Staying Mindful [Is Impossible].

I work so hard at mindfulness. At remaining fully present. And not mentally jumping ahead to whatever comes next/tomorrow/down the road/I wonder what flights look like for the winter?

I work really hard at this during my Pilates class because a) mindfulness is a major tenet of practicing Pilates, b) it's such a luxury for me to even be able to sneak away at 6pm on a Wednesday evening, c) Good Lord, if I can manage to find forty-five minutes here then why is our storage area such a mess, and d) this is so expensive, I should really be doing better at staying present.

It's easy to stay present when you've got Tinkerbell on your lap.

Last night was no exception. As I planked and propped and curled, here was my thought process:

-It's so hot, is it going to rain tonight? I hope I remember to close the windows in three hours.
-Checkup for me. Someone's gonna need to watch the girls. Could the girls come with me? Eh.
-I hope the reviews for the show are good. I hope the reviews for the show are good. I hope-
-Conference Sunday. Meeting Thursday. All I own are sweatpants.
-I would give my right arm to watch a marathon of Psych.
-What if my play gets skewered? I will have to gouge out my eyes.
-Nora's cough sounds gross. I'll give it another day.
-I hate social media promotion. I just won't do it anymore. Awesome!
-Nine posts due within two weeks. No, sure. That's totally fine.
-I would give my right arm for some nachos.
-I am so tired and my arms huuuurt.
-P.J. starts rehearsals soon. I have zero idea what nights those are. I am the worst.
-If the show gets rotten reviews, I will leave town and set my car on fire.

And so on. A totally awesome and completely present workout. (And I'm embarrassed to admit, it's a mammoth improvement from last week's session. I didn't even think once about the girls' summer wardrobes or the piles of laundry remaining from our mid-April California trip or how much PlayDoh Susannah consumed that morning. Baby steps.)

But hey- here's one thing I can [kinda] check off the ol' To Worry About list! This review for my show. And while I'm sure they won't all be this glowing, this one will keep me cozy for some time to come.

At least it'll keep me from setting my car on fire.

GIRLFRIEND Had A Stellar Opening Weekend, And I Can Exhale.

This weekend's premiere of Girlfriend was insane. As in, I nearly lost my mind.

I had been bandying this play around (in my brain, on paper, to the occasional passerby) since 2008, but had really been hammering out drafts in earnest since last summer. In essence, this play was my baby.

My colicky, allergic, and stranger-phobic baby.

And the idea that this baby was going off to be seen and heard and judged by people who didn't even know about the multiple scene changes and character changes and coffee mug changes...and who didn't fully get how crazily I loved each scene and character and mug of coffee...

Well, it felt like I was sending my baby off to college. Or to a firing squad.

But then I remembered that I had a director in my corner; a gal who reminded me of the play's inherent sweetness, who promised me a production of which I could be proud, and who suggested that- maybe- I could write an ending? How about a different one? Let's try a third- yes, there's an ending.

And I had simply wonderful friends send flowers and thoughts from all over the place, and my parents sent chocolate-covered strawberries which, as everyone knows, is the traditional Opening Night Gift.

And I remembered that I had a cast who was so flippin' funny and full of heart and energy and patience for my tendency towards wordiness. And there was a production staff, too, who wanted this play to be exceptional- for the playwright and cast and their awesome theatre company (20%Theatre Chicago, whoopty whoop).

But I still had The Panics. And it didn't let up until I was sitting in the darkened theater with P.J. on one side and my director on the other, clutching their wrists as if my balance would keep the play from toppling.

And guess what, guys? It was good. The cast was hilarious, the storyline made more sense to me than it had in my 4am brain, and the audience applauded even though they didn't even know me. (I mean, some of them did. And those friends laughed extra hard. And I'll totally take it.) Granted, there was at least one reviewer who sat stony-faced throughout the whole thing, like she was watching Schindler's List performed in mime. But maybe the fact that the audience around her actually laugh/applauded between scene changes should color her review slightly?

Because here's the thing. People liked it. A lot. And I can finally breathe that breath of So, You Didn't Faceplant.

Opening night: Me, 20% Theatre Chicago's Artistic Director (and one of our show's leads!) Lindsay Bartlett,
and Girlfriend's fearless director, Amy Buckler. I love these people to the moon and back.

Hey, what's that? You need those details one more time? Well, okay: 

Girlfriend, by Keely Flynn
April 25th-May 19th
Zoo Studios (4001 N. Ravenswood, Chicago)
Thurs-Sat, 8pm Sun 2pm
Industry Night Mon, May 6th, 8pm
www.brownpapertickets.com
(Wanna pay cash at the door? email boxoffice@twentypercentchicago.com)

Thank you, friends and family, for coming and indulging and bolstering and laughing your heads off. You rock. 20% Theatre Chicago rocks. This gorgeous Chicago Spring weather rocks. 

And so does napping. Napping is definitely gonna rock.

Girlfriend, By Keely Flynn. Oh Wait, That's ME.

Lately, I've spent a bunch of time reviewing and promoting some terrific shows around town. But there's one very important show opening in previews tonight...

'Cause it's mine.

Girlfriend is the story of Anna and Caro, two twentysomething gals who have been friends forever and ever, Amen. As they attempt to navigate the ups and downs of functional adulthood and the Chicago theatre scene, they also redefine friendship- and just how heavily you can lean on those pals before you drag 'em down with you.

Sure, this may be one of the more biased things I've ever blogged, but Girlfriend is a really funny show. And- honestly- not just 'cause I'm the playwright. This cast is quick and sharp and bitingly funny. They're also adorable and fun and completely root-able. There are bits and pieces of people I've loved in Chicago- and more than a few glimpses of folks I'd like to shove off a bridge.

But, I assure you, it's a comedy. A wicked awesome one. Because Amy Buckler, our director, is smart and savvy and really good at coaxing a storyline out of a blocked playwright. And 20% Theatre Chicago is an amazing group of artists who rock the heck outta new works.

Speaking of tips o' the hat, I'd really be amiss if I didn't give a big shout out to my husband P.J. (Like, a twenty gallon tip o' the hat.) This is the guy who found me at my desk, shaking from my 10th cup of coffee, and having a draft-related freakout to end all draft-related freakouts. And this is the guy who took my laptop out of my twitching hands, plonked me into a bathtub, and yanked the rest of the story line from my brain (not entirely unlike how the Egyptians removed brain matter from their mummies).  He also maintained our kids and pets and meals and made sure I drank water during this whole creative process. So, yeah. Wicked big thanks.

And I'd like to dedicate this show- my part of the show, anyhoo- to my Dad. As many of you know, Dave Flynn is undergoing some serious chemo for some serious cancer. But through it all (and since I started writing in the 2nd grade), he's been one of my staunchest supporters.

Dude has every playbill and poster in which I've ever been featured on the walls of his recording studio. That's a lot of shows; some of which should've been shoved off that ol' bridge as well. But there they stay, reminders of how proud he's always been of my work.

So Dad, happy 62nd birthday. I can't wait to tell you about how *your* show went. (And you better make it out here for the next one, yeah?)

Girlfriend
April 25th- May 19th
Zoo Studios (4001 N. Ravenswood, Chicago)
Previews April 25th & 26th, pay what you can!

Thurs-Sat, 8pm Sun 2pm
Industry Night Mon, May 6th, 8pm
www.brownpapertickets.com
(if you'd like to pay cash at the door, email boxoffice@twentypercentchicago.com)

TUTA Theatre Chicago's The Silent Language.

People, people, there is so much good theatre going down around Chicago this month. But right up there at the tippety-toppest is TUTA Theatre Chicago’s darkly comedic fairy tale The Silent Language, directed by Jacqueline Stone; meaning, seriously, don’t miss this one. The U.S. premiere- written by Serbian playwright Miodrag Stanisavljevic and translated by Zoran Paunovic- is TUTA’s first foray into performances intended for younger audiences. And it’s spot on.

Poor Gasho (Max Lotspeich) plays the guitar in TUTA's The Silent Language
Photo credit: Anthony Robert LaPenna

Based on an old Serbian folk tale called Nemusti Jezik, the story concerns Gasho (an energetic and youthful Max Lotspeich), a poor servant who receives a gift of the silent language. This gift enables him to communicate with all things in nature, the things that often go unheard and overlooked. As he sets off on a quest to rescue a princess being held captive by the “threest” elf king (Aaron Lawson, hilarious and bumbling), Gasho finds himself both helped and hindered by the inhabitants of the fairy tale’s forest. The terrific ensemble also includes Sean Ewert (quietly terrifying as The Boogeyman), the hilarious trio of Jamielyn Gray, Angela Bullard, and Laurie Larson, and Carolyn Molloy as the plucky and desperate princess.

Designer Michelle Lilly’s set is lushly decorated with a mix of shabby-chic Victorian details, draped tapestries, and elements of nature all gorgeously woven together. Coupled with Wain Parham’s evocative original score, it’s impossible to not become fully immersed in this magical land. Geared towards theatergoers aged 8 and up, The Silent Language is a show that adults will truly love as well.

TUTA Studio Theatre

2010 W. Fulton Ave, Chicago

April 19^th- May 19^th, 8pm (no show Saturday, May 4^th)

1.800.838.3006

www.brownpapertickets.com

www.tutato.com

Writing Is Not For The Sane.

One of the hardest things about being a playwright is that specific moment when people show up to see what you've written.

It takes you from that [safe, cozy] time of writing THE most hilarious, THE most witty, and THE most crazy life-changing character interactions...

...To that [scary, cold] public forum where you suddenly realize you've written THE most trite, THE most confusing, and THE most lengthy diatribe concerning exactly nothing...

And you wonder why you left your house. I mean- there, everyone thinks you're a genius who knows exactly how grilled cheeses should be sectioned. In fact, right about the time the second act should be starting (if you weren't such a moronic, overly indulged dialogue-penner- I mean, really: a main character not being introduced until forty-five minutes in??) you'd be in your jammies, in bed, with Murdoch Mysteries streaming on Netflix. And not even one person would be questioning your narrative or use of slang.

You watch people watching your show. And you kind of hate them. Just a little. Because you know they're not getting what you had originally intended this show to be about. It's not their fault, but they don't even know that THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW.

You feel more than a little naked. And tired. And you really wish you had been there for bedtime tuck-ins.

And then it ends. But the talk back session starts. And people have questions. And you smile and nod and drink your vodka tonic and do your darndest to pretend that every single critique isn't a fork tine to the eyeball. (There's the occasional bit of praise, too, but that's dismissed as the ramblings of an audience plant who knows your predilection for eyeball-forking.)

So you go home. And relive every single moment- onstage and off- to your tolerant husband. He cautiously points out that it sounds- on paper- like a successful reading series? Maybe? Yes?

You admit to him that someone may have called your narrative arc "Shakespearean."

He gently agrees with you. If that's what you want to hear. If not, he doesn't.

You take the next week to recover, feeling much like a bachelorette hydrating after a lost weekend. And you find yourself- surprisingly- finding moments that you can't wait to edit into your new draft. Because obviously there has to be a new draft. In fact, you know what? You could probably squeeze in a few minutes right now to change that scene that's been bugging you since Thursday evening at 8pm.

Oh man, it's going to be so good. It'll make so much sense. You feel smart and purposeful and creative and [slightly] more rested. But you will never forgive the dude who nodded off in the front row.

Because- why does he hate art?

Nora Has Tea With Emerald City's "Alice In Wonderland."

Nora and I were thrilled to go see Emerald City's (and adapter/director Ernie Nolan's production of Alice in Wonderland at Emerald City Theatre last Saturday. (Trivia: Did you know that my very first starring role was of Alice, in 1989? True, unrelated story.) I love this story. I've always loved this story. And now, so does Nora.

This production (with its theme of problem solving) is lovely- there are hints of a 1920s radio hour and the feel is very Deco. The storyline is exactly the same as you remember it, which is totally a-ok. That said, there were definitely some elements that weren't gelling so early in the show's run; there were a couple of costumes that seemed wrinkled and askew, and I definitely worried for the Velcro on the back of the Caterpillar's impressive body (which housed at least three other people.) A couple of props were marked with Sharpie, a la "recent thrift store purchase," and a few of the actors' British dialects faltered here and there. 

However, the actors bring 110 percent, no mean feat in a children's production on a Saturday morning. There's some cool stuff going on with the Cheshire Cat and various set pieces. The audience participation is fun (and thrilling for the- ahem- Not Shy Preschooler On My Lap crowd). And Nora loved the pre-show project of creating and decorating her own tea cup. 


At the post-show meet n' greet, she was thrilled to [shyly] thank Alice and the Red Queen, and even hug The King of Hearts. This extroverted activity totally sapped her, so she politely asked me to high-five the Mad Hatter and the White Rabbit.


She- curiously- informed me that those two (as well as the March Hare) were "really naughty" and "not very kind." Okie doke. (She also demanded to know "where the white bunny [kept] going!" This was repeated multiple times, frequently during scene changes.) 


All in all, we had an excellent time at this sweet and entertaining show. (So did the completely packed house of- from what I could see- billions of costumed children.) It's a fun time for your little [or not-so-little] adventurer. Go check it out for yourself.


And when you do- and figure out where the heck the White Rabbit kept going- please report back to Nora.

I swear, a second before this picture was taken,
she was beaming at the King of Hearts. 

***

Alice in Wonderland
at the Apollo Theatre, Chicago
July 10th- December 29th, 2012


***

Everyone Should Have Fireworks Commemorate Their Swimsuit Choices.

Haven't we all had a weekend like this?

Some weekends are just unexpectedly nice. Even when you've got nothing planned ahead of time; except- ahem- for a lengthy To Do list involving lumber, shelving, and copious amounts of storage for one's husband. (For his stuff, rather. He doesn't need to go into storage. He can stay right out here in the open. As long as he finishes his To Do list, that is.)

On Saturday, I braved Marshall's to view their picked over, off season swimsuits. (Also, why is it considered No Longer Summer on July 7th? Color me confused.) The remnants of the "season" were hung on one rack, all inside out and [incorrectly?] marked 2XL. But I am not so easily deterred. Besides, being as my maternity suit might not jive for this summer, I really needed a new one.

(Marshall's was a fun crowd that day. Actual overheard convo between a mother and her teenaged daughter:
Mom (holding up a swimsuit): Oh, honey, this might look cute with the bottoms from last year!
Daughter (rolling her eyes): Which ONE? There were SO MANY from LAST year.
Don't worry, America, I decked her for you.)

Anyway, I overcame such hurdles as yicky angst (other peoples') and physical limitations (my own). For instance, on the two-piece bathing suits, the security tags went through the cup of the tops and the hip of the bottoms. Binding them irrevocably together. I mean, I'm good, but I'm not magic.

Despite this, I managed to come away with two swimsuits. TWO. Like I'm afraid of being photographed in the same one twice during my [sadly nonexistent] St. Bart's weekend. But here's the kicker- they were both bikinis. And I assure you that they were not of the 2XL variety. (But they were inside out. And extremely painful to try on, due to the inappropriately placed security tags.)

And once I got them home, turned them right-side out, and tried them on again sans metal stabby devices, they still fit. (Even better, in fact.) It felt awfully good to feel decent in any swimsuit within a year of having had Zuzu, let alone a bikini- something that I hadn't rocked since my honeymoon. (And before then...never. I was kind of a tankini girl.)

It just goes to show you. Eating right, exercising...and stressing your own face off while your house and sewer system collapses around you just melts those pesky pounds away!

Later that night, I found myself as the date of my good pal Sara to watch a musical- and attempt to order drinks from a phone app. (WE LIVE IN THE FUTURE.) She was successful. My phone wouldn't lemme. (I think P.J. may have found a way to block me. FOR HE LIVES IN THE FUTURE, TOO.)

Yesterday was just a mess o' awesome: tons of writing during various people's naptimes, backyard lolling about on blankets and hammocks and tricycles, a nap for ME, Rocky's Tacos for lunch, projects with Nora where I actually felt like I was one thousand percent paying attention, and having Susannah happily chew on my face while saying things like "Mama," "Dad," "Ba" (Bean? Bear? Bananagrams?), and Zhjee. (Which, obvie, means Geo. Her monkey. She's clearly a genius.)

Weekends like this are almost a reward for all of the janky stuff that the first half of this year brought. And it's hardly even detracted by the sonic booms coming from my alley as hilarious kids (adults?) ricochet impossibly loud fireworks down the block. Barely even noticeable. And it certainly doesn't take the shine off the fact that I FIT INTO TWO BIKINIS, YOU LOUD FIREWORKERS, and I don't even mean at the same time.

Maybe they're just celebrating for me.

That must be it.

Snow White (As Performed By Professor T.J. Barker's Troupe Of Theatricals).

We all know the story of Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs. But how about the story of Snow White as told by Professor T.J. Barker's Troupe Of Theatricals?

Pre-show craft before every show!

That's right. Betcha didn't know that one.

Nora and I saw Emerald City Theatre's sweet production (written and directed by Producing Artistic Director Ernie Nolan) this past Saturday- and I can honestly say that not only will the kiddos will love it, but the adults will find it a refreshing spin on a story read over and over (...and over...and over...) again.

Every Emerald City show has a Gateway Theme, and this production features problem solving. T.J. Barker and his troupe have arrived from far flung lands (like Iowa) to our fair city of Chicago...only they're missing five dwarfs and the entire orchestra section. But, since his troupe has never cancelled a performance- and they don't intend to start now- they're gonna make it work.

Some of the dwarfs will be played by puppets.
The stage manager gets her moment in the spotlight.
Instruments will be strummed and drummed by the troupe.
Snow White...plays the triangle.

There's some really clever storytelling and play-within-a-play action going on; one of my favorite moments occurred when Queen Malvina paused her horrifying laugh to commend her son, a troupe member who was playing ominous music behind her. (She wondered how he had gotten so good.)

But where's the LAMB?

There was some positively terrific puppetry going on as well; Nora's favorite was the gentle and kindly lamb who helps Snow White. The thing was bigger than most cast members, and Nora was certain she was the star of the show. (She asked if she could get her autograph after the show. Sadly, she could not.)

Other highlights:

-The echo-y and ominous mirror (he of "On The Wall" fame) was a neat bit of light and sound. Nora alternated between demanding that he go away (and lights come back on, please), and immediately missing him and questioning his return once those scenes ended. (The mark of good theatre.)

-The vaudevillian sounds, physicality, and interludes between troupe players and Snow White performers. We both really liked all the music, although my city girl heard a slide whistle and knowingly whispered, "There's a siren here."

-The fact that it's an hour long. Because seriously. I love my daughter. A ton. But if I have to make sure she sits still for longer than that, it better come with meal service and an in-flight movie.

That said, she was riveted.

And honestly? So was I.

***

The Deets:
Snow White As Performed By T.J. Barker's Troupe Of Theatricals
Runs January 21- May 20, 2012
Apollo Theatre, 2540 N. Lincoln Ave, Chicago
Tix starting at $13 for kids and $16 for adults
Rec'd for ages 3 and up (or pretty awesome 2 year-olds)
***

Disclaimer: I've been compensated for my review, but opinions are my own.

Zuzu Wishes To Watch Wonder Pets, Says Nora.

Who's ready for the theatre?
THIS GIRL.

'Twas a good weekend. A great one, in fact.

I went on three- count 'em, three- dates this weekend.

Date One was with my husband to see the stellar Sky's The Limit, Weather Permitting at Second City's etc stage ('cause we know people in the show)!

Date Two was with Nat n' Rachael n' P.J. to see Underworld: Awakening in IMAX and 3D...at the behest of Nat n' me.

And Date Three was with my darling Nora Jane to see Emerald City Theatre's Snow White at The Apollo.

During Date One, P.J. screamed "Apple!" and "Korean!" at the improvisers, much to their dismay. (They hate "apple.")

During Date Two, Nat and I screamed "Too close, too close!" at the screen while bone fragments and glass flew at our faces.

And during Date Three, Nora screamed "I DO NOT LIKE HIM" at the magic mirror. Also, she requested that the lights come back on, please- I SAID PLEASE.

We also started ramping up for one of my very favorite holidays- Valentine's Day. This year's cards prove to be some of my favorite yet, most likely because I've [started to] let go of my OCD tendencies of card perfection and allowed my miniature Jackson Pollack wannabe to take over as Art Director. The result? Lots of glitter. The surprising and completely non-limiting choice of holiday and calendar stickers. Color pairings  that ought to hurt the eye...but somehow make us really, really happy.

And sure- absolutely- glitter has ended up in the bathtub, on dinner plates, between Susannah's toes, etc., etc., but I think we can all agree it's all worth it in the grand scheme of things. (Sorry, Suzy.)

This Valentine prep has completely derailed such tasks as Completing The Book For An Interested Party, Tweaking A Play So That The Ending Makes Sense/Doesn't Anger The Reader, and Pre-Treating The Baby's Laundry With Stain Stick.

I am just now realizing that in all of these stories, Susannah is getting the short end of the [stain] stick.

We'll make it up to her. In fact, we'll spend the rest of the day doing whatever she likes best.

As translated/decided by her big sister, Nora.

(Blanket tents and warm cocoa for everyone!)

Meanie Pants McGee Neglects [One Of] Her Children.

Naw, it's cool.
Just a bladder infection.

And now, let's check in with everyone's favorite Terrible Midwestern Mama-

Me.

This week's descent into therapy is brought to you by the letter T, for Toilet Bowl. Nora had been happily using the potty, not using the potty, and talking about things she wanted to do whilst on the potty (read various books, call loved ones on the phone, not take her nap, etc.) for the better part of the hour leading up to her usual rest time. And as our potty training is generally Nora-lead, i.e. she can pee or not pee at this point and get applause, I was letting her take her sweet time about it- up to a point. Towards the end of The Great Pee, I realized that Suzy had been fussing in her bouncer/was being ignored for far longer than we usually allow (oh, about twenty minutes or so) and I encouraged my eldest to wrap it up. (I was already thinking about the laundry list of tasks that lay ahead during her naptime, like soaking/scraping dried eggs from the underside of her booster seat...and, you know, laundry.)

She happily obliged, hopping down from the toilet and preparing to wash her hands. I turned away for a moment to start the water/soap portion of the afternoon's entertainment and turned back to find- BOTH OF NORA'S ARMS FULLY IN THE TOILET.

I'm not proud of this moment, but I yelled. A lot. About how we do not put our body parts into the toilet bowl and how she was not being a good listener and could she please never do that again. It was a pretty full-on Keely Yell, I'm ashamed to admit.

She froze like she had been slapped.

"I'm sorry, Mommy." She held out her dripping arms in the most helpful way she could manage. I cleaned her up, paying careful attention to sanitize such crucial areas as her inner elbows. All the while she solemnly acknowledged that kind people don't touch the toilet water.

A short while later, as I was kissing her goodnight for her nap, I apologized to her. I explained that, while I was worried about germs and pinched fingers, I shouldn't have yelled quite so much. She quietly put both hands on my cheeks and held my face close.

"It's okay, Mommy. You're a nice girl."

"Thank you, Nora."

"You have pretty eyelashes."

"Thanks."

So that's when I left my daughter's room and had a ten minute crying jag. And yeah, for those of you playing along at home, my youngest kid was still expressing concern from the confines of her aquarium bouncer.

And lest you think that Susannah escaped unharmed from from my Bad Momitude (aside from abandonment in a vibrating, bubbly prison), she suffered neglect as a direct result of her sister's awesome social calendar.

Yesterday we were invited to see Seussical, the Musical (!) at The Marriott Theatre (thanks, Aunties Julia and Cindy!), which we all enjoyed. Nora punctuated her exceptional theatergoer skillz with exclamations of OH NO at Horton's plight, followed by concerned [loud] questions about WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO during quieter moments and solos. But, altogether a win in the Culture And Arts department.

Zuzu, for her part, had been snuggling nicely against me for the majority of the show. She started to get a little squirmy towards the end, to which I responded with a typical Mom-To-Second-Kid response: Shh...you're fine.

And I reassured her of this fact throughout the slightly trafficky ride back to our home, all the while attempting to keep Nora awake until her naptime. And maybe get her to eat a bite of her sandwich. And perhaps stop bending her books inside out. The usual.

By the time we returned home, Nora was settled down for her nap, and I finally had a chance to hang out with The Little, it occurred to me that Susannah hadn't had a chance to eat since a quick parking lot snack at 10am (What're you looking at, tour bus?) and was rather starving. It had, after all, been three hours.

That would have to wait, however. For when I finally picked her up out of her car seat, I realized that she had pooped clear up to her neck. And was slightly unhappy about it.

After a quick sponge bath and disinfecting (the first for Susannah, the second for anything she or I had touched), I was able to actually feed her.

And she smiled happily up at me, like- You always take care of everything.

Which sent me off on another crying jag.

I don't think I'll be getting that Employee Of The Year mug anytime soon. Let alone World's Best Mom.

More like Hey, It's That Woman Who Cares For Her Kids With Astounding Mediocrity.

I think I've got the market cornered for that Hallmark moment.

Nora Checks Out Junie B!

Photo: Emerald City Theatre Company

This past weekend we were lucky enough to score tickets for the press opening of Emerald City Theatre's 'Junie B. Jones in Jingle Bells, Batman Smells,' adapted by Allison Gregory and directed by Jacqueline Stone.

For the uninitiated, Barbara Park's Junie B. Jones is one of those books right now...the kind where kids freak out and love her and know every single misadventure of the spunky first grader.

(For the super uninitiated, Emerald City is one of those theatre companies- really stellar at producing smart, fun, theatre for kids and families.)

Even though, at two, Nora is slightly younger than the show's target demographic, I had a feeling she'd dig it. And she totally did, starting with the pre-show craft. For each Christmas card created by a kid and dropped off in the lobby box, a book will be donated to underprivileged kids. (Nora loved the drawing- we loved the sentiment.)

Giving!

Then, she was stoked to receive her own kids' playbill, complete with a section for character autographs (I'm not kidding, this thing is a phenomenon). My program had a Parent's Guide to further conversations on being generous even when it's tough- like when you pull your mortal enemy's name in the holiday Secret Santa. (Been there.)

Junie B., vivaciously played by Amber Robinson, wants two things: to one-up the blabbermouth May (the hilariously smug Samantha Perry), and to have the holiday shop's squeeze-a-burp toy for herself. (Been there, too!) Antics ensue, lessons are learned, and every square inch of the theater is utilized by the energetic (and spot-on) actors. There's some serious physicality and exceptional prop-work going on here, too.

And lest you think that a kid-captivating show like this would be a snoozefest for adults, rest assured. There were plenty of moments where P.J. and I laughed out loud- perhaps even guffawed- namely a scene concerning Sheldon (Ricky Harris) and his lunch money. And any show that can make you momentarily forget you're holding a two year-old and a six week-old is pretty fabulous children's theatre, indeed.

Serious theatergoer.

Nora was enthralled. P.J. and I were entertained. Suzy...well, she happily snored. (You can't win 'em all.)

***

Junie B. Jones in Jingle Bells, Batman Smells! runs Nov. 17th- Jan. 8th at the Apollo Theatre, located at 2540 N. Lincoln Ave.
Run time is approx. one hour
www.emeraldcitytheatre.com

A Week In The Life Of An Artiste.

Ah, a nice watercolor/chalk mixed media.

Miss? No drinks in the theater.

THIS BIG.

Uh, no I was NOT using the purple marker.

Anyone wanna play Clue?

I've been trying pretty hard to adhere to 10pm Bedtime Month- though it's well into November. It's been pretty tricky. For example: Did you know that most Evening Events start at 7pm? Sometimes 8? (Yeah, and some begin even later. They will not be delved into here, as I am no longer interested in your positively hooliganistic plans. If I can no longer place an order at The Taco Burrito King once your show/party/film has ended, then go ahead and take me off the Evite. Right now.)

Speaking of that- going out, not the tostada bowl- I'm finding that I've become more hermit-like every single year. (Or "hobbit," as my sister once said, never to be forgotten. Ever. Times three.) I've always been a bit of a homebody. In high school, my friends had to drag me out to the mall and sleepovers and coffee shops. Sometimes it took some prying, especially if I had just gotten a new BMG shipment or was involved in a particularly taxing EverDark quest. (Did I just out myself from the geek closet? Oh well. At least nine readers are nodding their heads and guessing which one it was.)

My days at Hampshire were a tad more social, due to- shall we say- its slightly polarizing social scene? However, I was still only a few choices away from being that weird, solitary girl in the dark- on a Friday night- in her substance-free, single sex, quiet hall. Who wore a cloak.

Then came the whole Chicago theatre scene...and there went sleep. But what the heck does a 24 year-old need rest for, anyhow? We did shows. And more shows. And had late-night shows. Then had talkbacks, meet n' greets, galas, post-show parties, after after parties, and- most importantly- 4am tacos. And, crazily enough, we made it to our 8am jobs, cup of coffee in hand. Ready to teach kids, clean houses, sling overpriced food. Then on to that evenings' events! Our friends' shows, maybe a free night at the Art Institute, perhaps a midnight showing at the Music Box, most definitely some dancing at Spin, a Chinatown run so "late night" as to be positively mid-morning. And on and on and on until somewhere in the vague '29th year' neighborhood.

Sure, by that birthday I was busy cookin' a wee babe in my middles, but this need for home had slooowly been creeping up on me for a while before then. Sure, flirting with Peej against the jukebox at the Blue Light was super fun, but you know what else was? Waving at him from across our living room. (And it's, oh- about fifty bucks cheaper. Babysitting fees-wise, of course. They practically gave the beer away.) And wild n' wacky nights out with the girls are always divine- as are Netflix marathons with popcorn bowls the size of Guam.

The point being? I enjoy using Nora and the falling-down house as an excuse for my housebound slothitude. I have slowly lamed my way out of rotation. And that's cool. People have asked- doubtfully, scornfully- Don't I miss auditioning?  Eating regrettable amounts of food at unwise hours? Yeah- the stress/panic/euphoria tango with a heartburn chaser will be missed. For now. But the only guilt regarding this euphoric chapter in my adulthood is that I didn't treat myself this well sooner.

And make no mistake about it- it is good livin'. I make meatloaf once a week. I never even knew I LIKED meatloaf! P.J. recently taught me to play chess. And sure, I suck at it, but that's not the point. The point is that I get to listen to a Sirius XM oldies show in my sock monkey pajamas whilst P.J. trounces my players right offa the board. I take near-nightly soaks in the glorious (rat-free) lower level bath. I rearrange furniture monthly, a sorta 'Hi, how are ya/I OWN YOU' kind of acknowledgment to every single thing in my possession. (It helps my writing process to know where everything is forever and ever Amen.) And sometimes- just sometimes- when I've finished wiping mango bits from beneath the dining room table and folding an improbable number of socks- I climb into bed and pull the blanket up over my ear (so nothing can crawl inside, obvie) and sleep. And I do not feel lame. Not at all. I feel rested and warm and cozy and- sure, a little irritated at the sonic boom of a snore coming from my husband's face- and content.

It doesn't always work out that way. For example, the other night as I was drifting off way too late in the evening, I was jolted upright by the question of whether Emilio Estevez changed his name or Charlie Sheen did. (I mean, they're brothers so, what gives? Turns out, Martin Sheen changed his name. Used to be Estevez. Seriously. Also, did you know Emilio is older than Charlie? Blew. My. Mind. God bless you, imdb.com.) And certainly, blissful evenings can stall out while waiting for SOMEONE to finish pouring his  Ovaltine and come to bed after setting the alarm...so we can read magazines together. (Back off ladies, he's all mine.)

Those folks not super close to me often mistake this activity as inclusive gloating. But it isn't. Not really. I can name half a dozen people for whom the idea of dinner-makin', baby-tendin' and husband-keepin' would be an absolute nightmare and not a reward at all. (Conversely, I can think of a few people with evening careers with whom I would gladly trade places for a night or two. For example, Go Go dancers. Do they not just look like they're having a blast?)

But this Staying Innyness? It's become MY nighttime event- no more important than your reading or wine tasting- but certainly no less, either. "Projects" that require "pants" will eventually pique my interest again, but for now I'm cool.

The world isn't running out of pineapple fried rice any time soon.

Insulation Confrontation- The Sequel

This needs insulatin', too.

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

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

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

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

I should argue more. HEAR THAT, PEEJ?

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

So. This weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for smaller jorts!

I was all set this morning. Yep, I knew what issues were going to be blown to smithereens and how pointedly- and yet self-deprecatingly- I was gonna lay it down.

And then Nora needed breakfast. Again. (Just like yesterday!) And then while she was playing so happily with a mixture of kitchen utensils and bath books, I decided it was a good time to work out; i.e. thwack at the Wii Fit with a half-dead Wiimote. 

And after the usual guff from the console- ("Oh, hello, P.J. Wait, is that Keely? It's been SO LONG." =actual 'tude.)- I did the body test where, most mornings, it tells me that I'm overweight, am on a fast track to hunchbackville and limp like a pirate with a peg leg. 

But today- the day where I had been utterly prepared to rip into the notion of losing the "last five pounds" (bones become heavier after babies, I was gonna say) and magazines and self worth and fitness and the fact that the ice cream cartons in our freezer seem to be multiplying and making delicious offspring- on THIS day...the Wii Fit informed me that I'd met my goal.

My pre-baby weight. 

Kinda. 'Cause- and this is a huge Schoeny family secret- we lie to the Wii Fit. When it asks what kind of clothing we're wearing to work out...we tell it "parkas." No joke. Our console thinks we're doing yoga in the Arctic Circle. (They shouldn't give you the OPTION if they don't want you to take it.) So, I guess I'm pre-baby weight plus some winter gear. But- and this is the truly confusing part- I'd been lying to the Wii Fit for so long now that I can't remember if I had told it my true pre-kid weight or if I'd been adding "parka" since well before Nora came to play.

Serves me right. That said, I guess my bones lost weight. I am of some indeterminate poundage floating around my "ideal" weight. (Which is a riot anyhow- what am I gonna do now? Wear an evening gown? A bikini? A Spandex unitard? Nope- still yoga pants and an earnest tee-shirt.) 

I'll be wearing an earnest shirt tonight, by the by, at the premiere of Snapshots 2010. My play, Right On Cue, starts the evening off! Care to join? It runs through Sunday with a two performances on Saturday night (one's late, for all those folks with other shows to perform, watch, write, whatever) and it will be a grand ol' time.

And speaking of grand 'ol (but youngish, too) times- fare thee well to one of my bestest pals, Miss Annie Gloyn, soon to be Martzell, moving to L.A., gettin' outta Dodge, leaving me fabulous furniture, also terrific memories for which the photos have long been destroyed....The kind of pal that doesn't need an event- hanging out is the event. When travesties or joyfulnesses occur, she's the one to bring a baked good, a scented candle and a hand-written note- she's also the kind to write a thank-you for a thank-you (and one time, even, for a thank-you.) She'll have a drink waiting for you at the bar and a spare toothbrush in the apartment. Yet, while all of these things are nice, they don't make a best friend.

Nearly eight years of trips, randomsauce sleepovers and impromptu dinner parties make a friend. But remembering and celebrating important, whimsical, trivial and teensy tiny things (like caring for an ice chip in the eye- with an ice pack/ how ferrets get fursty/ why certain napkins are for display and display ONLY)...those make a best friend.

One that I'm already missing dreadfully.

So, smooches, sugar- seeya in a couple of short months. I'll be the one in a divine bridesmaid's gown, drinking the best that Napa has to offer, and celebrating a happy couple.

If you're free, we should try to meet up.

One. Week. Left. (What pressure?)

To Whom It May Concern;

It has recently come to my attention that the master bathroom shower vent has fallen to the floor. Due to its previous placement (above the aforementioned shower), newer problems have shown themselves in the form of gaping ceiling holes (okay, only one, but I've seen enough X-Files episodes to know how this can end) and frequent bursts of really warm air that, with the addition of a warmer water temperature, can turn into really, really cold air.

I'm not entirely sure if this is even the correct department to be sending this missive, nor am I able to shake the feeling that my husband and I are expected to "fix" this issue on our own. We do not wish to. Please help. Why do you want to make the baby cry?

Best,
Dank and Discouraged in Duluth

***

And now, a random pregnancy question: did you know that the seahorse male carries the baby? How is THAT fair? (Not to seahorses, I mean to human females. Everyone knows that seahorses are jerks.) Evolutionarily speaking, that is not right. At least make it OPTIONAL for the human male to carry the kiddo. Maybe parents should alternate? (On another note, I wonder if the seahorse females are just a bunch of sweet-talking hussies? Maybe "seahorse female" should be new term of derision.)

Also, it has recently come to my attention that penguin males are the ones in charge of the baby's development as well. Sure, the female has to lay the egg, but then she gets to hit the high road until the Spring thaw! (But, as my oldest sis pointed out, SHE has to have the kid, the DAD only has to sit on the egg- not really hard at all- and then SHE immediately has to go back to work? NOT. OKAY.)

Pregnancy envy and structural issues of the house aside, Project Give the Baby Somewhere to Live in '09 is skipping along nicely. The nursery= done! (And, might I add, fabulous. Very carnival gender non-specific chic. I just invented a style! Take THAT, Pottery Barn Kids.)My bedroom has a DOOR. So does the hall closet! The stairs have a railing- painted!- and trim and baseboards have been, uh, trimmed and boarded. A security system is set to be installed on Monday (yes, we must protect ALL THIS), so this is your last weekend to rob us blind.

Date night month has also proven to be a runaway success. Last week alone we used gift cards for The Chopping Block, Mrs. Murphy's & Sons, and high tea at The Drake Hotel, as well as saw two plays and attempted to use movie passes to see "Where the Wild Things Are." (Failed, but it still counts.) Sure, it sounds a little frenetic, but as I keep reminding P.J., we are having so much fun.

The Chopping Block cooking class was actually a 24th birthday present that I gave to P.J.- four years ago. Strangely, they kept allowing us to renew it, paving the way for last week's Julia Child class where we learned to make beef bourguignon, lobster thermidor, some cheesy puff awesomeness (my French is stellar), and an apple tatin tarte. All were fabulous. One minor annoyance of the evening was a chef that was causing P.J. to break out in hives: he'd ask a question, she'd look at him like he had three heads, answer him without really listening to his question and later call him out on his GLARING ERROR. (These ingredients do not a happy P.J. make.) A kitchen assistant also did things like turn up the heat on our burners or advise us on an ingredient, only to have the head chef come by and shake her head at P.J. Sure, tattling is very middle school, but pride is pride.

Tea at the Drake was a fabulous Christmas gift from my youngest sis (her twin gave us a gift certificate to Smoque for some crazytown barbecue- that was spent almost instantaneously) that we finally, FINALLY were able to gussy up and enjoy. My pear caramel tea was delightful, as was P.J.'s smoky Lapsang Souchong; as P.J. offered me sugar (one lump or two?), we suddenly realized that we were indeed having a tea party. Which was totally cool with both of us!

A tower of breads and scones were offered first (turns out, clotted cream should be served with everything), followed by a selection of tea sandwiches (how have we never known the glory of cucumber prior to this?) and finished with miniature decadent desserts (um, mango whipped mousse in a pastry shell? Yes.) I informed P.J. that I have been spoiled for food presentation and he admitted that he feared it was the case. Miniature sandwiches or NOTHING! Give me crust and I will give you a plate thrown on the floor! And the beyond-fabulous staff (basically, now all other food service professionals come off looking like part-time Wendy's help)gave us a delicious, unrecognizable, but fully scarfed-down in under five seconds dessert. The message written in chocolate asked if it was a boy or a girl and congratulated us on our new baby. (This 'having a kid' thing is really starting to pay off in spades.)

We also saw "The Man Who Was Thursday" at New Leaf Theatre and "Lucinda's Bed" at Chicago Dramatists- Go. See. Both. One is a gripping, anarchistic (and hilarious) detective story, the other a haunting, witty (and hilarious) tale of a gal's monster under the bed that never truly leaves her.

Tell them Keely sent ya.

Or Wilford Brimley. Whichever you think would yield the biggest discount.

It's kinda like camping.

Shameless self-promotion: the 'Snapshots' festival that 20% Theatre Chicago produces every year is this weekend! One of my better one-acts is featured, as are two pieces that P.J. gets to rock. Come play! Thursday through Saturday at 8pm, Sunday at 7pm. Strawdog Theatre, 3829 N. Broadway, Chicago. Email at twentypercentchicago@yahoo.com for reservations (and a good time.)

Business done? Yes? (Not even remotely.)

Yes, we have a new house. Yes, I'm wildly pregnant. But no, I don't feel like blogging about the movers who spoke only Spanish, the boxspring stuck in the door, the sectional couch stuck in the hallway, the more nights we've been away than present in the new place or my ever-expanding belly button shelf. At least not right now.

I AM intrigued, however, by opinions. Strong ones. Ones that people have had since childhood and cannot be swayed by other opinions, science, medical facts or divine intervention. For example (and this is just an example): The truthful OPINION that Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster, is a dinosaur. I used to think that she was a Brontosaurus, but since that's no longer a valid dinosaur (another OPINION, like the demotion of Pluto), I'll jive with Apatosaurus, Paleosaurus or whatever the going long-necked variety is now called. No one in the universe could convince me otherwise...and I won't even entertain statements to the contrary. Unless you're suggesting a different dinosaur that Nessie could possibly be. Then that's just fun conversation.

Do you have an opinion so strongly rooted that the absence of mere "facts" doesn't even register? I bet you do. I asked my sister Kate for her strongest held opinion...and waited. And waited. Finally, I heard the intake of breath that meant an OPINION was about to be offered. (Hah. That's a joke. No one ever "offers" opinions. Opinions are thrust! And demanded to be taken! And if not, something else is taken: offense.) Anyway, the payoff opinion was this:

"I think tamales are overrated."

That's it? That's your 'take it or leave it' view of the universe? There's only one noun in that statement! When I showed displeasure in her opinion (unfair, I realize), she amended it to use stronger words. It was still about tamales, however. I'll give her some more time.

And now back to the delightful slice of life I call "going to work and collecting a paycheck." (I'm enjoying a brief respite from doing something along the lines of gluing colorful things to other colorful things and also sanitizing rooms smeared with poo. This respite comes in the form of a savior I like to call "Sesame Street.")

Wednesday already?

I barely know where I live anymore.

(But it's easily identifiable by the large furnishings stuck in small spaces. Come visit sometime! Seating will be hilarious.)

Why yes, those ARE little daisies on my toenail.

We are almost at 5000 hits, people. Let's do this. (And yes, I realize that people who get Google Reader updates and the like don't necessarily count in the overall tally, but...I'm a very tangible person. Tactile, even. Some might say tangential.)

Last Tuesday was the 20 week appointment wherein we got to see Bitsy Baby Schoeny. And P.J.'s chin, my nose, and the feet belonging to someone awfully antsy. It was wild to see the kiddo's jaw opening and closing and to see the legs fully extend and cross at the ankles, a la Huck Finn. And, though this part should be terribly obvious to anyone who has ever even CONTEMPLATED creating life...it occurred to me while watching my kid onscreen that I actually GREW A RIBCAGE. And a heart with four chambers. And toenails!

The kiddo is measuring a week ahead of schedule, which means...absolutely nothing. I guess. I, however, am terribly proud of the Bitsy's growth and neverending backflips. (The other night at 1am I put my Bose headphones on my belly to calm the little flipper with Enya on shuffle. Yes I did. And it worked.)

Last night our fabulous friends Ari and Elana (plus their 4-month old son Asher and pup Orli)stayed over en route to Denver for a lovely evening in the 100 degree weather. And miraculously, my ever-awesome husband agreed to install the a/c for the season...a month and a half earlier than last year. (I do not delude myself into thinking this is for any reason other than the trip we're taking next week- thusly, leaving the cats in this heat.) Superbly good to see our pals, even with the three attempts that our [usually on top of things] landlord took to show our apartment to potential renters. We ALLLLL got up and took a walk so that people could see the house- three times- and the third time the family actually showed. (Yes, I realize that I could be one of those people that stay in the apartment when people see it...but I've been scarred by homeowners. See previous posts. Maybe around last Fall?) Went to Turquoise and quite possibly ate more lamacun and hummus than was wise. Slept like a baby (with a baby) in my AIR-CONDITIONED BEDROOM. (Are you reading this, P.J.? Your heroic actions do not go unnoticed by the townspeople.)

And tonight is Instant Theatre at Chicago Dramatists! 8pm, free, featuring a one-act of mine that I'm rather proud of. (Kate gave me the one-liner to start it off. She ALWAYS gives me the one-liner to start plays. There. I said it. My dirty little secret is...every epic piece of theatre I've ever created has come, in some form or another, from something my sister Kate has flippantly said.)

Everyone wants their nickel.

Off to Myrtle Beach for a week with Schoenys (Schoenies) starting Saturday a.m...after a rehearsal din Thursday in Naperville for two of our pals and their wedding on Friday afternoon. (Plus various scenes that need to be finished up, contractors to finalize, mortgages- well, just one- that need be IN MY HAND to prove their validity, a new closing date of July 7th, a rad 2005 Volkswagen Passat to purchase and anything else mammoth that we can manage to fit into the month of June, let alone this year.)

I hate boredom. (But LOVE the pile of Nora Roberts and Charlaine Harris novels that will be accompanying me on a South Carolinan inner tube alongside a fruit-filled fruity drink.)

Holding the vodka is as far as I go for "roughing it."

Vous voir la semaine prochaine!