Keely: Television Series Addict.

I've always loved my television. The painfully specific- in unwise doses- programming of my television. The type which I consume during times of transition, stress, and/or necessary escapism.

The first show I can clearly remember doing this with is Twin Peaks. On a road trip- in a camper, no less- I marathoned nearly the entire series at a downright breakneck pace. It was immediately after I had graduated from college, and saw nothing wrong with losing an entire weekend to a show that I knew would give me nightmares. I mean, any show watched that rapidly is bound to give you some crossed brainwaves here and there- but when its recurring characters include a psychotic furniture-crawler and a backwards-speaking dwarf in a dreamlike red room? Hold the hallucinogens, Hunter S, I'm seeing my own trails.

This was my theatrical headshot circa 2002/2003. It has
nothing to do with this blog post, but don't I kinda look
like a girl who has just seen entirely too much David Lynch?

The second show to get my undivided attention was The Office. Some of you can remember back when Nora was first born, and I got to experience that whole "babies make their own hours" thing. So she and I spent many a night pounding through the first handful of seasons of that fantastically whimsical comedy. We became a tad too invested in the unfolding love story between Jim and Pam, but that wasn't nearly as time-consuming as having to check under my bed for the Twin Peaks' Log Lady. I did worry that she'd get a Pavlovian response to dairy-based beverages whenever she heard the opening theme as an adult...but anything that kept me awake and nursing the correct part of my child at 3am was worth the risk. Besides, the only other negative to come out of that whole scenario was when I developed the unfortunate habit of berating P.J. a la Dwight Schrute.

And now, the magic of Netflix has suggested that I check out a Canadian series called Murdoch Mysteries. From my viewing habits of the BBC's Sherlock, CBS' Elementary, the old Poirot films, the televised Nero Wolfe, the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes oldies and repeated Nick and Nora viewings, it deduced that I enjoyed an occasional mystery. So I checked it out one evening as I folded laundry in between writing articles [I had been avoiding]. And I was hooked. A ridiculously attractive Victorian-era detective on the forefront of forensic criminology with forays into steampunk-esque inventions? Sooold. And I began watching them in earnest, pounding through the available three seasons at any given moment. Between blogs and reviews, I'd tell myself. I'll just have one on in the background while I fact-check this thing about...Oh my God, is this episode about time travel?! Soon I'd be watching them as "a reward." I earned this show. I'd give myself "a break" from my play's third re-write, telling anyone who'd listen [usually P.J.] that my brain was too tired to write comedy. P.J. went away for a weekend and I tucked myself into bed at 8pm each night with my laptop ready for hours of episodes-watchin'. (I missed him terribly, though. I did.) But eventually I had to admit to the fact that my increased TV viewing was directly correlated to the amount of writing work I had taken on [and was uber-lucky to have] but which was frightening my poor brain to death.

This realization came about when I found myself wishing I could trade places with a character on the show. Who was residing in a psych ward in the year 1900. Because at least she wasn't facing down a re-write of 16 scenes.

It was then that I stepped away. Started setting bedtimes for myself. Turned down writing gigs and ensured that the ones I took were finished in a timely manner and of a decent-ish quality. Because there's a time for escapism and a time for putting on your Big Girl Cap and doing your damn job.

Besides, I totally caught up on the series.

Spoiling A Movie In Three Panels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She never had a chance...

8 Ways To Tell If Perhaps You've Given Up On The Whole "Limit The Kids' TV" Thing.

It all looks so real! Almost like it's animated!

1) Your 2 year-old says "Vamanos!" as you leave the house. (Passersby commend you on your bilingual teachings, but you know that it's really all Dora's doing.)

2) You've actually referred to at least one of the Backyardigans as a jerk.

3) Everyone in your household knows that there are three separate Strawberry Shortcake series- the oldest of which is the one you yourself watched as a child. (And they also know about your very real fear of The Purple Pieman.)

4) Dreams have featured the Dinosaur Train. You've ridden on it in these dreams. And it was awesome.

5) You and your husband have debated the potential detrimental effect of Elmo's "Me Speak," Ming Ming the Wonder Pet's speech impediment, and Diego's predilection for shouting.

6) Whenever you break out the tools for a repair, at least one person shouts "Yes We Can!"

7) You find yourself choosing a new show at random- just to hear a different theme song, for the love of God.

8) And- most tellingly- when writing a list like this, you hear The Count's voice in your head.

(Eight! Eight parental fails! AH AH AH.)

Keely Saves Money. Keely Lives Better.

She's awfully yellow.

So, shot a commercial on Monday.

And it was for Walmart.

I shot a Walmart commercial.

My name is Keely, and I played a Real Mom who shopped at Walmart and took the Walmart Challenge.

And it was awesome.

I got this gig through an agent and my friend Bradford (thanks, Bradford!) and was able to go to multiple auditions because my neighbor and friend Angie watched the girls (thanks, Angie!) and spent the day at the shoot due to the generosity (and generous sick day policy) of my husband and his job. (Thanks, P.J.! Thanks, MSDS Online!)

The location of the shoot changed on Sunday evening, and I received a phone call from the producer. "It's in Mount Prospect, Illinois," he cautiously told me. "Do you know where that is? I think it's past the airport." Being that he was from California, it was a fair question. "Past the airport" could easily mean "Wisconsin."

And my calltime changed from 8am to noon. Noon-ish, in fact, since they had a feeling it would be running a little late. (Running late before we even start? Awesome.) So I found myself leaving the house a little before lunchtime, giving myself plenty of time to get there- because, uh, I know me. I already missed Nora and the idea of leaving Susannah was like chopping off a limb. Plus, I suck with driving directions and was a little stressed with the [new] knowledge that they were filming the commercial twice. With two separate Moms. Which was not what the agent had told me, but which was apparently happening anyway. Because they wanted to take it in two different directions and would see which one "read" better. I wanted to be the Mom who "read" better. And that is why I was stressed.

Made it there in the nick of time- actually, the drive took twenty minutes, but I cheerfully veered onto the wrong highway and Google-mapped my way back to civilization in just under an hour- and arrived at the Jewel-Osco. That's right, I met with a representative at the competitor's grocery store and proceeded to buy a ton of groceries with a sweet lady named Alix. After we loaded up my haul, we drove over to the nearby Walmart and unloaded it all into Walmart coolers. I was sent into the staff break room to await directions...and found a ton people just starting lunch. I was told I could join them in eating. Which I did, making me feel like a total mooch. (This did not stop me from enjoying a very nice sandwich.) I did feel a little awkward, however, which is the only way to explain how I found myself quietly sitting against a wall and eating a bowl of iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing. (I abhor ranch, but didn't want to cause a stir.)

The other Mom was there, too. She was really nice, though exhausted. In fact, they were ALL exhausted. Because they had been shooting the commercial with her since 7:45 that morning. And there were all sorts of technical difficulties. And they were cold. And they weren't done with her shoot yet- not by a long shot. They did, however, have plenty of laughs and inside jokes with the other Mom.

So I sat and ate my lettuce and wondered if they'd ever have inside jokes with ME. (Short answer- no.)

Can you see where she's miked?
THAT'S RIGHT YOU CAN'T.

About two hours later I was sent to hair and makeup. I was supposed to look like a Real Mom, just on my way to take the ol' Walmart Challenge...but I think I was done up to look a lot nicer. In fact, I was wearing so much makeup and had such a pretty half updo that- even if my commercial were chosen- you may not even recognize me. No matter.

Finally, it was Ebony's last shot of her commercial and the first shot of my commercial. Since they had filmed hers backwards, it was the same shot as the start of mine. When they switched over to me, I actually heard three crew members groan. (Tired/cold, etc.) I had sadness. But I overcame with Pep.

We did multiple hours of filmed whimsical price comparison (and for real, guys, IT IS STUPIDLY CHEAPER TO BUY NAME BRANDS AT A SUPER WALMART), and I got to feign surprise- which was, more often than not, actual surprise- at how much I could save at Walmart. There were shopping cart races. There was berating over how much cheese my family consumes. There were many, many deer in the headlights shoppers with incredibly daring outfits that continuously got caught on film.

There were also, sadly, many Jewel-Osco stickers on products that got accidentally filmed. And thusly could not be used. Many of those shots contained my bantery best. I started to lose hope [again] that my commercial would get chosen.

But overall, it was a really fun time. I got paid exceptionally well AND got to keep all of my groceries. Diapers for weeks! (Maybe days. Sigh.) Someone fabulous did my hair and makeup. And I still made it home to kiss the girls goodnight.

And I'm not kidding about that price comparison thing. I saved almost ten percent off of my Jewel receipt. (And that's only the stuff that had an exact item-for-item comparison- it would have been more of a savings if I didn't have such a predilection for Fage's fat free Greek yogurt. Yet again, this penchant shoots me in the foot.)

Professionalism.

If they chose my ad, it actually would have begun running yesterday. Or, I suppose, the same would be true if they chose the other gal. (I didn't see mine. Although my method of checking for my commercial was to set up a camcorder and leave it pointed at the TV all afternoon. Very scientific.) If you live in the Midwest, you'll see it. It may even run in other pockets of the country.

And, as soon as I go through my daily Sony footage, you'll see it here.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some difficult-to-compare Greek yogurt to consume.

That's some Real Mom action for you, right there.

My Life Is So Very, Very Charmed.

This is what a Real Mom looks like, apparently- especially on set.
(Why so much makeup, Mom?) Also, I am not as yellow in real
life as the Hipstamatic would have you believe.)

...And this cannot be re-posted enough.
Scott Bakula and I wish you the happiest of Leap Days!

Can't Put That In A Trapper-Keeper, Though.

Do the Wonder Pets have
 a Twitter account?

I have finally- finally- figured out what to do with the darned playroom.

I realize that this is of little consequence to anyone not spending nearly ten hours a day in, on, or around this room (a narrow li'l group, to be sure)...but for those of us who are, well, it's just fantastic news.

The baby swing is no longer randomly against a wall, smacking into an exersaucer and/or a train table. (Swing- rattle- swing- choo, choo!, etc., etc. No longer.) It is possible to enter the guest room/P.J.'s office without tripping over an impossibly small set of table and chairs- although I make no promises about the rocking horse on the other side of the wall. (Sorry, Peej.) The couch is now centered with the TV- an issue that was formerly (and apparently) driving one of us to the point of insanity. (Sorry, Peej.) A new focal point is a streamlined corner with neat cabinets and a gigantic pink dollhouse bookcase. (...Sorry, Peej.)

All of this Feng Shui correctness (how do you know when it's "correct?" Easy- your mind will allow you to sit down and stop rearranging the damn room) freed up my time enough to let me ponder the ol' days.

Remember when you actually had to write a fan letter to get a superstar to respond to you? (You're looking at the proud owner of, among other things, a complete set of autographed Mickey Mouse Club cast postcards, circa 1991.)

You'd write the letter, usually posting it to an address that you found in a fanclub section of Teen Beat.

For example.

You'd write the floweriest, wittiest, coolest prose that- you were certain- would rocket you to best friendship with Jonathan Brandis.

For example.

And then, roughly three months later, you'd get a form letter response with a signature (or, at worst, a stamped "signature") which would cement the idea of how fantastic that celeb was. ("Keep on watchin'!" I WILL!)

But now? We've got Twitter. And I imagine that waiting to be re-tweeted by a celeb is akin to waiting by the mailbox for a response, or not making after-school plans in case your letter is read on the air by The Mickey Mouse Club.

For example.

I have never been re-tweeted by a celeb. But I can take the credit for- quite possibly- prompting Rainn Wilson to change his Twitter account's avatar. Early yesterday morning, upon seeing the image of a young Newt Gingrich mashed up against The Office's Dwight Schrute, I was inspired to pen a [witty? flowery?] tweet to Mr. Wilson himself, asking if he'd seen the magical picture.

No response.

However.

Not too long thereafter, his picture was changed to that of a young Newt Gingrich. His fans began tweeting and re-tweeting about the crazy awesome picture that he had selected.

And I realize that the picture itself is old news, as the image in question had already made its rounds from Facebook to The Daily Show.

But I may have been instrumental in inspiring a photo change for one of my favorite actors on one of my favorite shows.

Sure, it's no Thanks for the love! from J.C. Chasez...

...But I'll take it.

Strangely, True Blood did not play into the dream AT ALL.

There was a fountain here a sec ago.

Emma and Dan have left. Boo.

However, we no longer have 8,000 glasses, cups, and mugs in/on the sink/ dishwasher/ countertops. (Flynn girls pride themselves on hydration.)

No one is making me laugh like a loon by announcing "Hey, brotherrr" (a la Arrested Development) every time someone enters the room.

But then again, no is giving me palpitations by making me wonder what train stop they're taking home/if the alarm is properly set/did someone grab an umbrella for the flash monsoon? (This must be what it's like to have kids...in their mid twenties.)

Seriously, in the past...couple...of years, I've totally forgotten what it's like to stay out past 9:30pm. I mean, I did it. There was a time when 6am was considered time for bed and not a toddler's brekkie. After all, Peej and I spent the formative months of our friendship in a late night show that ended at 1am. So obviously we had to get a drink around 1:30 or 2am. And you couldn't leave before the Tamale Guy showed up. (See? The Mexican food's not just a pregnancy thing.)

But these days, it's just another planet which I no longer orbit. Perhaps in a different solar system.

When Dan and Em suggested going to see an improv show at midnight, I actually laughed. But, as it turns out, these things still happen. (Go to bed, people!) On Friday night, after the four of us watched The Soup- which, uh, is the Schoeny late night event...at 9- they left for the 10:30pm I.O. show and stayed for the midnight one as well. By 10:30 in my house, we had watched the last forty minutes of Good Will Hunting, half an episode of House Hunters International (in Italy!), and fallen fast asleep...where we would remain until midnight. Then we groggily dragged ourselves upstairs to bed and remained there until the smallest and loudest of us needed bacon at 6:30am.

That said, we had a lovely, quiet morning (except for one impromptu mix CD dance party)- and even that wasn't until 10am. (Sorry, Em and Dan, who didn't wake until 11am. Hope you liked the ceiling music.)

I'm pretty sure I just sent a dozen people running to refill their birth control prescriptions. But- and here's the kicker- P.J. and I were early-fall-asleep-on-the-couchers way before we were even married. Homeboditude (read: lameness) knows no age. But the age thing doesn't exactly help.

Speaking of baby-related perks, I've been having more than my fair share of hormone dreams lately. These are a joy (for P.J.) and I can't tell which my tolerant husband least prefers:

A) The dream in which I have an epic relationship with someone whom I've not-so-quietly crushed on for the past few years. Most recently, Alexander Skarsgard of True Blood fame. I like him a lot. Now, these dreams aren't the kind where you wake up and wonder if you should mention anything to your faithful and devoted husband. Nope, these are the five hour sagas wherein a love affair begins, comes to fruition with a full blown Ikea jaunt, has each and every step along the way (even the Saturday Afternoon Listening to Vinyl On the Couch, Wondering Who's Gonna Make the Hamburger Helper phase) and its eventual breakup. All of these in EXTRAORDINARY detail. By the time I woke up from this dream the other morning, there was no question about whether or not to tell Peej. I was downright mournful (of my painful breakup with Alex) and contrite (about living with another man while carrying the first's child).

P.J. really didn't want to hear about that one. But he may actually savor those mornings over the ones where the other option has occurred-

B) P.J. is a jerk. A real meanie. For example, the other night, Dream P.J. was getting high in bathrooms with girls that looked like young Heather Grahams and Did. Not. Care. that this made me unhappy. Later in the dream, he changed religions to one where he could no longer be in the same room with me. (I have no idea why this was stipulated, it just was.) He also told me that I was stupid. (Because my worst dreams involve second grade insults.) This was also a really lengthy dream, so Peej got the pleasure of awaking to me glaring at him. I seriously had a good mad on for my first hour of the day. Which, admittedly, is not fair. But come on, Heather Graham?

I never said I was easy to cohabitate with. (In fact, I may have even suggested the opposite.)

None of these things (complete 180 of schedules/nighttime habits/things you couldn't possibly know for which to apologize in advance) are included in marriage vows. Part of me thinks that this should be amended.

The other part wants to gleefully wait and watch people find out for themselves.

Says the girl who has been married for three years...and has people watching her to "just wait."

In a nutshell, I'm a lame-o, I watch fabulous television, babies make you get up early, we consume a lot of bacon, pregnancy is crazy, illicit dreams are an excusable sin, and I have unfair rules and standards.

Also, I miss my sister and her boyfriend.

(Hey, brotherrr.)

Nora's the coolest and her parents are the laziest.

You’ll have to excuse the tardiness of the blog today (cue Van Halen: I don’t feel tardy…) due to my inability to hold facts, dates, or appointments in my brain or on my phone.

You know when a good time to remember when you’re working the next morning is not? The middle of the night. A good, cold shock of adrenaline really starts the week off correctly. Hence the stellar packing of All Things Nora and the less than ideal packing of All Thing Keely, for example, a fully charged laptop.

But the important trifecta of Doc Bullfrog, a spare diaper, and a cup of milk made into the bag…so what else does one really need? (Besides a nitro tablet for my kickstarted heart.)

Yes. So. The weekend.

We enjoyed the most boring weekend known to man. It was fabulous. The amount of sleep that I got was kinda impressive. (P.J. and Nora? Not so much. But it's really hard to tell the floppy-headed mother figure on the kitchen floor that she CANNOT nap. Physiological terrorism at its finest.)

Nora rode an incredibly miniature tricycle for the first time.  Even though there were no pedals and she wasn't even rolling, she managed to flip over the handlebars and faceplant on the pavement. (She's just like both of her parents already!) Impressively, she laughed. Even more impressively, she tucked her head and shoulders just right. (Not like her parents there at all.)

Motorin'.

Last night also marked the second occasion wherein she used a potty for its intended purpose. Quite by accident, I'm certain (the shock on our faces was eclipsed by the shock on hers), but STILL. Not since college have I been more pleased to know that a toilet was being used.

To celebrate, we built her a castle tent. Okay, fine, we had already bought the tent. (But it's so cool!) And, to give credit where credit is due- her father, he of coupon-clipping, penny-pinching fame, found it on Kids Woot. And informed me that his daughter needed it. Which, once I saw it, I admitted that she really did.

Password?

And last night brought a thunderstorm of monsoon proportions. This, of course, after a grey day that threatened storms but brought nary a drop. It stayed rather dark and in the mid 50s to 60s. Then, as soon as the sun went down, the temp skyrocketed to 76 degrees. So, of course we went out into the backyard and enjoyed the peace and quiet of our bench...with sirens, irate neighbors, and traffic. (I closed my eyes and pretended they were waves on the shoreline. Really noisy, irate waves.)

And then the rain came. But no worries, by then we were safely ensconced in bed and watching Mad About You, season 2 on Netflix. (Anyone who tells you that marriage isn't awesome is a terrible, rotten liar.) And we got to see the sideways rain and pelting branches from the safety of our [closed] windows. Neighborhood Watch goes tropical!

The past couple of days also included a French farce (on Netflix) and an hour of radio (on NPR.) Sometimes it's nice to just consume all of your monthly media in one weekend. (I haven't even included the flicks that P.J. watched a) before Nora and I awoke, b) while he was waiting for me to watch our real movie, and c) that I boycotted but he viewed anyhow while Nora napped.)

I think we can see who has the real problem.

And it's not the girl who marathons episodes of Ghost Adventures.

There's no problem there.

Someone should really clean this kid up...

Workaday, workaday.

P.J. has returned and has brought with him a heart-shaped rock, so all is right with the world.

While it's exceptionally good to have him back (and Nora, who has still yet to see him due to irregular sleeping patterns, will most likely lose her petite li'l head), here are a few surprising things that I have learned over this long weekend:

1. The biggest fear I have about being the only grownup at home- more than burglars, murderers, exploding pipes, or running out of almond milk- is ghosts. The terror that, at around three in the morning, a ghost will stroll by my bed and flick me on the nose is precisely the reason that I sleep with a sheet covering my face. Happily, this did not occur. And, after the first few nights, I slept well. REALLY well. In the middle of the bed, using all the space and pillows and lounging on a cat or two.

2. Apparently, my idea of the perfect evening is to queue up a marathon of Ghost Adventures, order in some cooked maki, watch TV for an hour and a half, and then go up to bed and read until I fall asleep. At 9:30pm. (And really, I've just given away a huge secret- for it IS the perfect evening!)

3. A superbly tidy house makes me blissfully happy. And frees me up to play with my kiddo, write bunches of pages when she's asleep, and not snap at anyone out of guilt AT ALL. (I have no idea how I did it, but I already miss the ability.)

4. When P.J. is traveling, the Sunday paper does not sort itself into a "Keely pile." Apparently that's all my husband's doing. It was a shock to come downstairs with Nora on Sunday morning and not have a plate of perfectly crisped bacon (I guess he does that, too) beside a stack consisting of Parade Magazine, the Funners, the Tribune Sunday mag, the CostPlus circular, Travel, and- if it's featuring someone not likely to anger me so early in the day- the Entertainment section. And what's with the insane amount of plastic wrap within the Trib? Are the Parade mag and the Toys R Us circular really unworthy to touch "Rides (actual name of section?)" By the time I separated each part, I was clawing at the plastic like a trapped raccoon.

Other important (yet less P.J. travel-centric) discoveries of this past week include the happy revelation that consuming an entire green crayon will NOT harm a toddler (although it will make her mouth look like a bizarre, neon green, waxy wood chipper- for days, in fact, no matter the amount of tooth-brushin' I force on her face) and the joyful knowledge that a "serving" of liverwurst is actually two ounces. Now, I have no idea how much I'm actually mawing at each sitting [standing], but I'm pretty sure it's less than two ounces. Which makes me non-gluttonous! (Excepting the fact that I'm eating it with a spoon!)

This past Saturday also brought the neato keeno honor of being the SITS Girl In The Spotlight for my L.L. Bean vlog. (Some of you may remember that endeavor way back in October? Looking at it now, my only thought is how quiet N.J. is...) And because of it, I got a cool featurette on their site, tons of terrific comments, and some new readers! Stokiness abounds.

My heart is full. The kind of full that can only be attained by appreciative commentary, a sticky kid in strawberry pajamas, a husband in the same time zone, and an unopened tube o' liverwurst in the fridge.

I wish you the same.

Why are you gagging?

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.

I even wore my best hoodie.

Back to work.

So I didn't win Best Parenting Blog. But, as I also didn't win Best Scientific, European, or Technical Blog, I can choose to look at this a few different ways, all positive.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I feel good about my decision.

Also, this frees me up from having to write about "parenting" stuff every day. I mean- REALLY.

Oh, I kid.

I would, however, like to thank the superbly nice folks who have been so gracious as to not spam-block me each and every time that I request votes...and also the three hundred additional folks who have been visiting the blog every single day. (Please stay! I promise to keep talking about parenting, if that's what you dig!)

I also feel good about the other three potentially life-changing events that could occur this coming week. I've said too much. But it could be boss.

I can, however, tell you about my newest obsession: Ghost Adventures. Sure, this is a television program that premiered in the Fall of 2008, but I've never claimed to be a timely person.

For example, I recently recommended Def Leppard's 'Hysteria' as a must-listen for albums.

Back to the show. It is awesomely creepy. And I just happened to catch three straight hours of it on Saturday night. (Judge not.) I mean, sure, the guys on that show can be downright vaudevillian in their responses to the spirits- noodle legs flying up from a chair, jazz hands splayed to ask the camera: Did you SEE that?- but boy oh boy, was I not ready to sleep alone.

Thankfully, I didn't have to. My husband was asleep on the sofa next to me the entire time. Which leads me to my next segment, entitled:

My Husband Cannot Stay Awake For The Telly.

It's true. Right around 7:45pm, a little after Nora calls it a night, he begins the popular refrain of "What Would You Like To Watch?" (Do not pity. Sometimes we play board games or Mario Kart.) I always roll my eyes and respond- whatever you'd enjoy falling asleep to. He then promises up and down to stay awake and even bolsters himself with a cup of coffee or black tea, followed up by eagerly setting up the newest, edgy movie. (Which, let's be honest, is not my cup o' chai.)

Twenty minutes later- Outsville, Illinois. Population: 1 dude snoring. (And one rather bored/tense gal uncomfortable with all of the currentitude on her television box.) I've started telling him- Look, if you know you're gonna fall asleep, let's just call out the charade and put on some BBC. You'll sleep better, I'll be happier, and anyone walking by will believe us to be cultured.

Win/win. Unlike the Bloggies. Or the Oscars.

But the Footie Pajama-Clad Miniature Person Climbing On My Chest To Comb My Hair With A Doll Brush Awards?

Blue Ribbon.

It's best not to get too greedy.

My house doesn't even spin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He went back downstairs.

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

Problem solved.

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

Happy New Year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like bacon speared with a toothpick.

<---Not Brave.

Nora is covered in band-aids. Five of them, to be exact. On her bruised, teensy tiny upper arms.

I have one band-aid. But I care not for my own pain- for it is my penance.

Oh, sure, Nora was thrilled to see the doctor and her nurse pals this a.m. What's not to like? Cool artwork (for her, anyway- she's not too discerning yet), tons of stuff to poke and touch, people telling her how big and strong and pretty she is...

And then jabbing her with needles the size of a small country.

Trying not to project my own fears of [awfulterriblepainful] needles onto my kid, I smiled and sang and gave her a cookie. A special doctor visit cookie! You know, a Halloween sugar cookie, like you do.

And then they made me lean over her to pin down her upper body and legs. Right away, she knew something was up. As they tightened the tourniquet and swabbed her miniature inner arm, she looked at me with panicked and pleading eyes. Then she began to whimper. And, I AM NOT ASHAMED TO SAY...so did I.

I almost went and got the car. Seriously, I asked myself. How threatening IS polio? So what if she has lead in her system?

I'm pretty sure they drained all of the blood in her body. It took like seven hours.

And they they gave her four shots. Two of which, they warned (there were multiple nurses), might be really sting-y. And, gauging by the [momentarily] silent scream emitting from my purple-headed daughter's face, I'm willing to bet they were.

Her arms are already purple and blue and red. She has, occasionally, removed her sleepy weepy head from the crook of my neck- once when the nurses returned to do my flu shot. (I've rarely seen such a wary and tension-filled glare coming from one so little.)

My arm is a little sore. I cannot even imagine the Achyville in which she currently resides.

We both had cookies.

So. Yes. This weekend.

On Friday we had the unparalleled date night of watching ourselves on The Food Network (Outrageous Food, playing again on the 14th at 3p and 10:30p CST, in case you missed it)...and enjoyed the evening by having our phones in hand, computers on lap, texting, emailing, Facebooking, Skyping, Gchatting, and phone-calling. Just like the pioneers intended.

Also this weekend; I made the very urban discovery that a car alarm truly serves no purpose. None. Its intended use it to deter car theft. What ends up happening, however, is that you don't end up hearing the alarm at 3am. Your neighbors do. And, instead of checking to see if everything is all right, they actually wish the car jacker would hurry up and disable the siren. Maybe smack you with a car part if a child is woken.

Just a casual observation apropos of nothing on Troy Street.

Another revelation? A few reviews of my new 3lb computer warned against its small and tricky-to-maneuver keyboard- the one that actually makes me a better typist. Obviously, I HAVE CHILDLIKE HANDS. Thank you, Picayune Polly, for being yet another affirmation that I am indeed a ten year-old.

In case the wardrobe, hairstyle, fear of the dark, toy collections, nicknaming, and joyful outbursts didn't give it away.

Nora thinks I'm cool. Or will once I give her another cookie.

(Small hands high-five!)

Fall is for Nostalgia.

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

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

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

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

But it still counts as a date.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which kinda made me a superhero for a little while.

With a superpower that she'll never even remember.

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

And it'll be okay.

Keely Says Awkward Things On The Food Network...

...And Other Weekendy Things.

Compared to last weekend's glorious hibernation, I'm pretty sure this weekend has led Nora to believe that her car seat is her new nursery. (It is very nice.)

Saturday: P.J. had an audition. (Good little trick for all you actor pals out there- disregard all audition notices for one calendar year. Have a big ol' life event. Despair a little bit about your career. One year to the day later- you'll be batting auditions away with a stick. A soft stick. Because you'll still kinda want to go to them.)

During this time Nora and I were to have a chill session of floor-blankie-blocks-nappin'. But a call from the Food Network changed all of that. (Doesn't it always?) The segment I was going to help tape the following day now needed me- and a few awesome friends- Saturday afternoon.

Most of my artsy friends were either working or supplementing their work with more work. (Bears season opener, anyone?) One friend who was available had her dreams of glory shot down due- yet again- to vegetarianism. (It's the meanest!) Did I mention that the show centered around adventurous eating and random types of game? (More "pheasant" and less "Connect 4.") Another pal has pneumonia. (Come on!) Crazily enough, my friend with a two year old was able to attend. Go figure.

So, she and I- and, at the last minute not Nora because Peej made it home in time- jetted down to the taping. Only to find that they had cancelled "actors" for the day. And were shooting stills of that temperamental artist known as The Kitchen.

So Leah and I went to Lincoln Station and had a beer and a Reuben apiece and enjoyed our kid-free date by...comparing labor and delivery stories. (The irony is that our friends are always at Lincoln Station and send us texts to join and we're all like- We can't. We have kids.) Sigh.

That night P.J. and I enjoyed an Outta Money, Kinda Tired, No I'm Not Cooking Date Night. (Marriage is awesome.)

The next morning we all put on our Sunday best because The Schoeny family was to be on the telly. Hopefully. When the producers asked me to return the next day, they asked if I knew a guy who'd be good on a food challenge.

Yeah, I know a guy.

And we just decided to bring Nora because, let's face it. Who's the most camera-ready of us all? Exactly. Nora= meal ticket.

We wanted to stop by the German Fest in Lincoln Square first, as Nora is a quarter German via Alsace-Lorraine (via Chicago.) We got her a bratwurst, some German potato salad and some sauerkraut- actually, she and I "shared" a plate, but I didn't get more than three bites in before she was gnawing on the Chinet. So, yeah, she likes German food. The Oompah band was a little much for her, but that just shows that she's discerning.

Started to head downtown and got a call that the taping had been pushed back one hour.

So we got some gelato. (Nora is a citizen of the culinary world.)

Drove down by the lake to kill some time and got a call saying we needed to come half an hour later than that. This put us smack dab in the middle of Nora's second nap. "She'll sleep in the car," we told ourselves. She did not. Not until we were all the way downtown and in the noisiest of 'hoods. This was also, coincidentally, when we needed to park and remove the sleeping child from the car. Ah well. I read that power naps are sometimes even more rejuvenating.

Got to the restaurant where the shindig was being filmed and met up with Leah and Kat, two of my most camera-fabulous friends. (I don't know how Leah swung the childless thing two days in a row, but rock on.) We proceeded to wait for an hour and a half in the blazing sun. They eventually told us we could come inside out of the heat- for the baby (yay baby!)- as long as we were silent during the last bit of kitchen taping. (That kitchen was a diva!) That worked for- oh- about thirty seconds. Then Nora screeched a random, happy shriek of babyhood and about twelve pairs of death-glarey eyes turned on us. So we loitered in the CVS.

Once we got going, however, it flew by. Without giving too much away, Peej and I were in a competition of sorts for a different kind of game show. We had to introduce ourselves numerous times to get the right angle/audio/dialogue and some of the stuff they had me say was a little, uh, non-family friendly?

"Tell them how much you like meat."

"Say you'll eat ANYTHING. Any kind of meat!"

"Tell them that your husband thinks he's gonna beat you BUT HE'S WRONG."

I kept it simple. And smiled a lot. A nice, 'don't listen to my words' kinda smile.

Leah and Kat hung out with Nora while we taped the segment and all was good until I dinged a stupid bell as hard as I could- in the heat of competition- and remembered at the very last second how much my daughter hates sudden frantic sounds.

So, she cried. And by "cry" I mean "purple-faced Sicilian mourner keening." Leah and Kat took her outside. And I had to keep taping. Because we were still rolling. And I was facing the street so, through the picture window I could see my baby gal soundlessly giving herself an aneurysm. But we kept going. (Watch for the part in middle of the contest where I glaze over and stare off into space and well up and bite my lip and clench my fists. Oh, TV is magical.)

And I won't tell you how it ended, other than to say that Nora was just fine and I'm pretty sure my friends are still talking to me.

We got home in time to let Nora run around nudie in the backyard while P.J. gardened and I- well, I don't know what I did much beyond telling P.J. that He Thinks He's Gonna Beat Me But He's Wrong. (It takes me a long time to get out of character.)

And I promise to discuss the season enders of Psych and True Blood- as soon as I can process them/acknowledge that I am programme-less for a few months.

But tune in tomorrow for a bonus posting- a featurette of a fabulous company (go say hi to them in the upper right hand corner!) And remember, the more you like them, the more they'll like me, and the more they like me, the more other people will like me, and maybe- just maybe- all this likin' will equal a decent paycheck which will also equal more columns and postings and features and antics.

After all, I just got the Fall L.L. Bean catalogue- and it ain't gonna mock itself.

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.

We did other stuff, too. Really.

The Bitsy Bug is dozing off a low-grade fever this a.m., which means P.J. and I are finally leaving her alone. Seriously. I fully realize that a fever under 104 degrees truly doesn't warrant any more medical attention than a cool washcloth, the occasional Tylenol and a vodka tonic, extra limes- hey, the whole house is dealing with the kiddo's discomfort, okay?- but you should try telling that to us in the middle of Taking Care Of Nora. We have entire, hushed convos In. Very. Clipped. Tones. Tempers flare. Books are consulted. Nora looks at us like "It's prolly just my teeth, guys," but her statements go unheard. For she is just a baby. 


Sure, people say. JUST WAIT until your kid has the chicken pox/scarlet fever/The Grippe, but no. I don't need to. I freak out when her boogs are too big for her nostril. A corner of her big toenail bent a little bit the other day and I wept. (Although, strangely, when she faceplanted on her blocks while trying to stand I actually applauded. Motherhood is weird.) Maybe I freak out about the stuff that I should directly control, the things that she clearly cannot do for herself. Clearly she's on her own for the gravity thing.


So. Weekend. There's this awesome game we play (no, it does not involve mallards or puzzles- 'cept when it does) called Neighborhood Watch. Here's how you play: Push your bed against a huge, street-facing window, turn out the lights, prop your chin on the headboard and...watch. Occasionally murmur something about informing the authorities. Mutter to each other that the Alderman should really put speedbumps on Troy- it's not a flippin' freeway! Marvel at the "kids" going out at 11:30pm on a Saturday night. (Sample dialogue: "I'm exhausted just looking at them!" "Boy, they're gonna be late for mass!") Translate angry, drunken Spanish. Giggle at angry, crazy-person English. Pretend that noise you heard was a firecracker. Yep. Loads of firecrackers. Awfully festive out there tonight! Doze off- momentarily- until you hear a car speed by. Jump back into position with a renewed zeal and an overly macho "I'm on it." Wait for your husband to laugh at you, but then tell you how wonderfully stalwart you're being. 


This game can literally go on for twenty or so minutes! 


We've also been watching a lot of Clean House: Search For the Messiest Home In the Country (2!). Remember when I said how much I hated reality TV? Perhaps I just hadn't found my niche. Well, here it is, baby! Slobs. This show is incredible. It kinda focuses in on the crazy excess of Americans. We have so much that we could actually drown in our own collections of feather boas and sequined purses. Part of me used to think that in order to get on the show, people would empty out closets, desks, and dressers onto the floors. Then they'd stomp around, all "Look how I hafta live!" Turns out, people actually do live like that. We saw one episode where a woman had never thrown out any mail. Not since '73. Another guy refused to make room in "his" house for his wife and young son, because that would mean getting rid of his long-deceased grandmother's things. (In my mind I shot him in the face.) This show inspires rage in me.


Also, concern. I have a lot of hobbies. A lot lot. Sure, I decorate them prettily enough, but I am just one color-coded bookshelf away from an avalanche of romance novels. Also, Foucault. 


That said, we've toyed with the idea of spilling stuff into a room, taking a picture and pleading 'HELP' to Niecy Nash. One part of the downstairs isn't all that far off, anyhow. That that said, on the commercial breaks we find ourselves sorting bills and doing dishes. And shivering. 


Sure didn't stop us from going on a garden walk/neighborhood garage sale tour yesterday! Okay, the "gardens" were in Ravenswood Manor, where- technically- I do not live. But I sure do live right smack in Garage Sale Central. (As one guy said of his own wares- "Eh, it's all crap." Gosh!) We bought a vintage schoolhouse desk for eight bucks and found a small wooden wingback chair in an alley. Sure, it was painted turquoise and magenta. But, if you'll remember- the inside of our house was originally even worse. Yeah, I can handle a chair. The gardens were fabulous and made me Think Thoughts. P.J. hates when I Think Thoughts. (That's usually when rooms change place and he has to bring out the Little Giant ladder.) 


And a big ol' weekend thank you to my sister Kate. She's been redesigning my blog (okay, building a new one from scratch) over on Typepad. She could also, quite possibly, give birth any second now. Seriously. Which makes her Radface McAwesome[stretchy]pants. And kudos to my youngest sister Em for giving me free access to all of her jaw-dropping photography for use on the new site. 


Leaving me only one thing to say to my middle sister Chel:


Slaaacker!


Insert defensive maternal rebuttal...here.


And witty sibling-related banter...here.


And comment that- perhaps- goes too far.


Additional tempering responses by the husbands.


One last jibe.


Sincere commentary on younger sister's recent accomplishments. 


Eye roll, curtsey, Arabesque, fin.


Last word from my mother.


(See if I'm wrong.)

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.

I was Nana's favorite.

It's funny.

One can travel to far flung locales, dye one's hair questionable shades of red, and pretend to speak Italian...but when it comes right down to it, what makes you [me] happiest is when five lilac trees are planted in the backyard. The same kind that used to be in your [my] childhood home's backyard.

After living in a major metropolitan area for going on eight years (!), it's sweet to think that I can let Nora experience the same kind of lovely fragrance wafting through her bedroom windows- the same scent that woke me on Spring mornings in a small, western Massachusetts town.

Also- she can play Stables once the trees are fully grown. (I can totally see my little sisters wincing at this- whatever. If you had applied yourselves, you totally could have been promoted to exercising the A-list imaginary ponies. I don't make these rules. I just enforce them.)

And now on to The Issues. First up, Out and About:

During yesterday morning's commute, I spied a really special license plate. For the sake of privacy, let's just say the vanity plate was owned by MARCI. Now, apparently MARCI owns a Doberman, for her plate guard read: My Doberman Can Lick Your Honor Student.

However.

The placement of these words was rather questionable. Above her name read: "My Doberman." And beneath? "Can Lick Your Honor Student." So at 7am, if there's an early morning glare, a commuter might be surprised to read: "MARCI Can Lick Your Honor Student."

Which may very well be true. But that it hardly the correct forum for such a bold statement.

Also- the advent of construction season has me a tad more worried than usual. Driving south down California to Irving Park the other day, I was stopped by a worker carrying orange cones. He proceeded to line three extremely narrow paths for cars, all the while waving me forward. Without looking at me. Or the car driving north, whom he was also apparently waving forward. When neither of us made a move (except to shrug, confused, at each other) he waved us on even harder. So I slowly pulled through, knocking over a couple of cones along the way. (I felt like Marcia Brady in the episode where she learns to drive.) Suddenly, the large truck for whom he was apparently lining the road busted out and cut perpendicularly across the road. Between the cars going north and south. All the while we were being WAVED ONWARDS. (This was an eye contact-free event, I cannot stress that enough.) Eventually, through a series of complicated hand gestures between the north-driving fellow and myself, we maneuvered our ways through the mess on our own.

That worker may still be there, waving willy-nilly and lining narrow orange cones with Rain Man-like precision. I'll check later.

Also on the roads: my older sister had the pleasure- and confusion- of seeing this banner in her town the other day: Congrats, Seniors, for a Deficiency-Free Survey!

So many things. Firstly, what is this about? I know these words, but I cannot make them make sense. I'm going to go ahead and assume these were high school seniors. Congrats- I get that part, too. Survey...survey...like the Census? Popularity of New Coke? (Unless they meant the SATs...but in my day we called that a "test.") Deficiency-free...what could go wrong, warranting a "deficiency" in a survey? (What the heck happened last time?) And is it wholly necessary to broadcast this? This is akin to someone posting a banner on my front door proclaiming: Excellent Work Not Dropping Nora Today!

(Thank you!)

And in the world of IknewitIknewitItoldyou'causethisalwayshappenstomyshows News:

Demetri Martin is gone. I don't know where he went, but his show Important Things With Demetri Martin is now missing. After being bumped to 12:30am on Thursdays, it disappeared altogether. It's no longer featured OnDemand content. His website is no help.


And P.J. is not accepting my return to our marriage as gratefully as one might expect. He feels all 'second-placey' to Demetri- but I made no bones about with whom I was spending my Thursday nights. It's called an arrangement.

I still have John Krasinski (for now- although once people in charge figure out that I like The Office, that'll be it. I'm the Kiss of Death for programming.) And, of course, Psych comes back in June. And I can continue my love affair with a certain Nordic vampire in True Blood that same month.

But for now- totally married. Goin' on strong.

And I cannot- cannot- deal with the ending of Law & Order yet. Possibly ever. And yeah, fine, millions of NYC actors won't be able to get their SAG cards, blah blah. Let's look at this on a way more personal level: it's 3am. I've had a craving for tacos. I need to watch something, 'cause eating alone in the dark is way too sad to ever do again- and I can't believe I just put that in print- so what's it gonna be? Infomercial? Seen it. Lifetime programming? Not this late at night, thank you. Law & Order? Perfect. Soothe me back into indigesty sleep with your procedural drama, your forward-moving BOM BOM, your neatly wrapped up confession/courtroom 'gotcha'/healthy dose of righteous indignation...and if there are no more new ones, that means that- someday, someday awfully soon- I will have seen them all. A lot.

Look, I know shows have to end (I really do not know this), but this show is more a part of my college experience than my [frisbee-shaped] diploma. Sometimes I slept through class. Or would forget to eat. But miss an episode of [seven times a day] Law & Order? I wouldn't be the person I am today if I had let that kinda thing slide.

My Nana and I used to watch this show religiously as a backdrop to our nightly Rummy games. Sure, later on Nana was known to say that she "never really cared for that show, much." But, as Nana was also known for the occasional untruth, I'm gonna file that statement under the What're You Sellin' category.

Please, Dick Wolf- of the masculinely noun-ed moniker- please. Dick. Do not take away Nana Alice's favorite show. Don't make me turn to other cop dramas for comfort. Leave me with the illusion of dignity and classy viewing.

Because, as Nana would say- "I never know who she's gonna bring home."