2013 Is For Nappers.

Kinda like the Baby New Year (and her sister)...but noisier.

Happy Day After New Year's Day! Which isn't a real thing, but I'm still in yelly, celebratory mode from this intense holiday season!

So, I've gotta say, I enjoyed the heck out of my miniature blogcation- which is the last time I shall utter that word, I promise. (But I did.) It's been a kinda crazed past few weeks, and it was nice to be able to [guilt-free] omit something from my daily list.

And yeah, "Re-Cap Hilarity That Was Monday-Tuesday" is on my To Do list for my midweek post. Kinda feels like I'm revealing the ol' man behind the curtain a little, doesn't it?

ANYWAY. I hope you all had a wundy Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Festivus and that you didn't miss me too much. ('Cause I totally missed the heck outta you.) Another reason I felt okie doke with taking a bloggy break was because I know that a goodly cross-section of you follow me on Facebook and Twitter, et. al. (Because, yeah, this non sequitur/randomsauce display of verbal explosiveness/lifestyle wherein I overshare pictures of Nora drawing on Zuzu's head cannot be contained to thrice-weekly postings. I've tried.)

But if you're not a rabid follower (which is totally cool- it can be exhausting), here's whatcha may have missed:

At the risk of coming off as the most maudlin gal around, I helped close out the year over at Families In The Loop with Goodbye 2012, A Year Of Heartache, Loss & Hope.

On New Year's Day, I was stoked to be the first post of Project: UnderBlog for January with my slacktacular list of 10 Totally Attainable Resolutions For The New Year.

Speaking of 2013, New Year's Day was spent wonderfully. Because, as we all know, whatever you do on New Year's Day reflects what you're going to be doing throughout the year. Like a fortuitous Groundhog's Day. The Bill Murray vehicle, not Punxsutawney Phil. (Sidenote: MS Word just attempted to change "Punxsutawney" to "Subcutaneous." Helpful! It's rough when even your word processor thinks you're just batting words at the page like so many bundled gypsy "babies.")

So yes. New Year's Day. According to my January 1st, the entirety of 2013 will be spent sleeping in, reading, napping, taking baths, forcing my neighbors to provide gourmet feasts, playing board games on the floor, removing Play-Doh from Susannah's mouth, calling my family, and ordering Chinese food from up the street. That's a mostly amazing year!

P.J.'s will be spent re-watching Twister.

He did not plan ahead for this one.

See You Next Year!

I Love Me A Good Even-Numbered Year.

The Baby New Year is a girl?!

Happy New Year!

Aaand, the posting of today's blog is about three-ish hours late today. Nice start to 2012, yes?

The delay was well worth it (at least for me), because our darling friend Natalie came over to smooch Zuzu and play magnetic dolls with Nora. (She also chatted with us, but I'm fairly certain we're no longer the main draws.)

So. Yes. A new year.

2011 was a pretty good time, overall. It started off on a rather sad note, but steadily increased in its sheer awesomesaucitude.

We did a fair bit of traveling. Fixed up the house some more. Wrote more than during all four years of college combined. And met Susannah, one of the nicest people I'll ever have the pleasure of knowing.

But there's still something exciting about beginning a new year- it's like a clean slate, even though there's very little that changes from December 31st to January 1st. But hey, there's very little that changes each time I rearrange a room (except for the furniture), and that always has a bizarrely inspired effect on me.

We all need our rituals.

Our festivities this year were slightly more subdued than, say, ten years prior. (Thank God.) But the crowd was just as terrific; one really fun guy, two smallish chicks prone to dancing, and me. (Also prone to dancing.) Depending on who you were, sushi was consumed. Or a grilled cheese with pesto. Bacon-wrapped appetizers that didn't even need to be removed from the baking sheet. (Yay, formality and politesse!) A potentially unwise amount of baked brie was consumed well into the morning hours. The growns split a bottle of champagne. The Sound Of Music was started. (That flick is loooong.) There was music, dancing, and multiple episodes of Clean House on Netflix.

It was kinda my favorite celebration ever.

And you know how they say to do on New Year's Day what you'd like to do all year long? Apparently 2012 will include naps, movies, Skype calls with family, nonstop food, Wii Fit, and a brief interlude with Professor Layton on the DS. (I specifically put that one on the docket for the express purpose of getting to do it all year.)

This year will bring some pretty neat-o things. But I've gotta say, I'm already a ridiculously happy camper at this, the start to my new clean slate of a year.

I think back to my resolutions ten, fifteen years ago, and I'm stupidly pleased at the fulfillment of close to all of them. I have the two jobs I've wanted for my entire life. I'm married to P.J., whom at this very moment is picking up an order of beef broccoli, veggie rice, and an egg roll for me (the latter of which was not a resolution whilst in college- but which would've been, had I really been a planner), and he's really indulgent in the whole "not earning a ton of money" thing while pursuing my two dream jobs.

So in light of the fact that, wish-wise, I'm doing pretty nicely, I'm only adding two new things to my resolutions:

-Patience. For Nora, for Suzy, for P.J., for all interactions with family and customer service and transit.

-And hydration. 'Cause seriously.

Happiest of 2012, everyone.

Now please excuse me while I go patiently drink a glass of water.

My house doesn't even spin.

Let me be among the top five hundred to welcome you into 2011, three days in.

I am deeply consumed with confusion over my absent flying car, meal tablet, robotic housekeeper...or any housekeeper at all, for that matter. (Do you hear that, P.J.? Do not feel limited by any type of maid. I would take Amelia Bedelia at this point.)

Our New Year's Eve was pretty normal and quiet, by rest home standards. The three of us stayed in our jammies- actually, I changed into daytime jammies and Nora wore a fancy dress for part of the afternoon, but only 'cause she wanted to. There were copious amounts of television, naptime, and Super Mario Brothers 3 for the Wii. (I excelled at two of those activities and got skunked at the third.)

You'd never know that dinner was to be for three individuals- one of them smallish, at that- by the amount of Trader Joe's appetizers procured and prepared. Let's just say that bacon-wrapped things played a huge part. Also, regular bacon.

The most exciting part of the evening by far came around 11pm (or midnight in The Future where my East coast family resides) when I decided to cook up the last round of baconesque foods...and forgot how temperamental our Doesn't Mess Around oven gets when faced with such an opponent as wooden toothpicks.

Long story short, wood became charred wood. Smoke detector went crazy. P.J., previously downstairs and now very much so concerned about Nora's continued sleep, raced up the stairs to swat at the alarm with a towel. Crisis averted.

He went back downstairs.

A moment later, the other smoke detector went off. (Question to self: We have two kitchen smoke detectors?) Highlight of the year: P.J. flying back up the stairs and LEAPING into the air to rip the alarm off of the ceiling (after a second or two of confused glancing around) and then to smash it to the ground.

Problem solved.

P.J. offered to finish with the bacon. Also to repair the smoke detector[s].

Happy New Year.

And now, the beginning of what I'd like to call Suggested Resolutions For All:

1. Can we all agree to stop leaving lengthy outgoing voicemail recordings? Personally, I've had some semblance of an answering machine since 1991 and am pretty confident in my ability not to be confused senseless by the beep. Telling them to leave their name is a bit of a gimme. No phone number? Google it. "Brief message" also kills me- there are certain nameless family members who have been known to leave a Homeric epic on my voicemail, pausing once or twice to start and complete conversations with passersby. As for "time you called"...well, my futuristic phone has been informing me of that tidbit since car phones actually had to be plugged into the glove compartment via curly wire.

Sure, it's nice to know into whose phone you're about to gossip, but it doesn't have to be opulent. You could leave the 'Uncle Jesse'. You know- "Talk to me." (I've never felt cool enough to pull off that one.) You could take advantage of the name function, allowing a metallic voice to announce, "You have reached," followed by an overenthusiastic "KEELY!" Anything short and sweet works, because here's the kicker- the majority of voicemails include the automatic "To leave a message after the beep, please press 1." Or something like that. Meaning, the same exact thing is being demanded twice! Do not make me wait that long to inform you that bacon is on sale.

Besides, if the folks you're phoning are confused by the lack of directions, they're probably also the ones who will be confused by the sound of your voice on the outgoing message.

"Hello? HELLO? Keely, it sounded like you were there- HELLO?"

This series shall continue, and it shall also take helpful ideas. Because, let's face it- there's a lot of inanity out there (some of it is RIGHT HERE!) and we have to stick together.

Like bacon speared with a toothpick.

"It costs more because it SAVES more."

Sometimes things just don't turn out at all how you expected.

Example A: Instead of enjoying a cup of coffee whilst typing, the ottoman tray upon which my Mama Bear mug had previously rested decided to upend said coffee onto tray, couch, self- but most importantly, not computer. The empty mug is now being cradled by a vanilla powder-scented baby doll. This is a first. And sure, while annoying, it doesn't really represent the bigger picture as well as-

Example B: The other morning, while crawling around on my hands and knees in Nora's bedroom, I smelled something awful. Sure, this in and of itself is not unusual in the home of a smallish child- but I was fairly certain it was something rather dangerous. I called in the troops. Or, uh, troop. I asked P.J. if he smelled anything like gas or a chemical, to which he replied that he was certain it was just Nora's diaper pail, proving that even my husband believes that we live in squalor.

I called People's Gas and they showed up ten minutes later. Wow, I thought. What a helpful and prompt organization run by the city! They'll get this fixed in NO TIME!

Except.

His sensor thingie went wild in Nora's room, due to gas leaking in through the drafty baseboard that led to the crawlspace (you know, the one we just spent bank trying to insulate?) He then outdid himself by finding four more gas leaks (at LEAST, said he) down by the boiler and water heater. Nervous but optimistic, I asked what would be best to do.

He shrugged. Gotta turn it off. Law.

What?! You can't turn off my hot water, cooking gas and general warmth in DECEMBER in CHICAGO! I politely informed him that I had a young child, two cats, pipes that I'd prefer not to have freeze prior to New Year's, and a general desire to shower.

He told me to call my "guy-" but warned me it would be pretty extensive work. And that's where it got ugly. I was informed that at LEAST one wall would hafta be ripped out upstairs (to even find where the leak MIGHT be), and I'd need to solder off THAT piece and put a T pipe in HERE and have "your guy..." And I felt my optimism falter. Maybe quiver a bit. And, as most of you know, my strength is not hearing technical descriptions and committing them to memory. It just isn't. So I asked him to write it down.

"Too much to write," he helpfully dismissed. So I then asked (and I HATE myself for this part) if I could call my husband to hear all of these instructions for our plumber. The kindly gentleman from People's Gas then told me that I have EYES, I'm the one HERE, just LOOK at this and remember that it needs to be soldered here and a T pipe put here...

And I really, really hate myself for this next part- but I got so overwhelmed that I cried. A lot. The kind of sobbing that you pretend you're NOT doing, the kind that you choke back to reply to A SUPER TECHNICAL QUESTION, but it only comes out in high-pitched squeaks. The type where the city worker looks at you with utter confusion/disdain, the kind where the toddler in your arms wonders what weirdo game we're playing now, and the variety that makes you see the dollar signs floating away into the ether like some deranged cartoon and also at the pajamas which you may well be wearing for the next week. That kind.

So he shut off the gas and left. ("Sorry. Law.") And I called P.J. and for a good few moments he didn't know who was on the other end, perhaps some tragically hyperventilating chipmunk. But, as he so often does, he took care of it. Namely by leaving work early. And getting our "guy." And crawling into the insulation to dig out pipes with our plumber. And moving stuff into storage, outta storage, into storage again. And talking me down from my useless cliff of hand-fluttering.

But it all ended decently well, even though we're sure the city of Chicago now believes us to be dangerous horders, what with our upended storage spaces and all. Our "guy" fixed both the downstairs and upstairs leaks WITHOUT tearing into any walls. (I imagine he also soldered something and used at least one T pipe.) I made an edible emergency crockpot Beef Stroganoff with none of the traditional ingredients therein. The gas company arrived at 7pm to turn the gas back on (after a manly competition with the plumber of Whose Monkey Wrench Is Bigger.) And, most impressively, the house which we constantly disparage did not get below 62 degrees, despite an entire frigid day with no internal heat. Let's hear it for brick construction!

But, as I think you'll agree, that anecdote is a terrible way to end the bloggy year.

So how about if I wish a WONDERFUL birthday to my lovely pals Natalie and Cassie, and tomorrow to my darling sis in law (and pal) Natalie! (Also, did you know how long it took me to realize why so many ladies born in December have the name 'Natalie?' Including my mother in law. I work with words, folks.)

And may the new year bring more blanket tents for fun and less for warmth.

More stellar programming and less cancelled shows.

More sushi and less Ramen.

More hugs and less missed Skype calls.

More happy tears and less Ugly Cry.

And absolutely no rats.