house) into a different neighbor's yard. Then he parked his car. So Nora and I ran outside to a) retrieve our chair and b) give an evil eye to the chair flinger. Of course, that was when the 40-foot insulation truck pulled up. The car driver feigned ignorance. The truck driver raised his arms at me like- What?! But I know that move, too.

He argued with me that I was supposed to have a spot blocked off. I told him that I did- and in fact had four blocked off. LAST WEDNESDAY. (I am rarely confrontational. It felt good.)

I went inside (after I yell, I always retreat) and was sure that a) I was in trouble or b) we weren't gettin' no insulation did. However. The truck driver and the car driver argued in Spanish. Guess who won? That's right- the guy insulating the third floor.

I should argue more. HEAR THAT, PEEJ?

Half an hour later, one of the workers asked if he could use one of the bathrooms. I told him sure and pointed to the one on the second floor. (Nora and I were downstairs at the time.) He chose to use the one on the third floor, which- ha HAH- recently lost its ability to be flushed. He apologized. I assured him that it was previously broken and not to worry. I then realized that I missed an awesome chance to get the toilet fixed on someone else's dime! But the Pollyanna side of me could never let that fly. Besides, I'm an awful liar. (I was about to say that I'd make a terrible spy- but I couldn't remember the word. What did pop into my head was the word 'Decepticon.' I'd make a TERRIBLE Decepticon as well.)

So. This weekend.

I engaged in what P.J. considers his personal hell- and Feng Shui'd the bedroom. He seriously hates when I move anything to any other locale. Also making his nerves work overtime? The fact that I have the most rudimentary knowledge of Feng Shui (like, kindergarten Feng Shui) and frequently change my mind after the heavy lifting has been done. That said- it needed to happen. Our bedroom is a pretty good size, but narrow from the door over to the double window. We used to have the window as our headboard because it looked awesome. And it was great to get a breeze in the summer. And- really- who doesn't like hearing someone break a bottle on a car at 3am?

But here's what convinced me that we needed a change. I read- online, obviously- that one of the worst bed positions was with the headboard against a window. Noise! Energy! Frantic dreams! (I will start to blame all previous problems on this headboard placement!) And the worst bed position? Feet to the door- the Chinese position of DEATH. (That sounds way more intense than they probably intended. I may have gotten the wording wrong.)

So I fixed it. Everything, really. And it looks quite good. And even P.J. liked it- once I got him into the room under the pretense of getting something for Nora. (Subterfuge. Hey- maybe I would be a good Decepticon!) I guarantee that Peej won't be running errands for longer than an hour anymore. He'll be too afraid of what he'd come home to.

I also did some heavy duty fixin' up of some found objects (God bless Craigslist's Free Stuff section)- namely a partition screen that someone was just giving away! It was blue and white checks with broken buttons on crisscrossed ribbons- obviously we needed it. I stripped and recovered them with heavy brown velvet curtains that had been gifted to us--

[Major side note: P.J. does not like when I repurpose things. What if we need them for their originally intended use? I assured him that, unless we wanted a sickroom with dim, dusty light spilling onto my prone, plaid blanket-covered figure, we would not be using the heavy curtains any time soon. He wasn't convinced- what if we need them for one of the kids' bedrooms someday? If he wanted his kid to be Colin from The Secret Garden, then sure. Let's hang the curtains. He gave me the blessing for the fabric.]

--and I got to use the staple gun. Which makes such a satisfying 'ker-thwunk' when you use it. And then it's stuck there forever. With metal. While I worked on this project, I helped P.J. run lines for an audition. I don't know how helpful I was.

"But then there would be no play, Mr. Merrick." [ker-thwunk]
"If he did not love her [ker-thwunk], why should there be a play?" [ker-thwunk ker-thwunk]
"Keely."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm reading. I am."
[ker-thwunk.]

He really didn't need me, anyhow. He's the best actor ever. And the partitions look fabulous. 'Cause he's the most tolerant husband ever. And thanks to the insulation, he'll be the warmest one, too.

Which is good, because I'm certain our neighbors will be flinging eggs at our door in due course...

...And it'll be chilly tonight when he has to go clean it off.

It's like Guilt Gyoza- but worse!

I'm extremely lazy. Or exhausted. Late at night, I can't tell which it is. And it's been causing some guilt. I like to call this guilt- Floss Guilt.

I know I should floss. I spent 6k on my teeth in the past handful of years alone (not to mention Braces 1.0 that was sponsored by my folks between '90-'92. It didn't "take." Some may blame a latent latex allergy; I happen to know that I have evil teeth.)

But by the end of the evening, I find that I can barely muster the energy to check items off of my usual bedtime routine: teeth, retainer (did you know that I wear a retainer? Now everyone does.), three step face 'system' (I have a thing for infomercials), cocoa butter for "problem areas" (which- ahem- is strictly preventative), *TMI ALERT* using the pump (or as Annie and Kat call it, "playing a polka-" it's very rhythmic), taking vitamins, Thermos of Dutch cocoa, seaweed wrap, chilled cucumber slices, mini mani/pedi, brow maintenance, a section of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnets From The Portuguese..."

The idea of adding 'floss,' regardless of how crucial it may be- exhausts me.

I informed P.J. that I was too tired to floss.

"Okay."

Too tired to floss? my inner adult scolded. Are you also too tired for future dental anguish? (Sometimes I don't even need anyone else with whom to argue.)

So I flossed. Angrily. Lots o' huffing and sighing. And timed it. Thirty seconds! Cheesen'crackers, it takes longer to organize Mount St. Pillows on our bed each morning! (And I never skip that.) So I added flossing into the routine.

Except for last night. 'Cause I was too tired.

And speaking of timing activities we don't feel like doing- Real Simple has a new segment called Speed Cleaning. Now, I love Real Simple more than I could possibly extol. Truly. It's a minor [major] obsession. But I think they might have overSimplified things this month. (See that right there?)

This month's Speed Clean was..."Your Porch. A total transformation in 10 minutes or less." Okay, I don't have a porch, per se (certainly not the Tara-esque one featured in the mag), but I'm feeling game. Even gamey. Let's clean:

-Minutes 1 and 2 tell me to remove everything from the porch. Done.
-Minute 3 says to wipe down all of the objects with a damp cloth. Okay, maybe I can do it that quickly.
-Minute 4- "Using an extendable duster, sweep cobwebs from high corners, overhangs and shutters." A minute? Really? It's gonna take me twice that long to locate an extendable duster, let alone use it. More if I hafta walk over to Walgreens.
-Minutes 5 and 6- Wipe down all metal and wood surfaces. Also- clean the windows. Really? Really?
-Minute 7- Sweep the porch and steps. Okay, maybe I can do that one in a minute. But I may have used up some time from whining about the windows.
-Minute 8- "Dip a long-handled scrub brush in the bucket and clean the floor." I am but one woman, Real Simple. (Have you ever cleaned any floor in a minute? Junk, it's taken me half that to complain about this step.)
-Minutes 9 and 10- Once everything is dry, I'm supposed to put everything back, then get myself something to drink on my awesomely clean porch.

Perhaps a chilled IV bag to replenish the fluids lost in the death march called Speed Clean Your Porch.

(I much prefer the game called Hose Off Your Cracked Cement Patio.)

And now, some kudos; the blog's recently been gifted with some sweet awards. Thanks to Kristin@Ellie-Town and  JoeyRes at Big Teeth And Clouds! I'd like to pay it forward as well (minus the horrid script and overblown budget), and acknowledge some fellow bloggers without whom I could not get through the day.

-My youngest sister Emma's blog: Huckleberry Flynn. I recommend not having a beverage anywhere near the vicinity of your mouth and/or nose when you read her lyrical dissections.
-The bitingly witty Caitlin Montanye Parrish and Everything Loose Will Land. I'm lucky enough to be in a secret society with her.
-The multi-talented Regina at And Baby Makes Four. She shops organically. She cooks. She has two boys. She has still yet to come make ANY of the dishes featured on her blog.
-Rick at Retired Pastor Ruminates (and also Rick's Recipes!) I will forever known him as Reverend Floyd, seeing as he baptized me and all. One blog is full of literary wit, the other teeming with truly yummy recipes.
-My pal Leah at Tin Roof, Rusted. Nora's in love with Leah's son Calder, and I'm in love with the fact that she and I are both from Western Mass.
-The hilarious Nifer and Jeremy at He Said and She Said. Contrasting views on arbitrary themes? False. I daresay they are crucial themes.
-Neato keeno Gwynne at God Spam. Trivia: We were almost roommates back at Camp Hamp. Due to a lack of follow-through, this did not occur. I think she lucked out. I am a horrid roommate.

And before this turns into a lengthier blogroll than the one featured on the side of this page, may I recommend that you seek awesome reads there, as well? Can't go wrong. They are all Keely-Approved. I'd thumbprint them if I could.

If I weren't tangled in floss.

Gonna need a bigger Mama Bear mug.

Okay, the weather was amazing on Thursday. And Friday. Like, 70 degree amazing. Open the windows, happily spring-clean (when it's so gorgeous out, it doesn't feel like cleaning. More like moving stuff around so the breeze can hit everything) and force my child out of doors- that kind of amazing weather.

I took Nora to our neighborhood park and met a woman who had perhaps just been handed her baby. She was incredibly impressed with everything I was doing for Nora ("What's that on her HEAD!?" "Uh, a hat?") and straight-up told me that she didn't know how to do anything for her kid. Oh boy!

Seriously. The gal was asking me about feedings, bedding, sleeping...and, contrary to how I may appear on the streets, I am not Dr. Spock. Or Mr. Spock, either. My knowledge of All Things Child is only so-so (and I am excellent at showing and feeling emotions.) I was like- Look, lady. I put my sweatpants on one leg at a time. Motherhood, insofar as five months has shown, is about intuition of your child. But maybe pull the sun cover over his eyes? He's on fire.

Later, while Nora napped, I took the opportunity to change all of the sheets in the house. The windows were open, sun was streaming in, a gentle breeze was billowing the curtains...I felt downright Donna Reed. I love feeling like Donna Reed. Of course, it was right around then that I realized the sheets were NOT fitting. I had started with the wrong corner and didn't have enough length to fit it to the bottom. Ha HAH! So I rotated. Now, there are four corners on a bedsheet, right? Two are for the top and two are for the bottom. Usually. You have a fifty-fifty chance of getting the correct corner. Unless you are me and over-zealously rotate, skipping the corner you desire and instead leading you (me) to believe that you have somehow ended up with a miniature perfect square. Maybe a wall hanging?

Don't pretend you've never done this.

However, it was during this sheet kerfuffle that I noticed Bean, the smaller of the two cats (and the one that a friend has deemed as having fur inside of his head as well) staring, frightened, out of the bedroom window. He's a bit of an 'indoor kid' as well. The sudden sounds and gusts of wind from the street were a little much for him after a winter of hiding underneath blankets and piles of laundry. Seriously, every passing car and child running by elicited the same deer (cat?) in headlights look. I know that look.

Maybe I should sign them both up for chess.

The next morning, of course, we awoke to blustery flurries, grey skies and chilly temps. I staved off a temper tantrum by hibernating with Nora and Peej- I think we watched about five hours of TV and movies, including but by no means limited to The Wizard, Jeopardy and at least three episodes of Clean House. At one point P.J. was sent to the Middle Eastern bakery down the road for spinach and cheese pies, string cheese, and honey balls. The honey balls were an impulse buy- and an exceptional one at that.

The rest of the weekend was an embarrassingly domestic and dull (read: perfect) time. I emptied medicine cabinets. Threw out expired makeup and products (quite possibly for the first time since my YM subscription ran out.)  Started a Facebook group extolling the virtues of proper grammar and punctuation- but, oh, HAHA, went overboard on the punctuation. (My name is Keely and I love to hyphenate.) Some people had a field day with that one, which reminded me of the time I errantly mispronounced 'Linux' in a room full of Dungeon Masters.

I still think I came out ahead that day. When all was said and done, they were still Dungeon Masters.

But now, apparently, it's Monday. And as Jay-Z says, 'We on to the next one.'

I think he was talking about oil changes and packages o' pampers, don't you?

Oh boy OH BOY!

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

NOTHING!

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

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

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

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

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

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

SO.

What do you wanna talk about?

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

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

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

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

I mentioned it. Casually.

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

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

Also.

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

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

Also.

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

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

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

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

Best. Fear. Ever.

My B.

That's what my brother-in-law Tom says when he does something wrong. My B. It's almost like saying "my bad" is gonna take up too much time; let's just lock & load and fix this thing. My B. 

Anyhow, I'm terribly sorry for being such a lax blogger. My [B]B. 

Posting is the only thing I've let slide in the recent rush of deadlines and activities...except maybe advanced personal grooming. (Is that an acceptable use? You know, when people are mucca busy they say things like 'I haven't even had time to pee!' (I always, ALWAYS make time to pee) and 'I don't even have time for basic personal hygiene.' I try to stay on top of that, but I think the next level would be 'advanced,' i.e. eyebrow plucking and bi-weekly exfoliation.) 

I think it would be fun to list the themes about which I'm writing and editing...just to give you an inkling of why I can't sleep "dreamlessly:" two boyhood friends arguing about coming of age and Chicago-style hotdogs, an updated 'And Then There Were None' (and shortened to under 45 minutes), a virtual date between two music junkies and commitment-phobes in an era of technological relationships, a murder mystery spanning 2 decades and ending in a midwestern circus, editing a shoot 'em up thriller for a literary manager pal, and [recently finished!] editing my youngest sis' short story about a man outrunning his personal demons. 

Add the 50+ hours in my work week and, (for some bizarre reason) the pressing need to organize every nook and closet within 3000 feet of my bedroom and donate all the excessive stuff to charity, and it equals a tired me. Plus, our pal Matt (Hi Matt! Stop reading my blog and go do your work- and no, Bejeweled Blitz does not count) has been staying with us for the past 3 weeks (he does dishes, so he= awesome), but P.J. and I have been a two-person show for a few years and a third party does make for a new dance of sorts. We're also either traveling or having someone stay with us every week/weekend until the beginning of April- which is great, truly- but as everything is due by March 15th...

Whee!

Also not helping the situation- people who do not use their bodies the way they ought during certain transit situations. For example, the other morning I was running up the southbound Addison brown line stairs behind a TALL MAN WITH LONG LEGS. Who was walking. Ambling, really. I missed a train because, although I was racing my stubby legs like a hamster on a wheel, Daddy Longlegs (who could have taken the steps three at a time, no prob) decided that this was the perfect venue for his morning constitutional (a guy I knew once thought that meant 'using the bathroom'- that is not the definition of which I speak). Anyhow, I think it is the civic duty of all the stretchy people out there to not block the already-too-narrow steps with intentional sloth. I said it.

And since I had failed to update since the 12th I also missed wishing everyone a happy Valentine's Day! I have always loved this holiday, ever since I was a little kid and craved cellophane-wrapped hearts, overflowing desk envelopes and parties that I would get sick in anticipation of. (Really- my mom had to pick me up early for multiple years' classroom parties...I would make myself ill even BEFORE I overindulged in too much candy. I was excitable. It was sad.) My parents always used to make a special dinner and give my sisters and I small presents at the table. To this day I obsess over making handmade valentines and calling friends all over the country to tell them I love them on that day. Also, I overdo the wearing of the red. 

This year was pretty sweet. P.J. and I usually get each other something kinda teensy and symbolic, plus I always make the biggest, sparkliest card for him...

He got me a 42 inch HD flat screen television.

I got him a new pair of gloves.

He also took me out to Turquoise for din, but by that point I had already decided to let him win arguments for the next...month. (I'm trying, anyhow.) The rest of the night was spent playing Mortal Kombat on the Wii...very largely...and seeing how clearly bad computer graphics would appear in the movie 'Blades of Glory.' (Awfully clearly.)

I am almost rabidly looking forward to lounging on my couch and watching marathons of Law & Order...

...in April.