Tuesday Is No Longer The Weekend.

I am failing to understand why she is no longer in Chicago.

Please pardon the fact that I did not post yesterday morning: I was having way too much of a weekend to be bothered with things like computers (and showers).

My college bestie came to visit, and we proceeded to engage in activities that our 19 year-old selves would've popped eyeballs over. For instance, pushing a double stroller through a tree-lined neighborhood. Convincing a toddler to finish her corndog. Asking (for the thousandth time) if anyone needs to use the potty.

Maybe that last one isn't so different.

A baby's hours are not unlike a collegiate's.

We also did some very grownup things, like getting drinks at The Violet Hour. And falling asleep on the couch in front of a movie.

And thanks to that same bestie, Peej and I were able to go out for an anniversary dinner at Schwa (because my husband transcends limitations like Impossible To Get Reservations At and Volatile Chef Who Sometimes Decides Not To Open Said Restaurant)- but that stellar dinner is another post in the making. And everyone already knows how much I adore my supra-cool husband.

And even though we utterly failed at finding beach parking (but witnessed the absolute worst of humanity in the form of a U-turn cutoff, stolen parking spot, and subsequent terrible behavior in front of their own kids), we still enjoyed the gorgeously hot weather and exceptional company.

Only Auntie Kivvy will do.

So many, many thanks to the men and women who gave their lives to provide not only a long weekend's break but to keep our country safe. Which frees me up to write about completely inconsequential things like what I ate for my nine course meal. (Black truffles.)

As Nora said- Oh, thank you soldiers.

While she devoured a rapidly melting cup of ice cream.

But it was from the heart.

Grateful. And full of sugar.

Green Means Fun, Darnit!

Sorry, Zuzu, it's picture time.

This was the best summer holiday I've ever had for St. Patrick's Day.

Because it was ninety degrees outside.

(I did, however, have a momentary fear for all of the revelers. Irish holiday plus Saturday plus downright 4th of July weather conditions? Happy, drunken, glittery folks being swept downstream in the Chicago river. Wearing skimpy tops proclaiming bold statements. Perhaps even singing.)

Our festivities were way more low-key. It would be hard not to be. (Even with the ten children under seven years of age, it was quieter than anything going on a few 'hoods south. Even when they brought out the kazoos. And even after the sugar. Sugar and kazoos and ten little ones. Still quieter.)

We had the usual corned beef and cabbage. (I did, however, have no less than two people tell me that it reminded them of their Irish grandma's meals. Which could be good or bad, I suppose. Irish people do have a way of boiling dishes to death. Mine, however, is always fantastic. The secret is a brown sugar and Dijon mustard glaze- I've said too much.)

Boden hugs the Zu. She approves.

There was a potentially unwise amount of Harp, Smithwick's and Guinness. (And for someone who doesn't drink a ton of beer, a wall o' beer in the fridge is more than a little daunting.)

Picnic blankets and lawn chairs graced the [green!] backyard. For, as previously stated, it was midsummer.

We even had a glorious tiramisu cake, courtesy of a completely wise choice made by a four year-old dude. (Thanks, Calder!)

The baby wore a green tutu and a sweet onesie proclaiming her to be "A Wee Bit Irish." (Thanks, Annie!) The girl wore a green top and belted denim skirt and promptly announced that she would not be in any photographs. We agreed, but told Susannah that she did not have such an option.

Uncle Nat snuggles Suzy, Nora
accidentally gets her picture taken,
and Boden looks on in abject horror.

It was a lovely weekend of friends and family and over-eating- made all the more awesome by P.J.'s bro and his kiddos staying for the past few days. (Trains and parks and bistros and museums and picnics, oh my!)

Mondays are always tough, especially after a jam-packed few days. (Why do you think so many kittens have to Hang In There and Don't Do Mondays? Because the day is so universally rough, that's why.)

But I'm ready to face this week with energy and zest.

Powered by the remaining tiramisu in the fridge.

Spring Fever Is Darn Near Killing Me.

It'd be great if you'd point that
camera somewhere else, yeah?

I may be the first person to actually be driven insane by spring fever.

My normal state of being is fairly tightly wound. I'm cheerful and playful, but I'm also borderline OCD. (Undiagnosed, actually, so there's a rather good chance they'd be all like- borderline? You are textbook. A neatly bound textbook, placed alphabetically and color-coordinatedly in a descending size row.)

These orderly tendencies keep me firmly planted in the day to day business of running a household, raising smallish people, and staying on task with completely unpredictable writing assignments. I make lists. Loads of them. (Those descend in size and color and stuff, too.) When I clean, for instance. Or when I section off [small amounts of] time to write (even if the writing is just "the the the pfbbbbbt"). Even stuff I do with the girls during yicky weather; I put museum free days in my calendar, make dates with pals so we can climb on their furniture as opposed to our own, and determine which days will be spent at the library (so we can also pay the unfair fines levied by power-hungry librarians. For example).

But this weather is destroying me.

It has been so unseasonably fantastic in the normally frigid city of Chicago (seriously- negative 20 wind chills is nothing new for March), that I'm not truly sure which end is up anymore.

It was eighty degrees yesterday. And sunny. At the same time. Out of doors.

During the past few months, Wednesday morning would mean some quiet activities with Nora, some writing while Susannah napped, and toilets. All things bathroom would be cleaned on Wednesday.

BABIES NEED HATS!!

Yesterday, however, it was a solid seventy degrees by 9am. Obviously, we had to go outside and marvel and try not to stare directly at the sun with our mouths agape. Actually, we went to the Nature Preserve in  Peterson Park. We were joined by our friends Angie and Emily and we had the best time ever. (Even when Suzy decided that she was DONE- ten minutes in- and Nora fell backwards off of a log...best time ever.) We came home, the girls were zonked, and I was so flummoxed by the morning's fresh air that I promptly did nothing of note until they woke up. And then I got all stressed like- darned kids aren't giving me any free time. I had time. I just apparently didn't have brain.

And it's been like this all week. We're so confused by the nice weather that we keep going outside and having a fabulous time.

And not one toilet has been cleaned.

I'm behind on my writing and my cleaning and my projects and I do not believe anyone has fed the cats. (And today's their 8th birthday! Happy birthday, Ender and Bean! I'll feed you so soon!)

You think you've got problems.
I've got no arms.

But it's pretty hard to stay grumpy about a boggling amount of unfolded laundry (and/or a potentially dangerous shower mold) when one's cheeks are pleasantly flushed and freckled, and when one's blonde children have faces that smell like apple juice and sunshine. (Yes, both of them. Even the infant. It's a long story.)

It feels like a test. Will she snap before the summer if: The dishes harden in the sink? The towel smells suspiciously like someone has peed on it? The cat hair actually stands and slinks away?


I've never been very good at tests.

But summer- that I've been good at. So I'll work on it.

(After I close these taunting, ajar, cabinet doors.)

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.

Just Beachy.

I am still on vacation. And it is great. Despite monsoon-like rainstorms for the first two days and near frozen bedroom conditions (due to a super eager a/c system and more than one family member with a predilection towards extreme body temps), we've had a stellar time. And so have my Mom and Dad and sister and her husband and their three kids and my sister and her boyfriend and her friend and my sister and her friend (and various day trips) and my mother-in-law and my husband's cousin and her daughter and my Dad's brother and his son and my sister's godfather and some family friends and some other family friends and lots n' lots n' lots of food.

But since I care about everyone, I won't make you all wait to hear about my most embarrassing of moments until after I've returned home to Chicago. Oh no, I will list two of them here.

Twice today I've had to be bodily helped out of my beach chair. This is because, in order to soak up as much of the elusive sun as is humanly possible, I've repeatedly positioned my chair (in the waves) towards the actual sun. For much of the day, this meant I was facing backwards, leaning into the actual, sloping sea. And wet sand- as it is wont to do- grabs ahold of flimsy beach chairs and sucks them downwards. And backwards. Couple that with very little abdominal strength (and a center of balance that is questionable at best) and you've got the makings for some pretty decent slapstick.

That visual not enough for you? How about me, curled in a fetal position, atop an inner tube and under a [baby's] beach umbrella, (with a towel rolled up to support my belly on the sand), sleeping with an open mouth and burning tops of toes? Throw in my red gingham maternity suit and I am a CAUTIONARY TALE to promiscuous teens everywhere. Or, more specifically, on the beach of Gray Gables.

And on that note- some pictures.

Seafood and faux hawks.

Safety first. Always stay close to shore.

That's right.

Sure, I'll try a Newton.

Come ON, Nora.

Schoenies Go East

On vacay. Back soon. Havin' a great time. No, really.

Love, The Guy Getting Up With The Toddler Each A.M., The Bitsy Who Is Not Sure About Those "Tides," and The Gal Who Leaves No Food On Trays.

We Love The Summer

She Really Wanted To Go On Pharaoh's Fury, Though.

 One of my best friends in the whole wide world (and her equally fabulous husband) spent the weekend with us. Vicky was one of my college modmates- like roommates but awesomer- and my how things have changed since Hampshire.

For starters, I have a kid now. And this was their first time meeting her. Our activities have been- ah- slightly different since Nora came along, and this was Vicky and Dave's chance to see what a "typical" weekend with Miss N.J. looks like.

This weekend, it involved a street carnival on Irving Park. And it was Nora's first one. But since it had a petting zoo, we felt that she'd really dig it and not be too overwhelmed by the rides and noise. Nora, not Vicky.

So while Dave was busy getting culture downtown (the girls initially skipped out because we wanted to nap while Peej had his matinee)...              

...We had some street fair time. And boy, did we misjudge on the petting zoo. Despite housing some of the world's smallest and cutest animals (baby goats, ducks, lop-eared bunnies, a calf, a donkey, and a confused piglet), Nora hated it. Cowered from the bun. Had to be rescued from the advances of the calf (thank you, Vicky)! Denied eye contact to the goats (which were literally half her size). We moved on.

So we tried the carousel. Despite its shockingly fast speed (maybe I'm just getting old), she definitely wanted to try it out. And she chose one pony. And then another. And then applauded them. And applauded us. And her Dad. 

So we went on it again.

We would've stayed on it all day, if one of us had gotten her way.

So we tried the baby Ferris wheel. (Looks like Peej has found his amusement park partner in crime at last.)

And no, Ferris Wheel, I wasn't thinking about riding, due to my "exceptionally large" size.

But it's always hard to leave a ride.

Really, really hard.

But thankfully, there are always gonna be corn dogs.

Okay, I had WAY more than one.

This past weekend- to quote The Office- rocked my face off.

To start the festivities, our lovely friends Annie and Jared came for a visit on Wednesday night (which, I realize, is not the weekend. Unless you're 20 years old. Which I am!) and stayed through today. This is great. And I'm superbly happy that they stayed with us, as their dance card was quite full with friends and a wedding and such...that it was a good way to guarantee we'd see them at least twice a day.

Anyone want some blue?

On Friday, N.J. and I surprised Peej with a cookie cake from Jewel (the grocery store)...but it was no ordinary cookie cake. It was one that kids could DECORATE! (Apparently, when you give my child a choice of any color frosting or sprinkles or decorative cake-like things, she will choose...blue. Lots of blue. (It was ridiculously delicious, btw.)


On Saturday, A and J drove to Iowa for a wedding (which, Massachusetts friends, yes- it's possible to do from Illinois) and the mini Schoeny fam walked over to our neighborhood's block party. (Peej made brownies because he's amazing. Also because I do not bake.) There was an insane amount of food (and coleslaws. Neighborhood parties require a boggling amount of coleslaw). 


There were free snow cones. (As many as you wanted, turns out! Trust me on this one.)


A fire truck showed up- which usually signals a disturbance in the 'hood- but not this time! It was, in fact, there for eager kids- and some enthusiastic adults- to tour while wearing mammoth fireproof coats. As one kid who was a dead ringer for Jerry O'Connell in Stand By Me positively shrieked- "They're letting you GO INSIDE THE TRUCK!" (This kid also announced in the exact same voice that the firefighters were opening up a hydrant and that the prizes for all of the games were CANDY...so it's safe to say he was pretty darned excited about the day.)

Sankyou, siren.

We couldn't stay too long- for we had a barbecue to attend. (Lest people feel like we're the Swelly McPopulartons- rest assured. Come February, no one takes our calls. But we're a pretty good social occasion/big crowd bet. 'Cause, once again, P.J. bakes brownies.)


And the bbq was fabulous. Our pals Sara, John, and Owen had us over to their gorgeous backyard and we all had a blast watching our respective kids get muddy/splashed at the water table/cover themselves with creamsicles. And they have very cool friends with very cool/quite muddy/dessert-ed up kiddos. 


I even had part of a beer.


And it was really great. 


Since we had a feeling that Nora would conk out early and without incident, we planned a date night. Peej suggested taking his laptop out back and watching a movie under the stars. I mentally prepped the popcorn. 


Sheer seconds after tucking Nora in her bed, P.J. stretched out on our bed and- mid sentence- started to snore. I thought he was kidding. (He was not.) I amended the evening's plans by eating a column of brownies (don't your brownies get eaten in columns? No?) and finished Professor Layton and The Curious Village on my DS. (Because sugar makes me brilliant.) And yes, no need to tell me. I am an awesome date.

Dad, you're the daddest.

The next morning was Father's Day, and Nora celebrated by clinging to him like a barnacle, singing his name, and opening his present for him. (She made a silhouette of herself for him- I helped- and it looks awfully cute next to the one we made last year. We're also facilitating the buying of his new shoes- that he will choose. For he is terrible to surprise. Awful. The worst.) There was also a Mickey and Minnie card that, while not exactly Father's Day material, was The. Only. One. That. Would. Do. 


We even got to go to Victory's Banner, the brunchiest brunch in town! (Happy Father's Day to us all!) 


That night, after Annie and Jared returned to town, we surprised her with a li'l ol' surprise party to celebrate the big...29. Again. Again. Her loving husband threw the whole thing together and it was hosted by the gracious Brea. All I did was pick up and deliver the cupcakes from Sweet Mandy B's and show considerable restraint in not buying out their entire shelf of individual coconut cream pies. Seriously, people. 


I also got to lie to one of my very best friends for a good couple of weeks, up to and including the ridiculous whopper concerning Nora's sitter. ("Why are we spending money on a sitter for our Game Night at Brea's? Why not just have it here at your place, Keely?" "I...just feel like going out. On a Sunday. Even though P.J. has tech rehearsal. And the sitter's coming after Nora's bedtime. 'Cause we have a very specific start time to this Game Night. No reason.) Yet again, I would make a terrible spy. 


ALL worth it when we got to see her expression when a room of her closest friends began singing Happy Birthday to her...and recording it all on iPhones. Ah, the future. (Annie and I had shared birthday parties for a number of years- back when video capability didn't come on phones. Heck, phone capability barely came on phones. But the lack of documentation is most likely a check in the plus column. Ah, the past.)


The food was stellar, the company even moreso. (But seriously, the cupcakes. I had- more than one. My weigh-in for 24 weeks this a.m. is bound to be a good time.)


If this past week is any indication of the summer ahead of us, I am le stoked. 


And if I don't slow it down, I will also be le huge. 

My kinda town. And beach.

My youngest sister is in town!

Em and her boyfriend Dan have been here since Tuesday night. It's part visit, part graduation trip for Dan, and part Nora seeing the people that go with the faces in her picture book. (Win/win/win.)

It's pretty fun having people from out of town- especially if said people are sisterish types- because it allows me the chance to do something for which I so rarely find the time: be a tourist.

Yesterday we spent the afternoon at Montrose Beach. It was Nora's first real time at any of the city beaches (not counting our completely overprotective windswept panic fests of her early youth) and she completely dug it. With a plastic cup, even. Emily and Dan lucked out with the weather; at 100 degrees (by the lake!), the scorching sun actually made the frigid water a refreshing swim. It was crowded but not crazy, and we had a pretty sweet perch right by the water...where I could easily convince Nora that all of the passing balloon and cotton candy sellers were showing fun things to wave at. (I love this age.) We picnicked (and ate more than a little sand), went swimming (to wash off a goodly bit of the face sand), and chilled on our towels, where some of us determinedly crayoned despite the melted wax mixing with sand.

We drove home wearing swimsuits, completely wind tousled, sun baked, and boiling hot, and each of us took our second (chilly) shower of the day. Okay, one of us took a bath. And then most of us napped. (Seriously, who's on vacation, here?)

Dan and Em have a pretty full dance card of stuff to see and do this week- some of the museums are even free for the next few days- and N.J. and I are going to try to get in on as much Chicago action as we can. Later today the gals and I are joining them for corn dogs and cheddar curly fries at Navy Pier (okay, maybe that was MY suggestion), and tonight is Dan's requested din of deep dish at Gino's East. (Nora will LOVE that drawing one's signature on the walls is not only acceptable behavior, but in fact encouraged.)

The stormy skies of the next few days will most likely not be a deterrent for them. After all, they're in their twenties. For seriously. (My thirties friends are nodding.)

I'm sure we'll still manage to squeeze in some more backyard barbecues and beers [for everyone else, sigh] under positively balmy nighttime skies. More day trips to some of Chicago's most fabulous neighborhoods. And plenty more iconic food.

You know, the stuff that makes living here worthwhile?

And I will leave you with this last little glimpse into what life in Chicago is all about...

...my daughter yelling (and bossing) at the waves for more! More! More!

I love summer.

Even though the sun wakes her at Ridiculous O'Clock...

...It's finally SUMMER!

I will drown my sorrows in nacho cheese.

Let's just keep on walking, Dad.

This past Friday, I suffered my first middle school breakup...since middle school. It was rough. It was also, oddly enough, with a bank.

I've long touted the fabulousness of Chase Bank's plethora of ATMs. And sure, that's about it- but for a little while, it was enough.

My first bank account in Chicago was with them, back in '02. And yeah, absolutely, back then they were Bank One. But the transition to Chase was easy enough. And I felt loved. Kinda. Even when P.J. and I started a joint account, I kept the Chase one just for the heck of it. There were a few perks. For instance, the air miles [for United, which I abhor flying. But whatever.]

They weren't the nicest to me, but they certainly looked the other way once or twice when my account suffered the back-breaking transactions that come part n' parcel with adult braces and a crippling shoe habit.

But this past month, I had twelve dollars removed from my account. Just 'cause. Upon inquiry, it turned out that all accounts without monthly balances of fifteen hundred dollars or hefty (and regular) direct deposits would have twelve dollars removed each month forever.

Now, since arriving here in Chicago, I've been a bartender at a crappy bar, a cleaning lady, a nanny for various families around town, and a freelance writer. None of those leave a balance of fifteen hundred dollars, unless you're going by per year. And direct deposit? Uh, okay. I'll deposit it directly from my fistful of tens.

I explained this to the smug banker the other day. He nodded and told me that a lot of their customers are closing accounts due to low balances(!) and maybe I should "ask [my] husband to bring the account over to Chase(?!)." Indifference AND condescension? Sounds like a seventh grade boyfriend to me!

When I asked to close my account, he shrugged and didn't even TRY to keep my business. (Or my love.) He made a big show of handing me the last forty five cents in change (there were a few bills, too) and then stared at me, indicating our business was done.

It got real awkward.

I hate moments like that, which is probably what prompted me to perkily say that maybe I'd see them again in the future.

"Yeah," he [almost] scoffed. "Maybe."

But you know what soothes a bad business breakup? A stellar weekend with a husband who thinks my forty five cents are just GREAT. And who tolerates my Supermarket Sweep through the garden section of Home Depot, nodding in agreement when I scream that these ranunculus blossoms ARE AMAZING.

The 80 degree weather yesterday didn't hurt, either.

And cheering Peej on for the 8k Shamrock Shuffle downtown yesterday was pretty fun, too. I don't know how he did it. I was wilting standing by the two mile marker. And sure, I was corralling a toddler who celebrated her Dad's race by peeing directly through all of her clothing and soaking the stroller...but who can't be appeased by a bag of munchkins and a session with the backyard splash table? (NO ONE.)

P.J.'s folks zipped through town for an overnight, having just enough time to cheer him on, spruce up our yard, stock our fridge, and play with Nora while I showered.

It was GREAT.

Today is a true spring day. Which, normally, would bring rejoicing in our city. But due to yesterday's August-y weather, I think everyone's a little sad. There might be a few tears. At least one person might still be defiantly wearing a tank top.

She should probably go change.

After she checks the fridge for leftovers.

Now you're thinking about the taco spoon, aren't you?

There's something quite special about waking up on a Monday morning- and feeling like you're already way behind. Here's the problem: On the weekends, I like to play this game called I Have No Responsibility. It's true. I don't know where this bad habit came from. I've never in my life had more to do on the weekends and have never been better at disregarding it.

It's strange. Most weekend mornings, Peej and Nora let me sleep in 'til the 7 o'clock hour (= Disneyland n' puppies n' sunshine) and he gets to be the one covered in all things breakfast. Sometimes he puts her down for- not one- but two naps! You'd think all of this would free me up for things like cleaning, preparing meals, maybe writing? Nooope. While he's wrangling the Bitsy, I can usually be found lying on the living room floor, balancing my second mug of coffee on my chest (I hope someone out there is enjoying the benefits of my half-caf experiment, for my system sure isn't) and whining about how much I have to do. And then not doing it.

And then P.J. works on the yard. And I follow him out to kick at the dirt and ask him what he's doing. Over. And. Over. It's almost like I expect this sudden help/freedom to immediately equate an 8 year-old's summer vacation. Take away the mad rush of stress and I am utterly useless.

P.J. suggests that I go rest or read. I snap at him that he's trying to make me go away.

P.J. [carefully] states that I sure have been wanting some time to write. I'm not in the Right Mood, I tell him. Obviously. (I kinda wonder if he thinks that Right Mood needs to go hand in hand with a sparkling clean house, a fully caffeinated beverage, and a foot rub. At the ocean. With someone else recording my thoughts. And a small but respectable crowd applauding politely.)

And then Nora wakes up and I snap back into Busy Mode. Because- and this has always, always been the case- our summer weekends start booking up in March. Not because we are popular. Oh no. In fact, most of our friends dislike us greatly for our inability to hang out- so we make one on one plans with them. On the next free weekend. And when someone has a shindig or a non baby-friendly event (totally their right- sometimes I feel downright PG-13 myself) we try to ease the sting of our lameness by giving them the NEXT free weekend after that. And, because we're a couple between the ages of 20-45, this is "wedding season." Making it sound like people are shooting at married people. (Which, being one, I also totally understand.) On top of that, P.J. and I have a combined seven siblings, five sibling in-laws, four parents, and ten nieces and nephews who do really fun things like a) get born, b) vacation in boaty places and c) like to see us on non-holiday-esque weekends. (Which, when the others' hear about these jaunts, they join on in. Making it a holiday-esque weekend.) And THEN- oh then- on weekends when we could feasibly stay in the place where we toss all of our savings (Home Depot), we hear about Festivals That We Love.


And here's a little secret about Chicago. In the summer, you can't win. There will never be a weekend where you can enjoy one great event and not completely miss out on another. The weather is so rotten here for so much of the year that the city decides to cram as much amazingness as possible into ten short weekends. ("Please stay one more year," they seem to implore.) This past weekend, for example, was the Folk and Roots Festival. Which I missed. Because the Roscoe Village Garden Walk/Burger Fest was going on. (Hint- if you ever wish to locate the Schoeny family, check out local Garden Walks. We cannot resist them. Also, burgers.) 


We got to give in to two of our favorite cravings yesterday; street fair food and pretending we still live in Roscoe Village. Nora had her first cheese curds yesterday. Not surprisingly, she dug them. (Actual overheard conversation at a vendor: Girl returning her cheese curds- "Uh, this is just fried cheese!?" Vendor- ..."Yeah?" Points to sign: Fried. Cheese. Curds.) 


Also, I love that Nora chows on grilled bok choy and sautéed rainbow chard during the week...and eats like a frat boy on the weekends. (Although I did bring her a baggie of peas which she much preferred to her Stilton burger.)

I tried to bake yesterday morning- even though baking requires precise "math" and usually, my eyes glaze over when I try to follow detailed directions. But there was this fabulous-looking recipe for lemon and sour cream muffins in Parade magazine (Pah-rahd) and it seemed simple enough for a preschooler to follow. Perfect. Sure, the sour cream had been compromised (a taco spoon had been dipped- oh, maybe two weeks ago) but that sure wasn't gonna stop me. And yes, the magazine forgot to include that pesky little detail of how hot to make the oven, but- those two details aside, they came out tasting like MUFFINS!  P.J. and Nora each had two. I had four. Which brings us to...

...Last night I went to Pilates, bringing my non-Wii workouts for the past two months up to...once.

And last night, after the obligatory (for Peej) viewing of True Blood, I experienced the manliest channel surfing experience ever. Alien vs. Predator/The Godfather (Part 1)/Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Some thoughts:

a) Could this be the bloodiest three hours of television ever viewed?
b) What about the last one makes it a "requiem?" That sounds like an awfully fancy way of saying "we did it again."
c) Why was Appollonia never again acknowledged by Al Pacino- or anyone else in the movie- in Sicily, America or otherwise? This hampered my movie-viewing experience. Then again, the baby being carted around in The Hangover had a similar effect. (It was WAY too long for that kid to not have eaten/napped/been in the shade.)

So. Right. Monday.

From the hours of 6:30am to 8am I fed Nora, cleaned Nora, mopped the floor (not out of any virtuous desire- I was kinda stuck to it) and did a load of laundry (same reasons). Played with Nora's toys- she did, too- and read a dozen animal books, making appropriate sounds. Got packed up for this late morning/afternoon's work and, realizing that Nora had a nose full of boogs- wiped it on my shirt. (Why? Why do I do this? And not even on her shirt- mine!) Started another load of laundry.

In short, I got more "done" around the house in an hour and a half than I did all weekend. There's gotta be some lesson or moral in here.

And I'm totally gonna think about that.

After one more muffin.

Rock n' roll lifestyle, indeed.

What a wonky start to the day.

It's Monday, it's boiling hot, it's swamptacular...and it's- quite unexpectedly- my day off. Mr. C has a raging fever (feel better, li'l man) and- even worse- it was supposed to be his first day of camp. And his counselor's name is Nora.

And he loves our Nora.

Sadness all around. Except, of course, that means Miss Nora Janie and I have a Get Out Of Responsibility Free card. Unless you count the usual crazyville that is parenting an only child. Which- strangely- I usually don't. (Especially not during the work week when she's the youngest of three and- at last check- has no individual activities, classes or appointments of her own. Our mornings home consist of Nora crawling all over me and my kissing of her various appendages. I think she prefers workdays.)

However.


Someone- and I'm not big into the Blame Game- woke up at 4:30am. Which is a completely unacceptable time for anyone to be awake. Unless you're a bat. Or Eric Northman. That would have been ridiculously okay.

Anyhow, baby girls- or whomever it was- should sleep until 7. If not later. But there the culprit was, standing against the crib rails, showing off two miniature teeth in a grin so impossibly like her father's. (I am wicked bad at deception. I think I've given the offender away.)

So, first nap of the day= 7:30am. And, being a rational person who never looks a gift horse in the mouth (or any other magical, mouthy being, for that matter)...I took a nap, too.

I fully understand that my pals in various office locales are, right now, hating me with a bit of a passion. I accept this. And I promise to be spit up on later in the day.

The Weekend In A Nutshell (or perhaps some other, non-allergenic enclosure. A peapod?):

Friday night- Lameville Central. But only for those watching. For me it was an ideal evening of fablitude. It started off a little iffy. Our commute home was hampered by gale force winds of around 80mph. And sideways rain. Plus a little green/yellow/purple sky action. Plus, by that point in the day Nora didn't want to be in her carseat. Or picked up. Or asleep. Or in her own skin. It was hard to blame her. I wasn't digging on my own car/consciousness level/body situation, overmuch. And traffic congestion (not to mention less than ideal road conditions) Makes P.J. Concerned And Raise His Voice, Not At You, You've Done Nothing Wrong, I Just Really Want To Get Her Home, Okay?

But then we stopped for a five dollar pizza! The rest of the night went smoothly from there. So wonderfully, in fact, that after Nora fell asleep we cleaned, organized and enjoyed a spiffy house for the rest of the night. Okay, until 9pm when The Soup started. When that ended we decided to watch Sherlock Holmes. Which was great! For the first ten minutes. After that, we dozed off in a pile of drool and neatly folded baby clothing. (That's right, my idea of a perfect Friday night consists of bedtime by 10.)

Saturday- Okay, this is when things got nutsy. Started out with normalcy written all over it. Kinda like a Saturday for an eight year-old (I am still fully convinced that being an eight year-old is the answer to everything.) Peej worked on the yard and I wrote outside while Nora napped. But then she stopped napping. Like, forever. Usually she racks up about 3-4 hours a day and 11 at night. She read the age-appropriate chapter in the baby book and tries to follow it accordingly. But today? Her first nap was fifty minutes. Her second nap was forty minutes (bookended by ten minutes of eyeball-popping rage.) And that was it.

Of course that was it. For you see, P.J. and I had plans that evening. And, while Nora usually adores her sitter, the moment she walked in Nora began screaming like the zombies were attacking. (They weren't. We have alarms for that kinda thing.) Against my better judgement, I went out. But we drove, so that I could Be Home At A Moment's Notice- Call For ANYTHING. Also, I left instructions to Let Her Do Whatever She Wants, If Need Be, Buy The Kid A Pony, Just Tell Her I Love Her. (And I'm usually a bit less of a soft touch. There are cries that I can- easily- ignore. But the One? That's a toughie.)

I was a messy wreck of a mess-wreck. Until I got the text that Nora had fallen asleep at 6:30. For the night. I'd worry about the ramifications of that later. We were out and about!

And 'out and about' in this scenario= on a trolley. A party trolley. (Is there any other kind? Except maybe The Land Of Make Believe one. Why is everything capitalized today?) Our darling pal Nick celebrated the big 2-9 over weekend and wanted his craziest friends to come play. And P.J. and I went, too!

And my my, how things have changed. Not just because I'm married, a homeowner, or thirty years old. Or even because Nora. It's because of all of those things together. And- this is the kicker- I'm out of practice. Granted, I was never an out of control party girl, but I have been known to wear a lampshade or two. Sometimes together. But boy oh boy- give me a beer and a view of the lake (whizzzzzzing past on Lake Shore Drive) and soon I remember just why I put down the ol' lamp.

Actual convo:
Keely to P.J.: It is SO late.
P.J.: Yeah. Really. What time is it? It is SO late.
Keely: Can you believe we're out this LATE?
Everyone else: It's 8:30.

But a good time was had. Beer was consumed from a [glass] boot. And from a can. I even got to cement my status as Lame when I jumped out of the [stopped] trolley to go find a bathroom. Yep, couldn't even wait the extra five minutes until we'd actually be in that bar. Not to play the 'Mom' card, but uh, ol' bladder ain't what she used to be. (Okay, it was never stellar.)

And did you notice that a lack of "Nora" from a story does not mean there's a lack of "pee" from a story?

So the night was really fun. Pictures were taken in front of Buckingham Fountain, in a fountain in Lincoln Square, and- strangely enough- only in front of the word Willis at the tower f.k.a. Sears.

And that car parked up in Edgewater? Remember the one so that I could get home to a distraught kiddo quickly after a burger at Moody's Pub? Yeah, P.J. picked it up the next morning. We didn't quite feel up to driving- when we got home at 11:30pm.

So...Sunday was lower key. Nora gave him a silhouette of her head. She's big into 70s kitsch and made me frame it on green-patterned fabric. I Feng Shui-ed the downstairs family room for optimal movie-watchin'. (And it's now a massive room. I really should have my own design show. As long as all of the rooms I redo are in my house, with my own things.) We took him to Susie's Drive-In to get malts, burgers and fries (our ground beef quota for the weekend was more than fulfilled.) He took a hammock nap. And a bed nap. And- briefly- a floor nap. Surprisingly enough, so did Nora! She slept twelve hours overnight and pulled a good four hours of sleep total during the day. Happy Fathers Day, indeed!

Part of The Sting was viewed- we really only watch movies in miniseries form. Dinner was sushi from the Lawrence Fish Market. P.J. wanted it. No really, it was him. And it was consumed on the patio after Bitsy Bug crashed out for the night. And then True Blood. (Isn't it funny how "his" perfect day kinda mirrors "my" perfect day? I guess he's just exceptional at planning out a special holiday.)

And then...bed by nine thirty. By choice. Blissfully. Peej conked out as soon as he had a sight-line of his pillow. I talked to my big sis on the phone for a few- but it was still blissful to be in bed.

Because I am old.

Again, not in age. But in lifestyle. Activity-wise, I'd be better suited to a mallard puzzle and a plaid blanket on my lap as you wheel me down to the seaside. Unless it's time for my programmes. Then I'm as spry as a...

...slightly younger Old Person.

Does anyone else smell that?

First off, a big ol' thank you to the city of Chicago for hosting eighty-seven festivals and events this weekend. (I witnessed four this weekend: RibsFest in Lincoln Square, the Old Town Arts Fair and St. Mike's Festival in Old Town/Lincoln Park, plus we kinda waltzed past Midsommarfest in Andersonville while waiting for a non-existant Damen bus.) That, plus a nice jaunt over to Foster Ave. beach (perhaps sitting a TAD too close to raunchy teens and/or breastfeeding mothers of three-year olds- quite the combo, no?) left me pleasantly freckled, stuffed to the gills with fair food (and that I mean superior corn dogs and the ilk, nothing "fair" about it) and more than a little drowsy.

And a big NO THANK YOU to HBO's True Blood. Which I now love. But have no business loving. (Pushing Daisies just left me- it's TOO SOON.) However, watch it I did (that was very Yoda) last night with Peej- it's so rare to find a show we like to watch together, and rarer still to find a vampire show that I like. Okay, that last part isn't true at all. I love vampire shows and movies. Have I ever told you about my second favorite vampire trilogy, behind the Blade extravaganza? It's Underworld 1, Underworld 2 and Van Helsing. Sure, the last one has different characters, names and plot points, but they rank the same in my mind. Exceptional.

Where does one go from a topic like that?

Random musings.

a) Esquire just had a great article on what it takes a be a real man- it was hilarious, apt, and cliche-free. That said, P.J. and I both decided it would be awfully hard to do from a female's point of view- the ones we've seen have either been in the Sex & the City camp (Being a woman means you can get away with murder- in Manolos!)or the Feminazi school of thought (Men are evil. And dumb.) And while both of these are, [ahem] at times, true, I think they usually do a disservice to the lovely grey (pink?) middle ground. Perhaps I'll work on this.

b) My iTunes has a rad feature wherein it loads the CD cover image when a song plays. Usually it's spot-on, but these days it phones it in when a genre or song has it stumped. For instance, Alice Cooper's "Poison?" [Awesome song.] Why, it's labeled as part of the compilation "Unity" CD for the 2004 Olympics. With the cover art from a cartoon movie called "Doogal." Neither is correct, nor is either choice remotely close to Vincent Furnier's 1989 horror-show spectacular. (And it IS spectacular.)

c) Finally, this morning I kept smelling burnt toast, which as everyone knows is the first sign of a stroke. Or being poisoned. Or maybe that's the smell of almonds. But I was fairly certain something terrible was going down- that is, until I realized that the scent was wafting in and out as I commuted. Sometimes I didn't even smell it at all. And once I got to work it was gone entirely, leaving me to believe...that today is a horrid day for toasting toast in Chicago.

This is all for today. Except for the fact that two-year old Lily and I depleted Home Depot's paint sample supply ("More squares!!!") and that I've finished another section of the play and am doggedly onto the next...and that tomorrow is the 20-week appointment to see Bitsy Baby Schoeny and determine, once and for all, just how many Schoenys (Schoenies?) are kicking me in the ribs. And nether regions. Plus, as I typed this, two more contractors called me back and set up appointments to "fix" the "house," hinging of course on the ludicrous notion that the JP Chase Morgan will ever let us "buy" this "property."

And that is absolutely ALL that is going on.

For the next ten minutes.