April Date: Folk Music And Empanadas And No Falling Asleep.

With all of the madness and world events and still jet-lagged children, I wasn't sure we'd manage a Date Night this month. However, P.J. wasn't about to end his streak o' dately awesome since Christmas- and surprised me with tickets to see Hem at The Old Town School of Folk Music. (Which, if y'all locals haven't managed to see a show there, do it. 'Cause it's the loveliest.)

Hem, a terrific folk band, hasn't toured in about six years and is now promoting their newest album. Which. Is. Lovely. Peej scored a table right in front of the stage, where we snacked on the obvious concert choice of empanadas and tea. (We are exactly one hundred and ten years old.)

Dawn Landes opened for Hem, and played a great acoustic set. She later came back to play with Hem- who played for nearly two hours. They performed some hits and fan favorites like Half Acre, and some new favorites like Identical Snowflakes (a beautifully adorable song about snowflakes who fall in love and decide to fall to the ground together- and which had me weeping like a toddler) and Last Call- a song about reminiscing at an ocean front bar. (Which served to make me want to be a) toasting with cocktails and b) near the Atlantic.) There was even a singalong (and everyone loves that) and P.J. and I were sure we were about to be hired for the rest of Hem's tour as lazy backup singers.

Definitely a chill date night, but one where we held hands and enjoyed just being still for the first time all week. (Month?)

And again, there were empanadas.

Snow, Enya, and Confusing Friends & Family Since 2008.

So, Midwest: This snow thing. Come on. There's been a slight disconnect lately between anticipated snow and the subsequently unwarranted freak-outs. Having been a resident of Chicago for over a decade now(!) and being in the [poorly plowed] trenches for the majority of those winters, I'd like to remind my neighbors of what snowfall is. And four inches of ground cover within the city proper wouldn't even have been a blip three years ago.

You call this snow?

For example, during the blizzard of February '11, our fair city was downright pummeled with a whopping two feet of snow. Chicago Public Schools were closed for the first time in decades. And Nora sported her first wicked awful fever (upwards of 104 degrees) and it was so gross outside that we decided to take our chances at home instead of the ER. (And for all y'all first time parents, you KNOW that's some serious weather outside.)

But this? This week's pre-cancelled classes and fear-mongeration which caused hordes of people to hunker down and wait out the storm with walls of canned goods at the ready? Sure, last March's temps that soared into the 90s may have caused temporary winter amnesia, but...FOUR. INCHES.

People.

Unrelated/semi-anticipatory-cabin-fever related: The girls were absolutely wild this morning. Like, they would've given the screaming banshees something to really scream about. So I opened Spotify on my computer. Culled every single Enya song ever penned. Caribbean Blue. Orinoco Flow. The whole shebang of The Celts album. And then I watched as the girls blinked at me, gathered their lovies close, and begin to gently spin around the kitchen- not entirely unlike a few parties I attended at good ol' Hampshire College. And they [my kids, not the burnt-out hippies] looked at me, like- what IS this magic?

Enya, I benevolently informed them. It's just Enya.

Second tangent: Peej and I chose the theme from Far and Away to be our wedding recessional, written by- you guessed it- Enya. (And played by a myopic organist.) It was, for our Catholic-wedding-attending guests, confusing and awesome. Confusome. But go download that track right now. Because it'll change your day. It will change your day.

Our processional, for the record, was Boston's More Than A Feeling, which surprised literally no one on my half of the guest list. And inspired the the rest.

Except for the myopic, rather sleepy, organist.

Whom P.J. feared had kicked the bucket during the ceremony.

And for which scenario he wanted to leave the altar to "go take care of it."

But that's more of another feeling.

The Boss Continues To Be The Boss.

Back before our view was obstructed by The Giant and Giantess.

On Friday night, I fulfilled the childhood dream [of every single ex-boyfriend of mine, ever] of seeing Bruce Springsteen in concert. (Some have- ahem- seen him at least 20 times. So I'm catching up. Slowly.)

And I went with my current boyfriend- who also, conveniently, is the father of my children and the husband of, well, me...so there was very little awkward explaining to be done. But it wouldn't be one of my stories without some sort of horrific grossness leading up to the event, SO: Here it is.

A few hours before the show, I was out running errands with the girls. On the way home, Susannah began coughing and gagging in the backseat. I pulled the car over just in time to see her puke. Three times. A LOT. Nora, horrified, kept screaming that something was coming out of Zuzu's mouth again and again and again...and why was she doing that? And is she going to do it again? And can I get out of the car? Susannah, for her part, finished yuking and immediately began to clap and laugh. (And put every book and toy within reach directly into her mouth.) I attempted to bathe her with the packet of baby wipes I keep in the car, resulting in one Not Very Clean But Very Wet child strapped in her seat...and one very bored preschooler who had already moved onto her next book. (And for those of you worried about the gagging baby- i.e., my Mom- it's totally fine. It was a large piece of freeze-dried apple which had apparently been hanging out somewhere in her mouth/throat for the previous twenty minutes. No big. Note to my Mom: I am watching her!)

Once we got home, I had to choose how to best carry/help the children indoors. Nora was on her own, and Zuzu was held in a football hold as far from my shirt as possible. Because, in honor of the concert, I had already showered/put on a cute tank top during the girls' naptimes. This raises the questions of- why did I get dressed for the evening with so much messiness still left in the day? Why do I only have one good Goin' Out tank top? And why do I still consider a cute tank top the height of Goin' Out clothing? Ponder.

Anyhow, once I held my child as far away from me as humanly possible, bathed her in the same manner, and declared my kids to be as cleaned/fed/ready for bed as I could manage- we went to the concert. Did I mention it was at Wrigley Field? And it was very Wrigley Field that evening. Crushes upon crushes of people (which P.J. informed me was just, you know, a concert), all geared up for what was to be A Big Storm. (Which never came. So guess who rocked the show in rain boots and a hoodie? This fear-monger.)

The dude sitting to the left of me was a fan. A super fan. A mammoth super fan of crazyawesome proportions. He began chatting me up when it was clear the show wasn't going to start on time. (45 minutes late. I was told that this happened in Louisville, once. In '84.) And I was shown some sweet cell phone footage of a show a few years back in Florida. Finally Springsteen came out- and began playing the '78 live version of Prove It All Night, OHMYGOD I CAN'T BELIEVE HE'S DOING THIS, CAN YOU?! (Direct quote. I fear that my response and lack of frenzy was wholly inappropriate for the situation. I mean, it was great, but I was a little unprepared.) I texted SuperFan Dave- of the Seeing Him 20 Times variety- and was texted back with roughly the same level of enthusiasm. So clearly I was seeing something awesomesauce.

And the crowd was something else. The level of enthusiasm The Boss inspires can only be compared to Christian rock concerts. (Lots of shrieking, arms in the air, swaying, and emotional tears. I am not joking around, here.) Of course, I could be wrong. My view was frequently blocked by what must've been the tallest couple in existence. He was at least 6'4. She was pushing 6'. I am 5'4 and, even with my placement in the stands behind them, could barely see a darned thing. So I buddied up to SuperFan John and swayed into his sightline a few times. I feel no shame.

We screamed along to I'm Goin' Down and Badlands and Thunder Road and a bunch of stuff from his latest album, too. I waited oh-so-patiently for Rosalita...and it never came, but that's okay because he did a positively electrifying version of Trapped. So I forgave him for the lack of my song. (And She's The One never came either, but we really can't have everything.)

So, I love Bruce. Always have. And was enjoying the heck out of each song and the atmosphere of the whole thing (I mean, dude is getting on in age but he DOES NOT LET UP) when suddenly, my world was rocked. Because I saw a familiar silhouette come onstage and heard an unmistakable gravelly kinda voice...and before I knew it, Eddie Vedder was playing guitar and singing with Bruce Springsteen and I was totally there and got to see it and 14 year-old Keely was SO HAPPY she almost puked into her hoodie. And Tom Morello showed up, too. And then they all played together and it was like a magical unicorn land of gingerbread divinity.

An even bigger highlight? In the middle of Bruce's Waitin' On A Sunny Day, the camera scanned the crowd, focused in on a little girl holding a sign with just those lyrics- and so Springsteen invited her onstage to sing by herself. And then he picked her up, spun her around, and danced with her for a bit. Eventually he returned the grinning [and shell-shocked] kid to her [equally grinning and shell-shocked] parents. And Peej and I felt our hearts swole. We're suckers for awesome things like that.

By the end of the seventh song in the encore (during which time I deemed Morello and Vedder to be the awesomest Pips to Springsteen's Gladys), we were completely astounded by the level of Bring-It-tude that Bruce brought. Dude's shirt was completely drenched in sweat, save for his collar and cuffs. I guess that's what makes him The Boss.

Or maybe it's his ability to do it again the very next night, while I'm still reeling from dancing/having three Bud Light Limes.

We all have our strengths.

The Full Catastrophe! The Nields!

Katryna and Nerissa Nields have come out with a new album. For anyone who a) grew up in Western Massachusetts or b) loves good folk music, this is terribly exciting.

I fall into both of these categories.

The Nields were big on the coffeehouse/Lilith Fair circuit when I was an impressionable high-schooler and, now that I'm a impressionable mother of two, they've come out with The Full Catastrophe, their ode to parenthood, marriage, and how good life continues to be.

At first listen, I was pleasantly surprised to find that, while some of the songs were about children, they weren't necessarily for children. (Family-friendly is terrific. But I have a shockingly low tolerance for elephants stomping about. For example.)

Certain tracks jumped out at me; Back At The Fruit Tree, a bouncy ditty about how needs and priorities change once kiddos enter the picture. The Creek's Gonna Rise, a gorgeous song about the inevitability of time. And I Choose This Era, a sweet track about wanting to be right where you are.

The Full Catastrophe's themes of how crazy and exhausting and wonderful this phase of life is makes for a fun listen. And, much like having a sleepy-eyed toddler crawl into your bed at 6am, it's welcomed with a knowing smile.

Want to win your own copy of The Full Catastrophe? Of course you do.

Here's how:
-Comment here. Tell me about your love of good music. Or just say hi. (Worth one entry!)
-Tweet about this giveaway and link back here- but make sure to come back and lemme know you did so! (Worth TWO entries!)
-"Like" Lollygag Blog on Facebook or post about the giveaway on Facebook- but, again, make sure to let me know! (Worth TWO entries!)

I'll choose a winner (with the help of our good friend The Randomizer) on next Friday, June 1st. So, go! Go tell your friends!

I'll wait right here. I've got some good music to keep me company.

And Now...We Sleep.

There is so much. There is always so much. Will you remind me of this in the dark days of early Chicago March when I want to chew my own face off with stir-craziness/no one returns my phone calls? (I had never previously believed those two items to be related. I now see the error of my ways.)

The last handful of days can be broken down into three very specific events:

We're not leaving, are we?

End O' The Cape (For Me, For Now).
It was hard to leave the mammoth vacation "cottage," the pre-made coffee (and brekkie) in the kitchen, the eighty extra sets of hands to tend to Nora/unwedge me from clearly too-low beach chairs, and all the nightly games- even if there were multiple cheaters. (Cheaters!)

It was extra super-duper hard to leave the beach where I played as a kid. Especially since the water was so warm and the waves were so gentle and and and...

Nora felt much the same. She thoroughly enjoyed what she termed "potato chip" waves. Meaning they were salty. Meaning she digs salt. Shocking.

I feel secure, however, in the knowledge that P.J. knows exactly what type of property (and things to fill said property) he needs to procure within the next- oh, five years to make me completely happy. I'm not pushy. I can wait.

Then, since Schoenys do not believe in dead air, that brings us to:

The Yard Sale To End All Yard Sales (Please).

This was Nora's way of helping.

In which, despite crazy planning (on my part) and crazy manpower (on Kate and P.J.'s), we made a WHOPPING TEN DOLLARS. But Keely- you ask- wasn't the fee to participate in the neighborhood yard sale that exact same amount? T'was. I suppose the ten dollars went towards the three red balloons that popped in the sun (an hour into the sale- AUSPICIOUS) and bus fare to keep people out of our 'hood. That's only a guess. I even Craigslisted the sale, but somehow even the mention of all of our interior doors for sale didn't entice. (Whatever, yard sale losers- they are awesome doors.) And even the rock bottom price of ten cents for any single thing (or a bag full) didn't draw the crowds. For there were no crowds. None. We had a few folks walk by and scoff at our perfectly nice items that we really didn't want. I almost yelled at someone that I was sorry I couldn't offer him money to take my things. But I didn't. That would be bad for business. I'm just kidding- there was no business.

Guess what, Salvation Army? Happy birthday. Enjoy your espresso grinder and bag of shoes.

Bringing us to...

Tomato thief.

Lyle Lovett Plays At Ravinia For Keely.
We had missed the show for the past two years- the first being when I was pregnant with Nora and had inexplicably passed out in slumber on the kitchen floor an hour before we were supposed to leave, and last year when he played at the Morton Arboretum. And besides ticket and parking prices, we were expected to buy a day pass to the Arboretum. And drive for like eleventy billion years. Nosankyou.

But this year, flush with our yard sale pennies, we took Nora and enough food and activities to start a camp for hungry toddlers with attention disorders.

On the way we got to say an all-too-brief hello to Molly n' Lucas n' Peyton, a lovely fam for whom I used to nanny. (I started with Luke when he was two weeks old and now he's starting second grade, making me... about twenty three years old. Yes.)

And there are few things as lovely as sitting with one's fam on a cool summer night, surrounded by lilting music and too much food, snuggling with a crazy tomato-fiend of a toddler and a really cute husband pretending to pretend to sleep for the benefit of said daughter (but sneaking in an actual muffled snore here and there). And when you add in the visual of that toddler feeding herself cookies off of the nose of a Beanie Bear (and then tucking herself into bed under the low picnic table) and later dancing with one's husband (complete with toddler in backpack) to the final encore under a starry sky...well, that adds up to one pretty decent life you've got goin'.

Even if no one wants my darned Kenneth Cole messenger bag.

Popapalooza '11

It was a really great weekend.

Sure, Keely, you say. You always have a good time/eat too much food/nap during the chaos/watch MST3k your Dad and old movies with your Mom. What made this trip so boss?

He shreds.

Well, there was live music. Featuring my Dad.

And two bands.

Three if you count my sister Chelly wailing on the vocals.

And the food was in a buffet- that means that no one really knew how much food was consumed. (Secret: new plate each time? Little convo with a new party guest each go 'round the food table? That's how it's done. "Oh, Keely, you should eat. Think of the baby!" "Well...okay.")

A rare, non-food table picture.

Learned that trick back in '92 from a good friend.

On one day alone, I made four (4) trips for a bowl of sausages ALONE. That's right. Not even a flower for garnish. Bowl o' sausages. And that was just that type of meat. There were others. And I had some enchiladas and oriental salad and salad salad and pasta and potato salad (even though I do not- generally- care for the potato) and chips and multiple cupcakes originally in the shape of a sunflower.

Where's your I.D.?

The night before, I had been in charge of frosting the yellow ones. There were many delicious (and temper-tantrumy) casualties.

Kazoo= instant party.

The music was epic. The groupies were out of hand.

But easily, the best part was the one-on-one (or, rather, sixty-on-one) with the birthday boy himself.

And the pulled pork sammiches.

But mostly my Dad.

You're the best at this, Pop.

Is there a statute of limitations on stealing music?

Last night, as I was driving to Target (and thoroughly enjoying the alone time; I think it was Louis C.K. who deemed the walk from putting the kids in the backseat and getting to the driver's seat as a mini vacation), I flipped through the radio stations. Happily for my solo singin' time, the song Rosanna came on the radio. (I love Toto. Have since I was six, which is roughly when that song came out.)

Inexplicably, hearing it made me think of college. More specifically, downloading buckets of music in my friend and frequent hallmate Wilder's room. He always had a) better computers, b) newer software, and c) a jug of Carlo Rossi wine. More importantly, he possessed an extremely new invention called NAPSTER.

Now, kiddos, keep in mind that this wasn't just a new way to get free music, it was the first time this kind of thing had ever been done. Before that, you had to buy entire albums, at the store (or with a BMG circular, thusly signing away the rest of your credit- because really, no one ever bought one album at list price.)

And Napster had everything. EVERYTHING. I'd type in a random track or band I half-remembered from my childhood, and I could choose from eighty sources within a minute. I didn't care (or really know) about copyright infringement. It was just music on some kid's computer. It was like a stranger was making me the best mix tape ever!

Some days Wilder would return to his room to find me at his desk, downloads going for hours. Sometimes I wouldn't be there at all, but he'd find a queue of songs fifty deep, all one percent downloaded.

"Keely?" He'd call across to my door. "I might need this computer today."

To keep his PC moving beyond a crawl, he'd burn songs onto CDs for me, sometimes tapes- if you can believe THAT whackness.

Sometimes the mixes were so fabulous that I'd stay in his room for hours, and we'd blare the music straight out into the quad. (We were doing them a favor.) Other times I'd start an impromptu dance party. (Once, we jumped on the bed to an 'NSYNC song. True story.)

Sure, I had my own computer and stereo and plenty of places to jump during parties...but my window faced the loading dock.

I still own all of those mixes- one of which boasts the track Rosanna. I play them for Nora, who revels in grooving to anything with a beat (and pressing 'stop' and 'pause' on the stereo's tape deck.) They never fail to bring me back to the early Aughts, a time when my most pressing early evening issue was getting to Saga before the wok was rendered unusable by burnt stir fry.

But not before lining up hours' worth of Def Leppard and Lyle Lovett for downloading.

So this is where my mind went on the four minute drive to Target. It was pleasant, that jaunt through nostalgia. In that moment, it was late Spring on the Merrill quad and there was plenty of veggie pizza and Lucky Charms for everyone. And it seemed like it could've been yesterday.

Then the song ended and I glanced down at the radio station.

And it had been on the oldies channel.

Ouch.

And Another Thing...

Spinning some Slayer.

Tomorrow is April Fool's Day.

And I am not playing any tricks, nor am I currently accepting applications for tricks to be played upon me. In fact, heads will roll. Real ones. (Not pretend, April-Foolery ones.)

Last year I convinced my family that, while caring for a five month-old, I was ecstatic to announce a new pregnancy. (Ha HAH!) And, if you'll recall, my sister Em- having not the TIME to read down to the bottom of the email- believed this to be the case for a good week.

But somehow, it's just not quite so chuckly anymore. No fake announcements. No ice cubes in shoes. No spiders, dead or otherwise, anywhere in the vicinity of my face or anywhere my face may be tomorrow.

Have you ever seen a [me] pregnant woman cry? Imagine Ugly Cry times Frightened Cry times Frustration Cry times a thousand. And toss in some extra hormones and a few more pounds. Minus a little sleep and anything that could pass for a normal level of internal balance.

You've been warned.

Now, onto The News.

Have you heard the newest Britney Spears song? It. Is. Awful. And not just because I'm *cough30cough* getting a little older, and not even because she has never (ever) been my type of jam. (Mmm, jam.)

It was "penned" by the train-wreckiest gal of them all, Ke$ha.

Give it a li'l listen.

Here's my biggest problem with it: Britney's people spent a good decade trying to convince the world that she's Not A Girl (Not Yet A Woman,) Not So Innocent, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Now it's all like- Hey, I'm a seven year-old girl. Let's modulate my voice into an even younger sound! While we're at it, let's toss in some vaguely threatening sexual lyrics aimed at, to the best of my knowledge, the DJ. (And not to be super judgey, but did we really need another song about a DJ not understanding your need to get out on the floor and, you know, dance like you've been needing to do all day? I'm pretty sure the DJ gets paid hourly. He WILL spin some tunes.)

From the lack of crazy tabloid exposure, I'm gonna assume that Ms. Spears has it together with her kids (no more soda in baby bottles, etc.,) and is by all accounts A Woman. Would it kill her to sound like a grownup, musically?

Granted, my standards are pretty high. My favorite female singer of all time is Etta James (and a close second is my sister, Rachel.) I was a little kid during the height of arena rock, but I learned pretty quickly that Lita Ford was no one's little girl. And the only reason Joan Jett wanted a certain song to play was because she was gonna seduce the heck out of seventeen year-old boy leaning against a jukebox. And Pat Benatar? She could've transitioned from "We Belong" to an "Aida" aria without blinking. (In fact, you EXPECTED her to.)

Okay, no more soapbox. I'll stop waving my cane at the youngsters.

Nora wants to go hear some Tori Amos, anyhow.

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.

The Art of the Lull.

Music is a constant in our house. We have cleaning mixes, Sunday morning albums, and classic vinyl on rotation. Nora can usually tell the who, what, and where of a situation by what's currently playing: Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros? Time to dance with Dad before supper. '40s on 4, Sirius XM? Mom's doing a project in the kitchen. Sweet Baby James up in her bedroom? Time to line up the Beanie Babies and Trolls- it's playtime.

We've been compiling and collecting lullabies and our favorite kids' albums since the day we found out we were expecting. Some all-time favorites include In Harmony, any of the classic Sesame Street albums, Free To Be You And Me, and a still gender-nonspecific iTunes playlist entitled "Kid."

Nora loves them all. She digs a good melody, harmony, key change and rhythm. Here's what she doesn't like- pandering lyrics, saccharine sentiments, and downright boring composition. (Oh, did I say Nora? I meant me. But based on her refusal to stay in the room when something of that ilk is played...I can guess that she feels much the same.) So many kids' albums are that way. And most little ones I know can tell the difference between good and bad music, especially if they've heard a ton of it in their fifteen months.

I was beyond excited when I was approached to take a listen to Jane Roman Pitt's new album, Midnight Lullaby. She's a singer/songwriter with strong folk/country/classical roots, and her latest is a compilation of non-traditional lullabies from some pretty big names. It's already gotten some great reviews- at HuffPost, among others- so I figured that I'd give it to one of the toughest critics I know. She's 30 inches tall, has crazy hair, and a penchant for thumbs and frogs. Here's what Nora thought of the album.

We played Midnight Lullaby in the playroom, about an hour before I wanted to settle Nora down for a nap. It was a tall order, I realized, as she was darned busy laying waste to every puzzle and pretend piece of food in a three-room radius.

It started with Josh Ritter's Baby That's Not All- a song that warranted a bit of a hip wiggle (the universal sign for I Acknowledge The Music You Have Selected.) She also began to rock and pat her Valentine's Day cards. So, maybe she was feeling soothed. Or needing to soothe. Either way, those cards were getting the treatment.

Wilco's My Darling- a great tune- actually made me well up a little bit. It was so lovely. Nora paused the coddling of the cards to come give me a pat on the shoulder. Empathy! Or maybe embarrassment. Either way, the puzzle-flinging had ceased.

Tom Waits is an extremely welcome guest in our speakers, so when his Midnight Lullaby played, I decided to spread out a blanket on the floor and just enjoy. And yes, we've proven that this album succeeds at lulling the Exhausted Mother set...but Nora joined me, too. (I think the last time that she'd willingly snuggled in my arms was during her raging fever. Before that? Five months of age.)

Maybe it was the quiet time with Nora, or perhaps it was the sweetness of the song, but Bob Dylan's Forever Young got me sniffling again. And Nora even joined in with her nondescript 'ah' singsongy voice which I love. By this point I was ready for a nap, eighteen more children, and a pony for Nora if she'd just keep singing and cuddling.

There are so many highlights on this simple and gentle album: Donovan's La Moora is a soothing Scottish melody, Jane's own original tracks on the album add beautiful instrumentation and harmony, and the classic Beatles' Goodnight/Golden Slumbers is a must-have for parents, anyhow.

Here's the full track listing:
1. Baby That's Not All- Josh Ritter
2. My Darling- Wilco
3. Dreaming Sweet Dreams- Hugh Prestwood
4. Lullaby- Dixie Chicks
5. Midnight Lullaby- Tom Waits
6. Welcome Home To Love- Jane Roman Pitt
7. The Sweetest Gift- Sade
8. La Moora- Donovan
9. Whisper Warm- Jane Roman Pitt
10. Forever Young- Bob Dylan
11. Goodnight/Golden Slumbers- Lennon/McCartney

I have a feeling this one's gonna stay in our rotation. Want it to be in yours? I have an album for giveaway that I'm really stoked to share. Leave a comment below and tell me who needs lulling in your life. I'll choose a winner next Tuesday, so tell your friends, caregivers and discerning toddlers!

By the way, it worked. Sleep came- quite easily- a mere ten minutes after the album ended.

Oh yeah, and Nora napped, too.

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

It's also All You Need.

I could use a little Valentine's Day.

Now, before a horde of angry and over-holiday'd anti-consumerist solo flyers attack me for my God Awful ways like so many rabid geese...

...lemme 'splain.

The kind of Valentine's Day I want is of the second grade variety. That's right; first-rate, second grade. And here, in no particular order, are the five best reasons I have for wanting such a thing:

5. There is nothing in the world quite as awesome as having a cute boy write your name on a love note/paper with a piece of glued-on candy. There are people who will argue that there are many things better than this but they are WRONG. (And they are also probably: a) of the aforementioned first paragraph group and b) bound to see this little list fail.)  And sure, these days I'm pretty limited to which cute boy brings me what kind of paper...so maybe this is all a thinly veiled request for my husband to bring me something to eat. And to write something on it first.

4. Cellophane and shiny red paper makes my heart flutter. Who couldn't use a good heart flutter? (Except for people with pacemakers.) There's something about really fancy paper that makes even the dreariest, froziest, Chicago-for-seven-straight-monthsiest day seem a little more special. And maybe- just maybe- during the midseason break of my programmes, I need something a little bit more special than sugar free pistachio pudding. (That last comment was aimed at no one. I'm sure he meant well.)

3. No mailbox has ever been as special to me as the one that I folded and taped to the front of my particle board desk in Mrs. Hodsoll's classroom, Highland Elementary, Pittsfield, Massachusetts, 01201. There was a feeling of anticipation that could not be matched- certainly not by any city mailbox attached to a chainlink fence in any part of Chicago, 60618. I don't know what the heck kind of missive I was expecting- I don't think I even kept any of them past Valentine's week. (You didn't celebrate the whole week?) Maybe it was just the notion that something mind-blowingly wonderful COULD find its way in there. When's the last time you stood and anxiously watched your mailbox, knowing that today, SOMEONE was going to DELIVER something WONDERFUL. (They had to! It was a classroom rule that you had to give out Valentines to everyone!) I guess what I'm saying is that I'd like my mandatory overwhelming correspondence. And I'd like it to be a surprise.

2. Love is a many splendored thing. It also keeps us together, lifts us up where we belong, can't be hurried, will lead you back, will never do without you, don't cost a thing, is a rollercoaster, a hangover, a power, a glory, a vision, a dream, all around, everlasting, hot and justified. (And yes, sometimes it bytes, stinks, hurts, won't wait, is tainted, fools fall into it, and it makes you a prisoner.) You'd do anything for it- but not that. And sometimes- only sometimes- it grows where my Rosemary goes. (And nobody knows it but me!)

1. And lastly- though not leastly- the best declarations of awesome are of the found art and free material variety. They always have been. It's January 6th. You officially have five and a half weeks to find a doily and glue a Hershey's kiss to it. You've all been given a pretty decent heads-up.

Although...come to think of it, if you find a piece of candy on the ground...leave it be. Really. Just a simple doily will suffice.

A simple mammoth one with questionable amounts of glitter.

We Won't Go Until We Get Some.

I am not remotely done with the Christmas songs.

Whilst in the car the other day, Nora and I heard the cheerful lyrics of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. This is one of those songs that, for me, is so completely ingrained in my mind and memory of Christmas that I have fully stopped noticing the words. Until the car ride. Can you imagine if actual carolers came to your door one night? (This sort of merriment may occur in more refined and neighborhoody places- but if someone rings the bell in Albany Park after 8pm, your left hand's on the door and a Louisville Slugger's in your right.)

Okay, with me so far? It's late at night (yes, 8pm is LATE) and people are non-violently in front of your house. They are singing at you- which, as anyone with a schoolyear birth date can attest- can be rather awkward.

And then they want snacks.

Not just any snacks.

Pudding.

Figgy pudding.

(At this point in the song I'm wondering if 'figgy pudding' is the kind of treat that these folks are used to in the comfort of their own homes, or if they're just hoping to hit the snack lottery. Like if I went to my neighbor's house and screamed "Mussels fra diavolo!")

All of the aforementioned is weird, right? Especially towards the end of the song when they start outright demanding it. Give it right here. Merry Christmas.

Side note- (Also, did you know that 'Side Note' is the actual title to this blog?)- ever since my scree on Dominick the Donkey, it now plays no less than four times a night on our XM radio. P.J. can back me up on this, since it's usually he who sprints to change the channel.

And on the topic of radio stations, does anyone in Chicago listen to Lite FM's Christmas Wish shebang? (That is not the real name, I was just feeling jaunty.) Basically, people call or write in with their big Christmas wish and the radio station grants them multiple times per day. (I have tried to figure out a rhyme or reason or schedule for these free-for-alls. I cannot.)

Early in the season, I briefly entertained the idea of writing and begging for a Vespa or a closet with a shelf or two and a lightbulb. Then, once I heard the wishes being fulfilled on the air, I realized why I could never ever ever go through with my paltry demands.

These folks that get chosen? They have STORIES. Most of them have lost their jobs, someone in the family's always ridiculously sick and/or has died, the Mom has run off in more than a few of the cases, and no one has socks.

The only thing we really have in common is that I do not currently possess an abundance of matched, non-holey socks.

And they want one present for their kid. Or something to make for Christmas dinner. This one woman the other morning was the sole breadwinner for her son and his kids ('cause the mother had run off and her son had lost his job.) She was 72.

These stories always make me tear up and make me feel like the spoiled, white, middle class kid that I am. They're wishing for a special meal and I'm whining about carbs.

So to add to the mother guilt and Catholic guilt and American guilt...I can now safely acknowledge my Christmas guilt.

So I donated to the Arbor Day Foundation. (Yes, I am a card-carrying member, thankyouverymuch.)

And I gave to St. Jude's Children Hospital. (I CANNOT handle the St. Jude letters. Ugly cry x a million.)

And we adopted a family for Christmas presents.

We over-tipped our paper route kid and mail carrier and cat sitter.

Basically, I am trying to be generous and thank those around me and attempt to atone for the fact that, the other eleven months of the year, I am a horrid human being who does not eat bread crusts and instead throws them away.

I will strive to be less awful in 2011.

Anyone have any favorite charities that I haven't even realized I should acknowledge and fret over? Please list them below. 2011= Philanthropy Year!

Peej is gonna love this one.

The menagerie's full.

Many of you are hyper aware of my love affair with Earnest Music. (I initially typed 'Ernest.' That would be amazing. And most likely earnest as well. 'Camp' and 'jail' will do that to you.)

My earnestitude hits a whole new high around Christmastime. Holiday songs = country music + rhyming poetry on the scale of I Mean This Message Quite Deeply. But I dig 'em anyhow. A lot. Our radio has been tuned to the Christmas station since two weeks before Thanksgiving. That can cause some serious holiday earworms.

[Side note- If ever I am forced to hear Dominick the Donkey again, I will perhaps become homicidal. HEE haw HEE haw.]

[Side side note- A darling friend from middle school loved this song so much that she put it on a holiday mix CD for me. Twice. Intentionally. Despite this, I was thrilled to count her among my bridesmaids much, much later. But seriously. In the age of digital recording...I really could've easily skipped backwards on the track listing to hear Dominick bray again. Which would never, ever willingly happen.]

But there are certain holiday songs that just GET me. Quite embarrassingly, too. For instance- O Holy Night. Oh sure, it starts off innocuously enough with mention of how brightly the stars are shining and how special that evening is. Yep, I'm thinking- sure is a nice holiday song. Then the chorus hits. [Faaaaaaaaall...on your kneeeeeeeeeeees...] And suddenly I'm all like- wow. The notes are going up and up and up and the singer's gonna unleash a descant in a second or two. And then they do. Full voice. And I WEEP.

And Peej usually starts laughing, because- more often than not- I'm in the car with him when this happens. Or washing dishes at the end of the day. Then POW. Goosebumps and actual tears in the eyes. And then I do my embarrassed sniffle, the one that makes it more awkward that I'm clearly crying over nothing. And lemme tell you- there are few things worse than pretending you're not crying over something trivial while someone laughs [at you.]

Okay, there are many, many things worse than that scenario. But it's still pretty pathetic.

It gets worse.

You know who frequently covers songs like this? Crooners. Full-voiced, multi-octaved soft rock singers. That's right, let's add some more fuel to my furnace of shame. I am bawling to the melodic stylings of JOSH GROBAN AND CELINE DION. (Whom, let's not forget, I can seriously jam out to.) But it really doesn't help my case.

I recently stumbled across this version as well. I do not cry to it. Except with laughter. (Please do yourself a favor and listen to it in its [glorious] entirety. He really lets it wail at the end. Even replaying it in my mind, I'm trying super hard not to pee.)

So there's that.

Another semi-awkward bout with outward emotion always occurs when I watch Claymation Christmas. (Jim Henson Productions equate buckets of tears, apparently.) Man oh man, We Three Kings sung by the wise men and some sunglass-wearing camels is the absolute tops. And Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer as jammed out by The California Raisins is epic. (Does it bother me in the least that I'm thoroughly believing the activities of walking and talking raisins? Nope. I once watched an episode of their TV show in the '80s and was incredibly invested in the unfolding story of one of the female Raisins' (Raisinettes?) struggle with self confidence. When she managed to rock out a solo at the end of the show and shared a kiss with the lead(?) Raisin, I remember being really choked up. This is so true.)

However, I'd still choose the O Holy Night dude AND public sobbing (maybe even public California Raisin admiration) over Dominick the Donkey.

Hee haw, indeed.

It's only a problem if you acknowledge it.

Happy Flag Day!

I am totally kidding, Annie. Happy 30th! (This especially falls under the category of "not cool" since our dear Annie is, in fact, a Brit.) Things have changed a little bit since our combined 23rd birthday parties- the fashion, minimum wage, the "interwebs"- but she doesn't look a day over 25. (Especially not the day after 25. That was a rough one.)

Let's do the weekend out of order, shall we? First up: the season premiere of True Blood. One of my programmes. Good timing, too, as I recently found out that the last episode of The Office was the season finale. Hwa? That was no season-ender. I was feeling momentarily bereft- a gap that could only be filled by a ridiculous nude scene of Eric Northman. (Side note to my mother- remember when you asked if the books and the show were the same level of sex and violence? And I responded all- Mother, it's EXACTLY the same... Well, ha HA. I may have misspoken.) The show has also taken liberties with plot lines from the books and refused to heed my suggestion of killing off Tara- or at least reducing her to the sub-subplot character that she is in print. Oh well. Eric had a nude scene!

Back to Family Friendly.

This past weekend Nora took her first trip to Ravinia. (Those from the Western MA area can compare it to Tanglewood, sans mountain views and all of the New Yorkers.) We saw Steve Martin do some bluegrass on the banjo- actually, that's not true. P.J. and I saw Steve Martin. Nora saw the opening act as we picnicked on the lawn, then she heard kids scream "Baby!" at her while she frolicked on the grass, and finished it up by hearing sirens drive by the one main road as she drifted off to sleep. I think the city sounds follow her. 


Some highlights: 


-Steve Martin was hilarious and ridiculously good on the banjo. He thanked us for coming, especially thanking those who were dragged there by others. He imagined it came off sounding like- Oh, we're going to see Jerry Seinfeld perform an evening of songs he wrote for the bassoon.


-A woman asked if Nora was four months old. We told her no, she's seven and a half months, but she's on a diet. I AM KIDDING, MOM.


-We saw some lovely friends. It's fun to see friends. Sure, we were half an hour outside the city, but it's still that feeling of- Oh my goodness, you're in Paris, too!?

Y uno lowlight:

Nora had to buy a ticket. Yep. Because it was an "all ages" show. Sure, she's just barely beyond that age where she was actually carried internally, but she needed a ticket. I understand two and older. Heck, I get 18 months. But even airlines let you carry a baby on your lap. (And, uh, no one was handing out free snacks, thanksverymuch.) In fact, if I made her sit in her own [lawn!] seat, she'd flop to the ground or pike into supported standing. So- thank you to Ravinia for allowing me the privilege of paying money to heft my own child. (And you best believe we used alllll of the facilities. Twice. She got her money's worth.)

Yesterday morning I went to Cermak for produce. Those folks not living on the West or South sides of Chicago may not know the glory of this Hispanic establishment- everything is seven for a dollar. Or thereabouts. Really. You can have an entire cart full of mangoes, Boston lettuce, all of the hoity fruits and veggies your heart desires- and all of the awesomely intimidating, completely indeterminate ones- and it'll ring up to less than ten bucks. Always.

Listen, I do not want to know how they get their wares so cheaply. It may be some sort of Mexican magery. I'm totally content to leave it at that.

I was one of about three white gals shopping there yesterday- which is about the ratio in my neighborhood, anyhow. How could I tell, beyond the obvious skin and facial features? (And it's not always obvious, by the by. Folks often approach me with rapid-fire Spanish and are beyond disappointed by my second-grader language skills. It's gotten better. It used to be Toddler Spanish. All nouns.) So what gave it away? Yoga gear.

In the city of Chicago, I've found that the majority of white women wear yoga gear on the weekends. To run errands. Embarrassingly enough, I was part of that cliché on Sunday. No longer. Because seriously, what part of poking an avocado requires clothing designed to wick away moisture?

I decided to put myself out there for further humiliation on the walk home. I stopped at the Tamale Stand. Oh, there's so much history here. This elderly guy and his wife are known for stopping by late night bars with coolers full of freshly made tamales. Sounds sketchy, yeah? Of course it is. AND UNBELIEVABLY DELICIOUS. So, when we moved near this Cermak and saw that there was a built-in tamale stand, I mentioned to P.J. that we'd have to stop there sometime for middle-of-the-day tamales. And we haven't. Which is crazy. Because, again, they are SO good.

So I ordered a bag. Yes. A bag of tamales. (Individually wrapped, of course, I'm not an animal.) I even ordered in Spanish. Poorly. And got the slightly condescending second grade Spanish 'look.'

And then they asked if I wanted mild or hot.

And I have an allergy to super hot foods.

So I ordered mild.

And Tamale Guy and Tamale Wife exchanged a look and snickered an old-person, 'inside joke' kinda snort. Which leads me to pose the question- WHY DID YOU EVEN ASK? I am a [sensitive] person. I am deserving of respect. It is my right to have food that will not close up my lungs.

So I seethed. I felt sorry for myself during the block and a half walk home. And then I ate a bag of tamales.

And became totally cool with my new moniker of Whitey WussMouth.

Pride=0, Belly= 1. Okay, it was more like- Pride= -2, Belly= 6.

I am such a puppy and I deserve everything that's coming to me.

Like more tamales.

You might wanna hit the bathroom before this one.

I'll be 30 in three days. This is a very real and very definite thing. So I decided to post about what I've learned over the past thirty years.

Then I realized that I know nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except.

Perhaps I know a little bit about the music that has shaped me, be it a favorite song, a theme from a period of my life or songs that just wouldn't leave my iPod. So I made a list. A CD, really. Okay, it's a double CD. (It was almost a triple- some serious cuts have been made here, people. Do not think that tears were absent from this process.) What started out as "Ooh, I'll list some songs that I've always liked" became a military operation of razor-edged precision. There were few [40] survivors. (These forty songs fit nicely onto two discs. I've checked.)

And one last [set of] disclaimer[s]: I only included one, awesomely representative track per artist. I HAD to. This was hard. And I omitted tracks that serve a single purpose (or I really, really tried to), i.e. Jay-Z's "On To The Next One" (thanks, Emma!) for when Nora and I just need to dance a little bit, or anything in the Stabbing Westward category (thanks, Nat!) for when we're a little, say, angry? Also gone are the tracks and artists that, sadly, had no staying power. I loved Tiffany and the Annie soundtrack when I was nine. But that's about it. No Songs I Love To Sing, either. That would be crazy. And lengthy. Sorry Linda Ronstandt/Aaron Neville. And the albums that I love as albums, but without any singular track to define a year (a la The Black Crowes' Southern Harmony and Musical Companion) are out. Maybe I'll do a 'best albums' list for my 40th. It's gotta be easier. SO- without further ado, the songs that rocked and defined my world- and, amazingly, still do. (Chronologically as to when they affected my life, not when they were released.)

Okay. Settle in.

1) 1983- You Shook Me All Night Long- AC/DC (Back In Black, 1980): This is the first song that I remember. (Aside from You Are My Sunshine- my duck mobile blasted that one.) My Dad played it on his basement stereo of our house on the Cape. I vaguely recall red carpets and sonic speakers. Since then, both Kate and I have danced with our sisters to this at our weddings. I guess you could call it the Flynn Sis Anthem.

2) 1988- I Want To Know What Love Is- Foreigner (Agent Provocateur, 1984): It was ridiculously hard to not include any other tracks, or even anything from the Lou Gramm canon. But this was my first and the best. It was included in my favorite episode of Quantum Leap (Temptation Eyes- the one with the psychic? Yeah.) and was Side A of a cassette with two songs that helped me fall asleep each night.

3) 1990- Life Goes On- Poison (Flesh And Blood, 1990): And the last song of Side B. (So basically, you could keep flipping it over and over and never have to fast forward or rewind. I was incredible.) This album was my very first cassette. My godfather Joe gave it to me, and since he was the drummer in my Dad's band, I respected every single thing (musical or otherwise) that he's since told me.

4) 1990- Open Up The Door- The John Hall Band (Search Party, 1983): My parents have had a love affair with John Hall and Orleans since well before I was a flicker in anyone's cosmos (that's 'cosmos' not 'cosmo,' Mom.) Both this and All Of The Above are two of the coolest albums to listen to straight through. This is my favorite, though, as I've always liked desperate love pleas. And at age nine? I was kind of an expert.

5) 1990- Mary Mary- The Monkees (More Of The Monkees, 1966): There was a very real possibility of hair-pulling-out action for Davy Jones. Heck, there coulda been some Seppuku. I loved him. Waaay missed the boat on this one.

6) 1990- Oh! Darling- The Beatles (Abbey Road, 1969): Okay, toughest one here. I chose Abbey Road because my sisters and I would scream this one on the way home from soccer games. (The twins were strangely obsessed with it, too, even as babies.) I love the story of how Paul screamed his lungs hoarse in an alley before recording this track. I always wanted to do that. That was kibosh-ed. Also, I lived really close to Abbey Road as a junior abroad. 'Tis a happy place. (Runner up: I've Just Seen A Face. Divine.)

7) 1991- The Thunder Rolls- Garth Brooks (No Fences, 1991): My Dad used to play this one, really softly at first, then would crank the volume as the thunder amped up. We'd all run in (from wherever we were in the house) and scream. And then sing.

8) 1991- Keep On Loving You- REO Speedwagon (High Infidelity, 1981): Neck and neck with #2 for best love song. Even though it's about a cheatin' woman. And even though I later found out what a 'speedwagon' was. Seriously a sucker for a wit's end love song. I was 11.

9) 1991- Disappear- INXS (X, 1990): Okay, for anyone who thinks that the little things go unnoticed in a young kid's life? My parents let me have a phone radio in my bedroom (the phone wasn't connected, but I dug the idea of having there, anyhow) and this song played every morning as I got ready for school. Anytime I hear this song now, I think about how awesome that radio was and how cool my folks were to let me have it. I know.

10) 1991- Photograph- Def Leppard (Pyromania, 1983): Second favorite band of all time. Favorite song in their catalogue. I become Tawny Kitaen when I hear this one and have to be forcibly restrained from dancing atop cars and counters.

11) 1992- Here I Go Again- Whitesnake (Whitesnake, 1987): Speaking of Tawny Kitaen, David Coverdale didn't stand a chance. He literally spends the whole video staring through the dashboard at his car-prancin' gal and giddily thinks: I got to MARRY her! (For a short time.) This song would later resurface in college when a few friends and I half-heartedly wrote a rock opera based around this song. It would have been massive.

12) 1992- Cowboy Man- Lyle Lovett (Lyle Lovett, 1986): I love every single thing about Lyle Lovett and always have. But since my entire family (including Peej and NJ) concur, I'm in excellent company. And this song? I've always wanted to be some cowboy's Cinderella. Dream= attained. (Sure, he's from Ohio, but I think it still counts.)

13) 1993- Everything I Do- Bryan Adams (Waking Up The Neighbours, 1991): Fine. I had to. I've always loved B'adams (and, uh, Prince Of Thieves- best epic EVER), but my family will never let me live down the time that I auditioned for the 6th grade talent show with this song. And so did Brian Jakacky. And the teachers made us duet. And it was GOD AWFUL. (It's even on tape.) Yet, somehow, whenever this song comes on, I can't help but smile. (I also get a lot of phone messages from my sib with just the song playing on the radio.)

14) 1993- Love Lies Bleeding/Funeral For a Friend- Elton John (Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road, 1973): I hafta thank my Mom for this one. It was on a drive back from the Cape one summer where we listened to this album at least three times. It may be one of the coolest-constructed songs ever penned. It's magical. And it makes me appreciate my Mom's musical tastes- because, to be fair, my Dad is one of the most music savvy people to grace the planet. That's some tough competition. But she holds her own.

15) 1993- Make Me Lose Control- Eric Carmen (Single, 1988): Again with the soft n' lite angsty love. This is a wonderfully screamy love song with a CRAZY awesome modulation towards the end. Just perfect for the girl who, as yet, had not received so much as a handshake from a boy.

16) 1993- American Girl- Tom Petty (Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, 1977): Sure, it's a bit cliché,  but as I was 13, so was I. Reminds me of taking the twins to the pool at Ponterril, eating nachos (it's been a lifelong addiction) and dedicating this song to myself on Live 105.5.

17) 1994- Magdalene- Boston (Walk On, 1994)- Yup, I lied. THIS was the hardest to narrow down. Most people within yelling distance know that Boston is my favorite band on the face of any planet, ever, and has been so since I've had ears. Heck, I walked down the aisle to More Than A Feeling. And Third Stage as a whole gets played- oh- once an hour. But this track? Magnificence. Listen to it the first time with headphones. Peej did. And then [2 years later] he asked me to marry him. Also- little known fact. This is my Catholic name. Littler known fact? I'm Catholic.

18) 1995- Kyrie- Mr. Mister (Welcome To The Real World, 1985): Really, at no point in my life has this song not affected me. The overly earnest lyrics, the travelin' sentiment, the best key change in the business? Musical royalty.

19) 1995- At Last- Etta James (At Last! 1961)- There are SO many Etta tracks that I adore. She is easily my favorite female singer to whom I am not related. But this one was the first (thanks again, Uncle Joe!) and kinda encapsulates every single thing I dig about this woman. My Dad took me to see her in the summer of '95 when I was being all weepy and dumb- and it was transcendent. In related news, I named my first car after her. (She was spunky and black, too.)

20) 1997- Your Love- The Outfield (Play Deep, 1986): This was a cross-country running song. Specifically, on the back of the bus on the way to meets. I hated the races. I loved the bus trips. Also- one of my best pals Jen and I were convinced that the first lyric was about a girl named "Jenny" who was "on a vacation far away." This was false. (Oh, Google, how we coulda used you. 'Cause it was Josie.)

21) 1998- Intergalactic- Beastie Boys (Hello Nasty, 1998)- I've always liked the Beastie Boys, but the Fall that I entered college, this song was everywhere. Everywhere. I'm pretty sure it was handed out with our rainbow-colored lanyards and copy of Non Satis Scire. When I think back to the first few weeks of college, I think of that creepy kid on my hall, my unfortunate predilection toward overalls, and this song.

22) 1998- Always On My Mind (Willie Nelson, 1982 AND Pet Shop Boys, 1988)- The version with Willie gives me chills, but the Pet Shop Boys bring their A Game, too. This song is also a bit of a "check in" with my younger self to make sure we're all still feelin' the tragic love songs. And yes, yes we were.

23) 1998- Poison- Alice Cooper (Trash, 1989): This one resurfaced in college. My bestie Vicky and I enjoyed screaming it out of Etta's [the car] windows as we drove around and looked for mayhem. Before everything closed at 7pm.

24) 1999- 7- Prince (Love Symbol, 1992): Originally, I wanted this to be a contender for the Darwin's Kids (the rad episodic comedy on which I worked for about three years) theme song. It wasn't chosen. But you can't stop me from thinking about the series whenever I hear it. So I think we all know who won.

25) 1999- Do You Believe In Love- Huey Lewis and The News (Picture This, 1982): In a word? Yes. I have always believed in love, especially in three part harmony. My bro in-law Tom can rock a version of this a capella. Go on, ask him. You probably won't hafta ask twice.

26) 2000- Rosalita- Bruce Springsteen (The Wild, The Innocent and The E Street Shuffle, 1973): This was another hard choice. Little bit of trivia- every boy that I've ever truly loved has been crazy for Springsteen. So, I guess I do have a "type" after all. (That type would be "awesome.") Other close contenders: Brilliant Disguise, Tunnel of Love, She's The One...but this perfectly describes the kind of love I was looking for- giddy, carefree, a record deal, all of it.

27) 2000- Why Worry- Dire Straits (Brothers in Arms, 1985): One of my favorite albums of all time, and easily the prettiest, saddest track about love that Mark Knopfler penned. I am getting so predictable.

28) 2001- I'm Sticking With You- The Velvet Underground (Loaded, 1970): This makes me think of London, of new beginnings, of taking on the world...all encapsulated in a pretty little love song. Sigh.

29) 2001- Smile- Weezer (The Green Album, 2001): I think Weezer is the bee's knees. This album was considered by many to be their least impressive album. I disagree. People say the album is one, 38 minute long track? Fine. But I LOVE that track. Also, the phrasing in this song makes me think (and think and think and overthink) about sentence structure long after the song ends. That's pretty cool. Nerdy, but cool.

30) 2002- Sweetness- Jimmy Eat World (Bleed American, 2001): This song was everywhere when I graduated from Hampshire. As much as I tried to not identify with a song just 'cause it was on the radio at a crucial time in my life, I couldn't help it. I was "spinning free." I have no idea what the "sweetness" business was all about, but I was most certainly "spinning free."

31) 2004- Galway Girl- Steve Earle (Transcendental Blues, 2000): Sure, my family hails from Counties Cork and Kerry, not necessarily Galway, but close. Besides, when the person who gifts you a new song is cool enough, you'd change your middle name to make a song better apply. Tragic love song? Okay, I'll try it.

32) 2004- Love Is Only A Feeling- The Darkness (Permission To Land, 2004) They were so flippin' cool. No one could tell if they were earnest or making fun of earnest rockers. Either way, the album worked. And this track was a love song about not really accepting the fact that you were in love. Criteria= met.

33) 2005- Gypsy Woman- Martin Sexton (Black Sheep, 2000):  P.J. introduced me to Martin, and we've been fast friend ever since. Martin has no idea, but oh, we're friends. There were so many to choose from here. Happy was our wedding song. (With Peej, that is.) But a song about a gypsy who stole everything and you still want her back? How could I NOT?

34) 2006- Waste- Phish (Billy Breathes, 1996):  Okay, I've never really dug Phish before. But as I am now married to a bona fide hippie (I don't care what you do now, P.J., you wore tie dye in high school. Hippie.) and have a sinking suspicion that I'm raising a mini one as well. And the lyrics speak to every single thing I think and feel about being at home with them, wasting time, not wanting to spend even one second on things that take me away... Sigh. I guess I like Phish.

35) 2007- Carolina In My Mind- James Taylor (James Taylor, 1968): My family has a rabid obsession for Mr. Taylor as well (Tanglewood, woot!), and this one tops them all for me. I've always appreciated it, but the older I get and the more I travel, the harder it is to be away from those people and things from my youth. Okay, the maudlin portion of the narration has ended.

36) 2008- Book Of Days- Enya (Shepherd Moon, 1989): Bet you didn't know this was our wedding recessional! 'Twas a strange choice, and one that the organist (the one whom we thought had kicked it during the first hymn) raised an eyebrow at. But since we had spent the majority of our wedding planning trying to finish the movie Far And Away in teensy, episodic form before passing out each night (it's barely an hour and ten minutes in length), this was a little nod to how ridiculous[ly cool] we were.

37) 2008- I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend- The Rubinoos (Back To The Drawing Board, 1979):  I listened to this on repeat for the entire time it took me to write my latest play, which was- oh, about five months. I also dig that they sued Avril Lavigne for ripping it off in "Girlfriend," and it got thrown out of court when it was proven that THEY ripped off the Rolling Stone's Get Off My Cloud. I live for this kinda stuff.

38) 2009- Can't Hold Back- Survivor (Vital Signs, 1984) Has anyone heard me talk about this one? This album is perfection. This song starts it off. This was blasted at the apartment on Oakley as well as helped us warm the house on Troy. Nora and I made dinner to this every night during maternity leave and it's currently gracing our summer CD mix for the car. I cannot recommend this song enough, people.

39) 2009- Timebomb- Beck (Single, 2007): This song was featured on an episode of True Blood. It also came at a point when, with my third trimester, brand new home with no nursery (as the LEAST of it's problems), and awfully new marriage...my life WAS a timebomb. (Then, just as suddenly, it became the cover of Goodnight, Moon.)

40) 2009- Just Breathe- Pearl Jam (Backspacer, 2009): Liking Pearl Jam was a given, being that I attended high school in the mid-nineties. But this track was gifted to me as we prepared for Nora's birth. Oh, we had it all planned out: P.J. made a CD of songs for the hospital and it would be this serene, lovely experience wherein we would welcome our child with- what? C-Section? Over in 17 minutes? Well, we'll always have this song. (It stayed in the car until she was around six months of age.)

And I cannot believe that I ran out of room on the discs. Already my mind is a big ol' Regret Stew of songs I should have added, things that may not have needed to make the cut, and, and...I'm not gonna worry about it.

Until my sisters begin hassling me.

Perhaps Monday will be an 'addendum' day. Or maybe I'll just let this be a sweet li'l time capsule of my first thirty years. Something I can look back on someday and think to myself- Really? Whitesnake?

Hopefully I'll have some actual knowledge to impart by then. But it'll probably just be some more love songs.

Delivered via hoverboard.

With my mind.

Too nice of a day...

...to play each other for a fool.

But I did, anyhow.

I spent a goodly bit of the morning trying to convince my immediate family that I was expecting our second kid before the end of the year. Oh, the hilarity of mass emails. Here's how it went down:

-Kate, the savviest and quickest on the email draw of all of 'em, thought it was hilarious.
-Kate's second email reminded me of the time I put ice cubes in shoes and forgot the "baggie" part. (Look- this kind of awesome wit takes a few years to hone.)
-Tom was stoked at the beginning of the email...and then a little disappointed by the "April Fool's" line. I regret this.
-My mother, with a point for snappy comeback, pretended she was unable to read to the end- but would later- and was SO EXCITED for us. (I responded with a 'p.p.s.' saying that, with futuristic technology, I already knew that they'd be twins. Mazel tov!)
-Emily, apparently unable to read to the end of the email because she was on the commuter line (It's not a trial subscription of the NY Times, E, you can read beyond the headline), was genuinely excited. She even convinced our nephew Cole to call me up and scream 'Congratulations!' That part was fabulous, even if Em is no longer speaking to me.
-Rachel, my father, and- most notably- P.J., have yet to check their email. (That last one is the most troubling. Maybe he did read the email and is now drinking away the morning. He's a busy guy. Maybe he didn't read to the end, either? He could have been on a commuter line.)

And now, for the real news.

Or something I like to call All Of These Thoughts Occurred During Twenty Minutes In The Car With The Radio On:

-There is a band called Rock Sugar. The track I heard was a mashup of "Don't Stop Believing" and "Enter Sandman," called "Don't Stop The Sandman." It's like they knew I'd be listening and wanted me to cry tears of gratitude. Unfortunately, the closet they're coming to Chicago is Elgin, IL. We'll probably miss the tour, this go-round. But now I am aware.

-Different station said they'd be playing "all Vans, all the time." Off the top of my head I listed Van Morrison, Van Halen (Van Hagar, potentially?), maybe Ludwig van Beethoven? Throw in a showing of Van Helsing and I will not leave the car.

-New station: new question. When did Cher become Cher? If you listen carefully- or actually not that carefully- there's a big difference between "I've Got You, Babe" and "Believe." Okay, there's a lot of differences. But specifically, vocal quality and mouth shape. When did Cher's mouth shape become a parody of a drag queen's impersonation of a Cher song? Think about it. And discuss.

-And finally, there's a Telemundo ad for a new show called Donde' Esta Elisa(?) that I am absolutely going to watch. They got me- and I hated them for this- by plastering 'missing' posters all over my neighborhood (95% Hispanic, so it very well could have been legit) with a picture of a smiling mid-twenties girl named ELISA. The ad yesterday clarified it (slightly) by admitting it was a show, it's airing on Telemundo, and Elisa is missing. There is absolutely no room on my TV docket- let alone for a show that is 1000% in another language- but I think it'll be a cross between Lost (which I hate) and Twin Peaks (which I love.)

So I will watch.

By the way, I know what killed Laura Palmer.

It was ADD whilst driving.

Thanks for nothing, Evanescence.

As I was driving to work the other morning, iPod Touch hooked up to the cassette deck and wee baby asleep in the back, I found myself enjoying a nice mix of light tunes with which to lull Nora and keep her soundly sleeping. Suddenly, a track by Evanescence blared on (no, it does NOT matter which one, they are all loud)at about 800 decibels higher than the previous songs. What's with your modulation, Amy Lee?

Yes, this IS a sign that I'm getting old: ire towards goth-lite bands.

And then it hit me, I was more concerned about the volume of an embarrassing song than the actual playing of an embarrassing song. Maybe being dangerously close to the end of my late twenties (ahem- four more months) is freeing me up to admit that I love bad songs!

Don't get me wrong, I have a great, obsessive love for many exceptional artists and bands (Etta James, Lyle Lovett, B.B. King, et. al): I collect them on vinyl, see them in overpriced arenas and dissect their lyrics with reverence. But for every James Taylor there is a Kip Winger. For every "She's no lady/ she's my wife" there's a "(Baby)/ Don't forget my number."

And I love them all. All of them.

I will now come out of the soundproof closet and admit that I love Michael Bolton. Love might be too flimsy a term for the feelings I have whenever Michael Bolton hits a key change. His song Said I Loved You (But I lied)- amazing. ('Cause this is more than love I feel inside.) I KNOW!

I've spent too many years turning the volume down in paper-thin studio apartments every time Savage Garden or Rob Zombie pops up on iTunes. No longer! Is it MY fault that bad music (read- terminally unhip) is clearly the most singalongable? Okay, maybe not so much Rob Zombie, but he IS fun to clean to.

And to clarify- by "bad" music, I mean music that was once hugely popular by a demographic with which you yourself would never in a million years identify. And that was a million years ago. Rendering it...prehistorically "bad."

But if it's so "bad," why does Warrant still make me cry? Why does Def Leppard's "Gods Of War" make me wanna wave a flag? And why won't P.J. sing either part of the Aaron Neville/Linda Ronstandt duets with me? (Okay, that last one doesn't really help my case, but still. Why?)

It's not such a stance to play the newest Lady Gaga track at full blast. But it does take a certain type of person to proclaim your preference for Van Hagar over Van Halen. Or, in the case of the Guthries, Arlo over Woody.

Yes, I said it. I prefer Arlo Guthrie.

And, for the first time in my life, I feel no shame.

(Well, maybe a little. But it gets easier, I promise you.)

Survivor's "Vital Signs" on vinyl? Yeah, she digs that one, too.

How on Earth has it been seven weeks since Nora arrived and filled my dryer with hundreds of miniature pastel socks? (They're printed with Mary-Janes on the toes- she has about fifteen different colors, quite a feat. HAH.)

Other big changes: our upstairs is now outfitted with a cool mist humidifier (no one ever gave a damn about MY nose in the winter!), various play areas in brightly contrasting hues are present on each floor (okay, only half are Nora-specific), and P.J. now consistently drives in the righthand lane.

This was especially amusing given our drive to Cincy this past weekend- Nora's first roadtrip! Now. I love her Dad more than anything. (Except maybe Nora. And Scott Bakula. These are givens.) But, in the oh-so-recent past, stopping at rest areas was a VERY SERIOUS DECISION. ("Do you HAVE to pee?" "Yes." "Can you hold it for thirty more exits?" "No.") And I was allowed one- ONE- pee break in Indiana, perhaps two if gas was really cheap at the Flying J before the Ohio state line. I accepted this. We had to 'make good time.' I'm not sure why- we weren't being timed or anything, and most of the people we were arriving to see would undoubtedly be asleep anyhow- but it was clearly a strong point with P.J. so I let it go. He's proven uber-effective in other areas (coupons, hairball prevention, turning off lights even before you've fully left the room) so maybe he was on to something.

TURNS OUT, maybe he just didn't love me enough. For. Nora slept most of the way down to Ohio and we prided ourselves on being stellar parents. But she woke up. And we had half an hour left to go. P.J. pulled over in a rest area (we only ever stop at places with a decent Wendy's) and suggested I get in the back with her.

"She's lonely."

I must have looked stunned, because he then suggested that perhaps I should drive and he'd sit in back with her. The only way P.J.'s not in the driver seat is if he's tied up in the trunk. So I sat in the back. P.J. was still stressed, but I think that 'making good time' was the farthest thing from his mind. On the way home she hardly slept AT ALL, alternating between making the saddest faces out the window and screaming like her toes had been chopped off. WE STOPPED FOUR TIMES.

I will let that sink in.

Nora loves loud music and drifts off happily when we sing and dance with her- the latter wasn't an option, but we sure tried the first. We frantically searched our iTunes library for anything that seemed to make Principesa PurpleFace happy. She quieted down when Bryan Adams' 'Everything I Do' came on (yup) so we sang our hearts out- in exceptional two part harmony, no less- and she dozed off for twenty minutes. Sadly, this is not a Nora-specific occurrence.

The weekend itself was great. Two of Nora's cousins were being baptized and we dug hanging out with seven of Peej's sibs and six of the kiddos. Nora had a look of permanently wide-eyed bafflement. (And she didn't touch the ground for 48 hours. No one loves the bebe.) I did, however, qualify for a Worst Mom award when I almost offed my daughter in a Catholic church.

Yep.

During the baptism, Nora was sleeping soundly in her carseat. I placed her sideways on a pew and sat next to her, watching P.J. wrangle his adorable godson Boden two pews up from us. Ten minutes later, OUT OF NOWHERE, Nora's carseat fell to the side. I immediately shot a hand out and steadied it (and, truthfully, the seat in front of us would have caught her before she even made a 45 degree dip- it's a huge carseat.) She didn't even wake up. HOWEVER, it was a silent moment in the ceremony and the tilting seat made such a God-awful clatter that it made everyone turn, mouths agape, to stare at the bad mother. I joked that I was gonna keep her in her carseat until she was 12.

No one laughed.

(Confidential to my Mom- Yes, I know. I usually don't. No. Of course I do! She was fine. Yes. MOM. I HAD HER. I promise. I agree. Okay.)

Earlier this week Nora was in the running for a Worst Daughter award- well, to be fair, only for about five minutes. I had my six-week checkup and took her to the doctor's office- I don't trust nannies- and she slept really well for most of the visit. However, since they had me waiting in the exam room for almost thirty minutes, she eventually stirred. And then eventually wailed. And as I was clad in a "sheet," which is code for "large paper towel," I was powerless to do much except rock her stroller one-handed and murmur useless phrases. It didn't work. So. I got down from the table and attempted to soothe my kiddo whilst gripping a largish piece of paper around myself. Can you guess when the doctor arrived? Sure, this is a guy who, mere months ago, held my stomach and spleen in his hands. But still. You've gotta have standards. I currently do not, but I wish to.

And I think Nora has finally acquired a nickname with sticking power, given to her by one of my nanny fam kiddos. Three year old Jack was looking at Nora with adoration, gently playing with her feet, and said, "She's so pretty...she looks just like Gordon."

You know, Gordon? Tall, bald, black man from Sesame Street? Shiny head? Yes. As it was said with such admiration I couldn't help but feel proud. (Gordon's kinda awesome.) And besides, Jack pointed to his fluffy-haired baby bro a moment later and referred to him as "Big Bird."

At least she's not Slimey.