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!