Hint- If You Give Nora A Sip, Don't Expect It Back.

We're heading back to Chicago in a little bit- and you'll all be thrilled to know that I forgot only the barest minimum of necessities. We made do. (Although Nora might beg to differ, as one of the forgotten items was her hair detangler spray, and Miss Nimbus had to suffer through plain ol' conditioner and combing and yelling.)

As time is of the essence, the car is not even remotely packed, and I'm not entirely certain where Susannah is, I'll just post a smattering of my fave pix from the weekend (so far).

There was a dance party on Saturday night with seven aunts and uncles, seven cousins of Peej's generation, nine cousins of the next generation, (and even two yet to be born cousins- not mine, oh no, not mine- calm down, interwebs). This is a rough count, mind you, and I don't even have pix of this stompy li'l affair. It was too bizzy.

There was a Mardi Gras parade downtown, slightly dampened by the fact that Nora was a) overtired, b) cold, and c) terrified of the clown-like dancers. We left a little early.

But, as always, there was way too much great food, and no shortage of loving arms for Nora and Zuzu.

I even got a nap.

Which will always render any weekend a roaring success.

Malt? Don't mind if I do. (Mini P.J. strikes again.)

Baby Greta and Baby Zuzu- two months apart and holding hands.

Hannah holding the babe- best Mother's Helper EVER.

Stay close, Dad. Those clowns might come back.

Olley Olley.

Yep, made it on the flight.

It seems I have used all of my good travel karma- not to mention other travelers' good will.

Yesterday's travels capped off an otherwise stellar week with simply abysmal airport conditions. (I realize it's rather bougie to complain about expensive travel- and jaunts that get us home safely, at that- but permit me the post-holiday catharsis of a good ol' transit whine.)

I was already feeling rather mopey about leaving the homestead. Not only was it wonderful to see my family and spend Christmas with everyone, but it was so darned NICE to not be the one in charge. I didn't do a single load of laundry (yet I had neatly folded piles by my room each night), didn't cook one meal (yet ate full to bursting every hour on the hour), and maybe washed one cup (but used eleventy hundred). I napped. I showered. People held Suzy and entertained Nora. There were movies, Mario Kart tournaments, fires in the fireplace, anthologies read, and more than one platter of cookies demolished by me personally.

You understand my hesitation to leave.

But leave we did. To Albany International Airport, to be exact. Usually heading through their security is a skip through a [short] field of daisies. But not yesterday. After a positively Clampett-like dragging of all worldly possessions through the baggage check-in line (seriously, it was like we had one pair of shared hands between us, and they were newly acquired. Thank God Susannah was tied to me, or she might have been left in the car. We had no idea what our deal was, nor why we were completely unable to manage our disproportionate number of bags), we finally made it to the security check point.

Which wrapped eighteen times til Tuesday back over the drop-off overpass. For they were using one scanner- for the entire airport. One. Three lines, one scanner. (Even Chicago's Midway, at its absolute worst, uses at least four.) So we waited in that line until WELL past when our plane boarded. We even (inadvisably) got into two separate lines (me with Zuzu, Peej with NJ), to see if we could "race" and have at least half of our family board the darned plane.

Unfortunately, Nora became aware of this plan once the two parties were neatly separated by about a hundred exhausted and be-luggaged travelers. And she thought that this meant I wasn't coming home with her. And no amount of reasoning could convince her otherwise. And so she had a fit. (Causing the elderly grandmotherly type in front of P.J. to turn and shoot them dirty looks for the rest of this venture.)

Suzy, for her part, was sleeping nicely in her sling this whole time. This might be directly due to the fact that, while sliding out of the sling/hanging on for dear life, she may or may not have been losing oxygen. Either way, by that point I was fairly convinced that I was carrying at least two unrelated persons' baggage.

We were then cut off by a twentysomething girl who informed everyone that her plane was boarding. (Yeah, she was on our flight.) I informed her that half the line was on that flight (for we had all been talking). She smiled vapidly and continued to cut her way to the front. I almost threw Susannah's shoe at her. No one's that pretty.

We went through the scanner with little incident- except for the moment when I had to be reminded that I had a baby strapped to me. And she needed to be removed. Whoops. (I don't even know if I was wearing pants at this point, I was so brain dead. Just kept removing things. Except the child.)

Made it through security at roughly the same time as Peej and Nora. Double whoops. Absolutely booked it down to our gate. Forget numbered boarding- we had missed boarding altogether. And the gate was empty. We barely made it on the flight, but thankfully the gate attendant let us through.

"Wow," he said incredulously. "This is an all-baby flight! You're like the sixth one!"

Amazingly, there were three seats left together on the entire flight. And they were in the coveted last row before the bathroom. (I wouldn't have cared if we were on the wing by now, I was just desperate to sit down. And to see if Suzy had fallen out on the sprint.)

Aside from a ridiculously turbulent takeoff ("This is it," I announced to a crazed P.J., at least three times), the flight was pretty okay. If you don't count the fact that Susannah filled her diaper the moment we sat down and, due to the lack of changing table in the bathroom, didn't get so fresh and so clean clean for another two hours. Which I don't.

Last ones off the plane (which, I'm pretty sure, is good luck) and last ones to the baggage area- except for the gal with the orange lips and fedora who almost kicked Nora as she tripped over her and expressed her disdain for all things humanity. (Peej berated her and [edited] suggested that she go think about how to be a nicer person. He received passerby applause.)

Made it to the shuttle in time to awkwardly struggle with two bags, four carry-ons, and two overtired girls. The driver barely waited for me to clear the partition before he shut the doors. (Note to shuttle bus drivers: If you see a woman with a baby (sorta) tied to her, struggling to heft luggage onto a bus, fling a diaper bag into a seat, and prevent a toddler from falling back into the road- and all you do is avert your eyes, you know you're kind of a wad.)

But we made it to our car. Fed/cleaned/buckled at least two children inside. Got home just in time for bedtime (two hours late). While Peej made a grocery run, I mopped the floors and completely unpacked. (For I am clinically insane.) Begged the newly home P.J. to help me change all the sheets. (For I was desperate for a non-catified bed.)

And slept like the dead.

Until Susannah decided to wake up, two hours later.

And then again, every hour on the hour.

(It's good to be home.)

From somewhere in the Midwest...

Happy Memorial Day!

In light of the fact that many of you are traveling...and many of you are on your third brunch of the weekend- for example- we're gonna go ahead and do a real post tomorrow.

Love and thanks and hopes for a wundy day,

Keel n' Peej n' N.J.

Thumbnail pic courtesy of Clark Street Photography
Happy weekend, indeed!

On [in] the road [air] again...

This is how I USED to travel.

This morning, the mini Schoeny clan o' Chicago shall be heading back East.

Sadly, this involves plane travel.

Over the past few years, I've come to realize that I am a car trip kinda gal. So is my daughter. So is my husband (sans the "gal" part.) In fact, that last part is a bit of an understatement. Peej is the KING of the road trip. (And I am his consort. I can never be the Queen, you see- for I am, at heart, a commoner.)

Plane trips seem to bring out the planniest part of my nature. That's not a good thing.

I begin making lists- weeks in advance- when I know we'll be taking a flight. Lists to pack, lists to check, lists for carry-ons, and lists for stuff to do at home (because- and I really hope I'm not alone in this- taking a flight brings out the fatalist in me. This requires that everything be cleaned, washed, and put away. You know, just in case someone shows up to judge my homestead after I'm gone).

I make lists of how to pack things; ease of getting things from the car to the gate, ease of getting things in and out of security, and ease of transpo for the toddler. (The Nora part used to be cinched up by having me, at 6am, put her in a cloth sling. I'd take her out at roughly midnight and that would be that.) Now, sometimes we use a stroller. And sometimes she runs and I lure her with stickers and the promise of an iPhone show. Tomorrow will feature the device I enjoy best- Daddy's Shoulders. (Freeing Mama up to carry the diaper bag, carry-on bag- which, let's face it, holds nothing for my personal in-flight entertainment sans a broken blue crayon. Fun!- and various incidental things like Proof That The Baby Is Ours. I'll say it again- if anyone wants to take a child on a flight- theirs or otherwise- do not make them show documentation. Why the heck would they willingly travel with a child if not bound by blood and/or familial responsibility?)

I pack three pairs of [Nora's] pants. In "my" carry-on. Because nothing signals the beginning of contained travel like peeing through pants, hers or anyone upon whom she is sitting.

You'd think the snacks I carry could sustain the entire passenger list. (Ooh, there's an idea. I could clean UP! "Cheese stick? Yeah, that'll be nine dollars. Half eaten apple? Hmm. Fourteen. Hey, buy it or don't- it's the last one.)

Then we do the prayer dance that a) our bags are among the first fifty bags off the flight...and/or b) that our bags made it at all.

And among my absolute favorite parts is trying to flag down one's ride...which is currently impossible to do, as it is illegal- punishable by death- to stop anywhere near the curb/airport/major metropolitan area to pick up one's passengers. Unless they are already in your car when you pull up to Arrivals, then you are doing it wrong.

And it cannot be stressed enough that this is for a One. And. A. Half. Hour. Flight.

If this were a car trip, we'd all be wearing hoodies, we'd shove ourselves in the car twenty minutes after we rolled out of bed, and halfway through the trip I'd toss a banana back to Nora. (And we'd be HAPPY.)

Here's wishing you all a Thursday free of peed pants and lost anything, and with all of the complimentary snacks your heart desires.

Even peanuts.

Unless you don't like them.

Then I wish you a day with no peanuts.

Whine and Jeez.

Magical cookies.

I totally jinxed myself.

Why oh why would I put it out there to the cosmos that I was relaxed- especially after my drama-free flight? And how about the fact that yesterday afternoon I actually mentioned that I had NOTHING to blog about for Monday morning?

That'll show me.

United Airlines Strike Number 1: The flight was delayed. For mechanical reasons. In fact, it hadn't even left Chicago by the time I got to the airport, less than an hour before takeoff. (Kid at the counter: Uh, we updated the flight status twenty minutes ago. Me: I usually give myself a little more transit time than that. Do you think I live in the airport parking lot?) Also- To Whom It May Concern, rounding an hour and forty minutes delay down to "an hour" is NOT whimsical nor is it refreshing.

Nora Jane Point 1: "Mama- dat!" This was exclaimed happily toward every single piece of artwork, display window and ceiling installation...which, truth be told, I would have entirely missed due to grumpiness.

United Airline Strike Number 2: The kid at gate counter (what, is it Take Your Surly Tween To Work Day?) was eye-poppingly rude. Because of the late hour in which we'd be landing, I wanted to check on the availability of two seats together and the Economy Plus seating- which, hilariously enough, was the same free option on the fight out east. He snapped that they don't just GIVE those seats out, there's a reason people PAY for them. (Blink, blink.) Really? Is my money no good here? Am I a little match girl begging for crusts of bread? HAVE I OFFENDED YOU BY ASKING YOU TO DO YOUR JOB? He also demanded to see my boarding pass before he'd let me put a gate tag on Nora's stroller. Yes, because during all of this fun, I'm going to pointlessly hand over the easiest method of transporting my kid onto a flight which I have no intention of taking. Would you also like her sippy cup and spare diaper?

Nora Jane Point 2: She rustled up some good will amongst the cranky passengers, hopefully buying us some time on the flight for peace, love and understanding. She also attempted to share what appeared to be the best shortbread cookies in the history of the world, ever.

United Airlines Strike 3: The gate kid refused to acknowledge priority boarding between groups 1 and 2- which the flight heading east most certainly did. I realize that this is not a humongous deal except for the pain in the buttitude for those boarding directly after me having to wait and watch me heft two carry-ons, my child, and fold a stroller for AN OBVIOUSLY GOVERNMENT-REGULATED GATE CHECK. And this is before we even get on the darned plane. And- and- I could've just sucked it up and acknowledged the fact that we were all running late, let's get on the plane and shut up, if not for the fact that he was giving me The Eye during the boarding process (and I am not normally paranoid), daring me to say or do something. In terms of Example Making, he wanted me to be the Piggy to his Jack. (Anyone?)

Nora Jane Point 3: She let me hoist her under one arm with nary a peep during the boarding shenanigans.

United Airlines Strike 4: (Seriously, if I had had any other options at this point, I would've lit someone on fire. Maybe this is unwise to post in conjunction with an airport story?) United seated me in a two seat row next to an extraordinarily obese woman. (No joke- she needed two seatbelt extenders. I didn't know that EXISTED!) And, most magically of all, she was holding a nine month old baby. Two kids on the whole flight and they're wedged together. (Also, I do believe that United's rules prohibit that kind of thing in one row, but I wasn't about to whip out the rule book at this point.) I had to sit sideways with Nora's legs dangling over my armrest into the aisle. This is no exaggeration- the woman took up her seat and over half of mine. NOT COOL. I asked an attendant if there were any other seats so that the kids didn't keep each other up during the flight- she said she'd check.

Nora Jane Point 4: Babies! We love babies!

United Airlines Strike 5: There were multiple single seats open next to people who really really wanted extra space for their Kindles and nap pillows. The flight attendant asked if anyone would be willing to move or have a baby next to them. NO ONE WOULD. So we took off. And did I mention that the massive woman reeked of stale smoke and her kid was already starting to do that hehhhh whine of extremely overtired babies? (I know it well. I was doing it, too.)

Humanity Point 1: Some generous soul reluctantly agreed to be moved to Economy Plus- IN HIS OWN ROW- and this allowed Nora and I to take the back row of seats before the toilet. Win. The rest of the flight progressed as follows: snacks, books, twenty second increments of Dora the Explorer on iPhone, five minute increments of app deleting, snacks, books, stickers, snack of stickers, Chex mix massage for laptop, hiding of blueberries (later to be found directly on the butt of jeans), the hour long version of Itsy Bitsy Spider, tweaked laughter, no sleeping.

I'm not entirely sure how I managed to birth a better traveler than myself, but I'm eternally grateful. Another fun fact: Did you know that certain economy jets do not come equipped with a changing table in the bathroom? None. Nor do some flights offer any dairy products aside from powdered creamer? The combination of apple juice and nary a spot for diaper swapping inspired some awfully creative changing action. It didn't phase her.

Nor did the fact that during this quick change, I got a nose bleed.

I'm amazed she's even talking to me today.

Upon getting home, I became a pile of Useless and was promptly tucked in at 10pm CST- if it was even that late. I inexplicably woke later on to check on Nora and make sure tags were displayed somewhere. I checked the clock, thrilled that I had gotten such a good night's sleep so far and that Nora hadn't yet stirred.

It was 11:41pm.

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

Let us pray.

Hi!

Nora's a really good little kid. I feel like I haven't been blogging about her as much as I used to- back in the days of first food, first sounds, first episode of The Office- because she's always just around. Being cool. Sure, she's in the stories a ton, but hasn't gotten a ton of solo press lately. So here's what's up with the biggie little in the house:

-Anytime I've helped one of my kiddos out on the potty, she toddles in and points to them and then herself. She then pats her bum and says "Dipe." THIS IS AWESOME. As anyone who's ever tried to train a kid to use a toilet well knows- Obstacle One is getting them to realize where they should pee. And not pee, so much.

-This kid needs a ton of alone time. Not that I blame her. I feel like I'm forever hoisting her into the car for work, appointments, and errands. So when she gets to choose, she's happiest in a tiny nook of her own making, turning the pages of board books. This can go on for a while. You know what else can go on during this time? Showers, meal preparation, towel naps...

-We've had bedtime rituals since day one, and no one knows them better than Miss Bossy Britches. Right before bed, I hug her and hand her to P.J. for The Final Countdown. We always say "Goodnight Nora/Goodnight Mommy/Goodnight Stairwell", etc., etc. (I am NOT kidding. It can take an hour.) The other night, right after the hand-off, she leaned back over to me with an 'mmm' for a kiss. On her own volition. (Without me badgering her- "Kiss Mommy goodnight, gimme a kiss. Kiss kiss, Nora." She never had. But I wouldn't kiss me either with that kind of pressure.) The point is, she did it. And I almost peed, I was so excited. (That would've put the kibosh on further kissing, no?)

So why all the NJ love? Cinchy.

I am trying to convince the cosmos of how much I adore my child. That way, they can return the favor just in time for our upcoming flight tomorrow morning; in the form of a docile child, speedy flight, and the safe arrival of every single thing and person aboard- with nary a threat of someone riding the wing.

Here are the items that I have packed in our carry-on as a) a mother, b) a nanny, c) a savvy passenger, and d) a person whose first rodeo this AIN'T:

-Enough diapers/medicine/wipes/ointment/sanitizer/tissues/bibs/placemats to catch/clean/treat the bodily functions of eight children twice her size.
-Seven books (my hope is that by the time she gets to the last book, she'll have forgotten all about the first one.)
-One baby doll named Dot.
-One frog named Doc (her syllables are shockingly similar- but those in the know can tell the vast difference between a cry for Doc and Dot.)
-Snacks in a Snak-trap, snacks in a baggie, snacks in their sealed packages, bananas.
-Milk that I've been assured will not be thrown away at the security checkpoint- but which, come on, will.
-Two episodes of something or other concerning baby animals.
-Stickers/paper/crayons/packaging of the stickers (it's all about buying time, people.)
-A toy cell phone with which she'll happily play and then demand...
-...My cell phone.

And if all goes according to plan, we will be on the plane for a little less than two hours.

Pray for us, St. Christopher. Pray for us, United Airlines. Pray for us, Patron, patron saint of miniature liquor bottles.

I probably need a few more stickers.

Not too early for a late breakfast martini, though...

Get A Load Of This Gal Cam.

Boy oh boy, have I overcome a major writing hurdle. As I've been working on various projects this a.m., I put on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 channel- recently converted to all holiday music, all the time. Which I generally dig. But it wasn't doing much for my creative process other than making me want to swirl brandy in front of a fire- and it's about an hour too early for that. (Darn you, Andy Williams!)

Theeeen I remembered that P.J. had emailed me the new- and free- Girl Talk album. Which I also love.

And which my creative process loves.

So now I'm jamming out some literary awesomeness (or, at the very least, literary plenitude) to the wundy beats of some of my favorite classic rock tunes just shoved all up against some dancey R&B hits of whose titles I cannot name in this family blog. (And yes, this is yet another album of which I cannot listen to in front of my extraordinarily impressionable toddler. That list is surprisingly long. P.J. and I have gotten pretty darned adept at singing 'bleep' at appropriate times. Note- bleeps are always appropriate.)

So. Writing. Yes.

We had a superbly nice time in the Berkshires. Most of it was spent napping and eating while someone else kindly asked my daughter to stop eating the footwear, but, you know, that's the kind of thing memories of made of.

My Mom took P.J., Nora, and me swimming. (Nora digs indoor pools and shows no discernible fear of water= she may actually be someone else's kid.) A middle-aged and slightly insane man made some very real attempts to steal me away from P.J., so that's also cool. We also saw the Berkshire Museum's Festival of Trees which N.J. loved...until she realized that she was not going to be allowed to eat the ornaments- which she hated. And I took my Mom out to sushi for her birthday lunch and convinced her to order a bento box- which she loved.

P.J. and I even got to go see the new Harry Potter flick and pretend it was a date- minus the 60 bucks for childcare. (Note to those with whom I went to high school- Um, North Street is now gorgeous. And a new stadium seating movie theater? Uh, what? In my day, we went to North Street to get shot and we LIKED it like that.)

I spent a questionable amount of time organizing my parents' medicine cabinet, pantry, and kitchen shelves. There was also a goodly bit of berating on my part for the excess of toothpicks, Worcestershire sauce, and paper goods on their part. Kate and I also cleaned out part of the attic (how else was I supposed to get all of my Barbie doll shoes?) and enjoyed reading things aloud [Me] and throwing empty boxes into empty bags [Kate.]

Here is what I did NOT enjoy: meeting a mouse. A very dead one. (Note- I screamed like a smallish child. I initially thought that my volume had actually killed him. My Dad assured me that screaming did not cause advanced rigor mortis.) And here is what caused the screaming: I almost picked the thing up, thinking he was a shoe or something awesome like that.

He was not.

Based on my reaction, Kate thought I had been stabbed or electrocuted or something worse than having something unpleasant in one's line of sight. Nope. I'm that much of a child.

I have three major fears in my life (okay, more like ten, but for the sake of my pride we'll narrow it down to the biggies): Needles, the Dark, and Rodents. (I'm more into Pills, Nightlights and Cats.) But man, ever since becoming a homeowner and seeing the various critters than plague us here- I'd rather donate blood in the back of a cave than deal with a mouse or rat ever again.

That's all I have to say about that. Except to mention that the offending creature had met his maker between two lamps on the floor. Kate thinks that perhaps he was trying to get warm.

He faaaailed.

Nora was a rockstar on the trip home as well, except for a minor squabble we had in a rest stop- whilst I was holding her, using the facilities, and keeping her away from the floor, the walls, the door or the toilet...and keeping me away from the actual toilet surface as well. (Don't believe this is possible? It is. Until one's daughter has the checkmate of throwing her miniature shoe on the floor behind the toilet. Point to you, Nora.)

I also had the misfortune of total coffee cup failure- in front of witnesses. I had been attempting to refill my travel mug at a BP- sans half decaf, Splenda or anything else that makes my coffee worthwhile- plus a wiggly one year-old in my arms. (The kid, mind you, who had just moments before made me pee on myself in a disgusting stall.) After finally mixing a random assortment of stuff into borderline acceptable coffee, I turned to pay for...whatever it was I had in my cup.

And the BOTTOM of the mug gave out. Not the lid, but the structural stability of the thing itself. I saw P.J.'s jaw drop from across the BP Mart. Thankfully he grabbed napkins to clean up the mess- for I remained frozen, clutching an irate kid to my coffee and pee-stained outfit.

And this was Hour Three.

Nora also survived being placed in a Cold War-era portable crib the night before. She actually looked at me as if to say- That does not seem cool.

But it was, and she was. No fingers were lost, although a good bit of sleep was- after sleeping during the six hours of transit the previous night, she was ready to PLAY. In the dark. At 3am. Peej and I can sleep through that, but I don't imagine the people with whom she shared a wall were able to. Ah well, that's the risk we all take when we reserve rooms at the Microtel. (See: Amorous Activities at the Days Inn.)

And now we're home. The house is surprisingly clean. The kiddo is miraculously sleeping. Not shockingly, we're completely out of food, but that can be amended easily enough. Later.

But for now, there's one track left on this album. Something this non-kid friendly requires a special activity.

The newly re-acquired dollhouse furniture ain't gonna arrange itself.

Brefft.

That's like 'bereft,' but with less syllables and more f's. Which makes it more powerful, obviously.

Also- the iPhone and I are having words about things that are not actually words. ("Beets? Beef?" "No- brefft." "But that's not real!" "I know." "IT HAS TO BE A REAL WORD.")

Anyway, back to brefft. 'Cause I am. Last night, in the swelty Chicago heat, as I showered off the near 12 hours of planes, trains and automobiles- and then stepped into a pile of cat yuke- I wondered where my cool ocean breeze went. Or my sun-kissed skin. (Sun-kissed. Not attic-fried.) Where were the hordes of adults to watch my baby as I wrote/swam/napped on the couch?

Pretty sure breakfast is supposed to be included here as well. Where are my parents? Where is the food parade? Where is my bacon?!

And what about this view? Quite certain I signed up for three separate windows facing low tide. There are no car alarms in low tide. Nor are there pumpkin vines threatening the very foundation of the house in low tide. This is the worst ocean ever!

My daughter is thrilled to be back in her cozy bed- as opposed to a pack n' play closet wonderland- but she's only ten months old. Her sense of j'accusity is not as fully refined as mine.

Speaking of NJ, her tenth month was celebrated in a variety of towns- while she was mostly facing the wrong way. Those seatbelt laws are the meanest. This trip also coincided with the day that she decided to sleep the least sleep, ever. Ever ever. She had a decent chance of falling asleep on the flight back to Chicago- until the onboard computer decided to die. Then we had to swap planes- or, rather, sit in a new boarding gate until something happened.

Some said a plane was coming from Baltimore. Other attendants said nothing at all. My favorite of the bunch waited until we were back on a plane and Nora had dozed off on Peej's shoulder- and that's when they decided to have a loud convo over Nora's head. For a good fifteen minutes. Three of them. Loudly. About how FUN their gay coworker was. (Isn't he FUN? He always makes me laugh. SO MUCH FUN.) They had the whole plane on which to not work. The only way they could have been closer to her eardrum is if they had been braiding P.J.'s hair. And not that having a baby means that everyone has to be quiet- which, uh, it does- but you know that if Nora had stayed awake and was a cranky hot mess, they'd be the first to Evil Eye us and apologize to other passengers.

And we couldn't say anything. 'Cause, you know, Jet Blue and all.

That said, we're home. Safe n' sound. Nora's beside herself with recognition/joy at all of her possessions. And now  we're off to work.

The dust bunnies (cat bunnies?) will have to wait. As will the unpacking. And foodstuffs. Also- the nap. And the floaties in the ocean.

And my Pimm's shandy.

Although, with one trip to the corner store and a well-placed travel mug...Mama can keep this vacay going until at least Thanksgiving.

Then we switch to cider.

I may actually still be in transit. And/or Indiana.

Weekend trips can really teach you a lot. Like about the importance of deep breaths.


For example. Try this li'l exercise:


After watching your husband toss a few outfits into a duffel bag the night before the trip, try-
a) packing your own stuff, 
b) the baby's stuff, 
c) healthy-ish meals for the baby, 
d) junk food for the husband/self/baby if she's feeling really quick, 
e) items forgotten by one's husband, 
f) things the kiddo needs- but still needs for the a.m nap, 
g) new outfit for the baby after lunchtime destroys first one (taking a T.O to do an emergency load of laundry and/or sinkfull of dishes. Maybe two by this point),  
h) set out food and water for the cats, plus enough catnip to dose a jam band, 
i) put on brief, educational DVD for the child in order to facilitate packing of the car, 
j) realize child will likely pass out from rage if she cannot accompany you, 
k) take child with to Pack. Each. Bag. Into. Car., 
l) acknowledge fact that you should have left to pick up the husband- oh, half an hour ago, 
m) forgo shower/non-smushed food/brushed hair/pants, 
n) remove cat from hall closet, 
o) forget to open dishwasher to "breathe," 
p) remember to turn on completely theft-deterring porch light, 
q) strap octopuslike and still inexplicably upset child into her carseat, 
r) reason with said child about how well rested she is, 
s) get a frog in the face for your trouble, 
t) receive jovial message from husband, 
u) plot his demise, 
v) wonder why you bothered with a list AT ALL, 
w) let alone began to pack the night before, 
x) drive downtown through summer construction/lunch rush/filming ofTransformers, 
y) realize you have still YET TO PEE TODAY, and 
z) pleasantly answer the question "How was your morning off?"


And the transit/weekend yielded such questions as whether or not Nora was a) a boy, b) able to eat the food I was giving her, c) three months of age, and d) six WEEKS of age. (Come ON, she has teeth!)

But in Cincy Nora got to play with all seven of the Schoeny cousins- and she could not have been more in love with their faces, their toys and their exotic snacks- and slept like a, well, baby in her private, darkened nursery. With fresh air all around the homestead. And nary a siren nor a Kedzie Avenue.

And I got the distinct joy of realizing that our 12 year-old nephew Tony never misses a blog posting- and votes every day for Top Mommy Blogs [sidebar, by the by], earning him the shoutoutiest shout out ever:(Hi, Tony. Nice divin' at the pool.)

And there were birthday revelings all weekend long for Peej's 40 year-old twin bros. And a pool party.
And a blowup giraffe pool party (the latter of which came back to Chi with us- and which I promise to share with Nora. At least once a week.)

I consider the addition of an animal-themed kiddie pool a plus in the 'weekend success' category, don't you?

Plus Peej's stellar driving skills that returned us to Chi in a timely ['True Blood'-wise] manner.

And all that family bonding time. 

But I'm really excited about the giraffe pool.

I was Nana's favorite.

It's funny.

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

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

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

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

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

However.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Thank you!)

And in the world of IknewitIknewitItoldyou'causethisalwayshappenstomyshows News:

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eight weeks! Also, Christmas Eve! Also, naptime.

Being home is fun.

Take, for instance, the bonding, the "face time" that you get when sitting next to your big sister, also updating her blog. On warring laptops. It's this kind of togetherness that warms the cockles of my heart. So does her blog. [ www.grant-wishes.com ] Also, what's a cockle? Is it like a ventricle? Do those need warming? Discuss.

So. New England. The holidays. The holiday TRAVEL. The holiday travel over-packing. Why does Nora need her own full size suitcase? She barely has hands, does she really need multiple mittens? Let alone four different blankets? (Nap, bedtime, travel and play? Okay, fine. Yes.) I was worried about taking her through the airport and the crazy amount of time it would take to prove that she was under the age of two (an actual airline concern) and that she wasn't concealing anything under her pointy elf hat.

However, from the moment we stepped outta the car for curbside check-in to the moment we got to the gate: 25 minutes. And for all of the hilarious moments I was PLANNING to blog about concerning a traveling infant? They never occurred. Smooth sailing. (Damn you, Midway efficiency!) When we got to the airport, I expected a madcap scramble to check the bags. Nope. There were five people in line ahead of me and they oohed over Nora's Santa hat (as planned- never underestimate the benevolence that holiday-esque newborns evoke.) P.J. had to park the car, leaving me with Nora in a sling, a carry-on bag, and a piece of luggage in each hand. Something hilarious HAS to happen here, right? A skycap took my bags and wished Nora a happy and safe flight. Hmm.

Tickets in hand, we got into the Family & Medical security line (this hurt my soul, personally. I have been an Expert Traveler for as long as the term has existed.) I planned on hanging out, screaming child stuck to me, for at least three hours. Five minutes later, I removed my boots and carried a sleeping baby through security. (I DID have to remove her from her sling and they DID have to squeeze the tip of her hat- I removed the baby sized derringer moments before.)

Carried her to the gate, preparing for a crushing crowd of irate travelers. I was guided to a comfy seat and was soon regaled by VICTORIAN CAROLERS. They called Nora "darling" and "so Christmassy." They were correct.

The flight was delayed, due to the lateness of our flight crew. Okay, NOW it was gonna get ugly, right? An hour later, Nora was still sleeping and the arriving flight crew was APPLAUDED. We boarded in the family section (Group A and half, baby!) and settled into the easiest, quietest flight in the history of Southwest Airlines.

That'll teach me to travel during the holidays.

And now, a slice of Christmas Eve afternoon in the Flynn household of Pittsfield, Massachusetts:

Emily and P.J. walk back into the house from running errands in my mother's car. Emily informs my mother that Peej filled the tank on the way home.

"He didn't have to do that," my mother exclaims, full of Christmas spirit towards her second son-in-law.

"The light was on," Emily says.

"Oh. I guess maybe he did."

Laughter abounds in the living room, and a few chuckles are heard in the kitchen as well.

"Don't put that in the blog," my mother scolds me.

Rachel dances into the room, singing 'Police Navidad.' P.J. hands me a Ritter Sport candy bar, under the guise of getting me a treat at Target. He's just biding his time until he can gracefully steal it back. Emily is eating something unidentifiable and commenting harshly on reality television. I think my Mom just asked if something was Rachel's "personal seltzer." It may have been seltzer. There's a very good chance that "Chasing Liberty" will be played for the second time in 24 hours. Nope. It's "White House Christmas." Much more holiday-appropriate. Kate is still blogging her "daily updates." She's up to December 21st. My daughter is sleeping in my mother's arms- my mother asked if kissing Nora would wake her. Yes. She kisses her anyhow. (The baby has recently been bathed. This is powerfully magnetic.) Tom has walked through twice in his runner's tights. He doesn't like when we call them tights. Em just said something unrepeatable about a Christmas tree on TV. Quinn and Cole are still sleeping upstairs, after an hour long battle with their beds, each other, and Auntie Rachel (the turning point- "Auntie Rachel, I like your nose.")

"Don't put the thing about gas in there. I mean it."

And tonight we put out our first presents from Santa Claus, ever. Does this mean that I'm officially an adult? Or just Santa?

Nora has been so good and we can't wait to spoil her with presents.

Hint- One's a large stuffed otter.

As three-year old Jack tells me- "Sleep in heavenly peas. Like the kind in your macaroni."

(Merry Christmas!)

Wanna come see my MacLaren?

This past weekend Peej and I headed to Pittsfield to be showered with baby...think 'It's Raining Men,' but with pastels. Delicious food, adorable [teensy] presents and a couple dozen of the East Coasters I like best. Also- more than five instances of "I cannot believe how HUGE you are," to which I reply: a) Believe it. I am carrying another PERSON, and b) that is something extraordinarily obvious to say and (more likely than not) the expectant mother is walking around at the time thinking to herself "I hope I don't look HUGE in this." Which she does. Because she is almost seven months pregnant.

Public service announcement aside, it was a lovely trip and party thrown by my sibs and mother, WAAAAY too short (all Massachusetts jaunts feel about five hours long these days) and complicated with rain delays at the airport. To paraphrase P.J., we've got centuries of advancements that can get hampered...by water droplets falling from the sky. Nice. My sciatic nerve thanks you, O'Hare.

In other news, our doorbell still doesn't "ring" the way it's "supposed to." (It's in a pile on the kitchen counter called P.J., CAN YOU FIX THIS TONIGHT? (Marriage is fun.) This lack of doorbell was made quite clear the other day when the FedEx gal came to our door with a package needing signing. (Two things: WOW! A FedEX package? This NEVER happens. And secondly, I was upstairs in the master bedroom, where apparently one can hear door pounding through the FLOOR'S VIBRATION. Awesome and kinda not-so-awesome.) Regardless, sensitive soul that I am, I heeded the door pounding and found a bored looking FedEX employee waiting to thrust one of those electronic signing devices in my hands (that never looks like my signature anyhow and cuts off the first half of my name- so has this 'technology' really advanced modern mail? Let's put our energies into waterproof airports.)

"Violet Bodillo?" She asked [boredly], thus crushing my dreams of signing for a FedEx(!) package.

"Nope."

Raising an eyebrow she [boredly] repeated, "No?"

I assured her that, while I may have many names, Violet Bodillo (which, I'm sorry- is NOT even a real name) is not one of them.

Bored gave way to irate.

"4330 N. Troy?"

"4338."

She looked around angrily for the house numbers, which, believe it or not, had been attached to our brick wall weeks before. (Side note- Peej. Apparently our numbers are missing.)

"Sorry," I lamely apologized. "It's a foreclosure."

She did not accept, and instead marched down past my mailbox (which had the correct numbers AND non-Violet Bodillo-names on it- plus, I'm sorry, we're still between 4336 and 4340 which are labeled largely. 4330? I feel no sympathy) without so much as a howdy-do.

I think a howdy-do would've made that day so much better.

Later I picked (stole) some plum tomatoes and carrots from my previous garden. My rationale was that I had planted them, it wasn't MY fault that the wonky weather had made it a late season, and besides, they wouldn't have survived the transplant. I was doing everyone a favor, see?

The only trouble was that I happened to glance into the back window where my office used to be- and it was full of dolls and toys for the new little girl who lived there. (Or, let's be honest, another 29-year old who cannot let go of possessions.) This sight filled me with so much sadness that I had to go to the Taco & Burrito King on Addison and Western to drown my sorrows in a small horchata and some nachos. (To be fair, I was also waiting to pick up my mother-in-law at the Enterprise so it wasn't just a binge. It was a 'killing time' kinda...binge.)

However, the nachos- which had one purpose in life then and there, to make everything OKAY- were stale. And soggy. Yes, stale AND soggy.

I am not ashamed to admit that I cried. Yep, I sat there in the parking lot of the Enterprise, amidst people who had trouble parking compact cars in diagonal spaces and employees taking inappropriately loud cellphone breaks and cried. I don't know if it was the stress of the move, the renovations of the new house, the travel and visitors, the inability to finish up two plays before August 1st or simply the failure of my favorite comfort food.

I'm gonna go with the last option. And you hafta agree with me, folks, because remember- she's pregnant. And always right.

And maybe a smallish bit big. But not from nachos.

At least not that day.

We're still having a taco. Just try to stop us.

13 weeks! I'm officially in my second trimester! We celebrated last night by eating a ton of tacos. This is only slightly different from the other three times we "celebrated" with tacos this week. Not to mention my Saturday afternoon "celebratory" tostada fix at the 'Famous Taco and Burrito King.' 

I've come a to very important conclusion thus far in the pregnancy; even though this is the coolest thing I've ever done, even though it's absolutely awesome to know I'm creating a child, and even though we're both thrilled beyond belief about meeting this kid...I don't much LIKE being pregnant. 

I know, I know. I'm almost afraid to admit this because of the reactions it will inevitably receive. I know it's a gift, a choice, a marvelous chance and it will CHANGE MY LIFE (and again, I've wanted to have kids since I was...oh, twelve), but actually being pregnant is one of those things it was impossible to visualize. So, apparently, I didn't. Maybe this will change immediately once I feel a flutter or get that next cool ultrasound (they are cool), but for now, I'm a little ready to put the nausea, ligament pains, hip and headaches, 'round the clock peeing and heartburn in the timeout chair. And, as everyone keeps telling me, JUST WAIT! Gosh. And the responses I get are invariably of two camps; the Let Me Tell You About My Horrid Experience folks and the Circle Of Life singers. 

Not that I'd wish this away for a million bucks, mind you, just a casual [and sleepy] observation. (Something I WOULD give up for a million dollars- or, let's face it, for free- would be the power of supersonic smelling. Especially on a Western bus that reeks of pee. Double especially if it's a breaky-down bus that can't rev above 5mph.) I'm quite eager to meet Baby Schoeny. Between the two parents, we're quite convinced that the kiddo will possess big eyes, crazy hair and a mile-wide grin. (We're already saving up for orthodontics.) And, given the career paths of the baby's folks, the child will most likely not be shy. Or conservative. (Although, who knows? How do you rebel against two left-wing actors? Become Alex P. Keaton?)

I love Michael J. Fox.

I HAVE managed to get a bit of work done with the infrequent but blessed bursts of energy of late; I've finished and formatted five scenes (in a week!) for the murder mystery, waaay trumping my previous goal of one scene. Per month. (I have been tiiiiiiired.) Formatting is easy enough- I've just been trying to get it into one type of document (usually FinalDraft) from whatever I've been jotting notes on: backs of receipts, triangles of construction paper, fake shorthand on my Blackberry (actual note for a scene: 'Rs sprsd trpz klr.*') I need to learn real shorthand. Or just stop being so darned lazy.

You know what this stormy, mucky, swine-flu-panicky day calls for? Besides a nap and a mask? A taco. The perfect pregnancy food (protein, dairy, carbs, SALT and veggies) and, dare I say, the perfect comfort food. Um, the perfect Mexican comfort food. 

Oh no...

*The shorthand stands for 'Rosie is surprised on the trapeze by the killer.' It's kinda going to be the best play ever.

It's functional AND good-looking.

Happy late March and belated Saint Patrick's Day! Also, happy early spring-carrythatextrahoodie-sureit'swarmnowbuthaveyoucheckedtheweather-rainbootswouldbebetterthanthosecuteballetflats-goodgodit's30degreesthismorning? Best time of the year. Except summer. And fall.

And now for a little public transit-related public ettiquette- If you are a person who pees on the bus, stop it. You are SO close to actually being out of doors where it would be marginally more acceptable to empty your bladder. Yes? Okay.

Public nose pickers. Even if you are tilting your head so as not to be quite so visible, it's a nose pick. Even if you're using the side of a pinky nail- nose pick. Do not do this.

To the man with your elbows fully extended, drastically cutting into the personal space of the adjoining seat: to you I say cut it out. Excessive girth is acceptable. Excessive elbows are not.

Slightly less offensive but still mention-worthy: the countless individuals whose "neutral" face is, in fact, the scrunched-up, open-mouthed blank gaze of those who have no idea what their face is doing. Anyone with me on this? Gah.

Things that ARE wundy this week: my novella was recently chosen to be in the top ten of the international finalists! The top three will be chosen next week in Los Angeles...where I will also be. (And then Monterey and then San Francisco. Woot!)

Also, my youngest sister Emma is in Chi for the week, getting the grand tour of things I tell people I do all the time but truly only venture out for when people are visiting: brunch at Victory's Banner, thrifting at the VDO, free night at the MCA, watching an Instant Theatre piece of mine at Chi Dramatists (tomorrow night, 8pm!), sundaes at Margie's...and lots of nannying. 

Okay, some of those are done weekly.

And capping off the awesome portion of the week? My recent Village Discount Outlet purchase of a snazzy new mug for twenty cents. (I have such a weakness for their kitsch section, and this one takes the cake. Mmm, cake.) It's a cream colored, squarish, and quite obviously homemade receptacle. What makes it clutch, however, is the clearly hand-drawn scene of a cow, wearing an apron, surrounded by tables and squiggly floor lines. Over her head? The words: ELSIE QUITS HER DAY JOB. 

So great. It's also slightly ironic, as Elsie seems to be very much so still employed. Maybe it's foreshadowing? An inner monologue? Perhaps projection on the part of the creator? (And by that I mean the pottery whiz, not God.)

Photos to follow- prepare to be jealous.

Uh, hi March.

Whoops.

So, um, been a tad busy with a li'l project or two I'll reveal shortly.

But in the meantime- travel/writing/more travel/more (but unfortunately, of lesser quality) writing/and some meetings.

Two weekends ago Peej and I went to Cincy and had a great Subway experience on the way through the state of Indiana (the chain restaurant, I mean- I don't believe Indiana has a transit system. I could be dead wrong) wherein we, due to the Lenten Season, ordered non-meat subs. The kid behind the counter asked us, "Is there some reason you're eating fish?" Blink blink, we said to ourselves, is there a reason we *shouldn't* be eating the fish? Turns out the kid was just curious about the eating habits of Catholics, but still.  File that one under 'things that would only happen in small towns...right off of exit ramps.' The real purpose of our trip, however, was to meet James Boden Schoeny- and we fought over who got to hold him the entire time. He fell asleep in my arms= point for me, but P.J. got a smile out of him with a song= slightly cooler. We love us some Bodie. His big sis Hannah celebrated her 4th birthday with some pretty sweet loot from the uncle & aunts and two parties in the same day. That's usually how I roll, too.

The weekend was over way too quickly, as per usual, and we soon found ourselves in the midst of a new week. Tired. I finished my one-act for submission to ATC (it's pretty good) and tried to tie up loose plots in a one-act for submission to the Manhattan Theatre Project...sadly, that one is NOT as good as the first one, but latter is up for a 7.5k cash prize. Sigh. (Side note, have you ever noticed that TRIED is an anagram for TIRED? This cannot be a coincidence.)

The next weekend I found myself (veeery early on a Friday) traveling from Roscoe Village to Midway to Atlanta to Fort Lauderdale to Miami to South Beach (whoo!) My parents and I were attending my cousin's wedding the next day and stayed with one of my most favoritest uncles in the world- one who happens to own a sweet beach-front condo with one of the best balconies ever to overlook the Atlantic. Sadly, I only caught an hour and a half of sun there. Happily, I got to have one of the best meals ever at Barton G's in South Beach; $27 martinis, a gorgeous garden seating area with lights and palm trees (we do not have those here) and the funkiest presentation I've ever seen. Seriously. The duck was served on a tiny stage with a miniature (and working!) duck shoot behind the entree. I saw a gal shooting a teensy gun whilst eating fifty buck duck. (That is an excellent name for a band, btw.) I got a coconut shrimp appetizer that came on humongo skewers and was surrounded by streams of nitrogen. Unfortunately, a slight breeze was pushing most of the clouds into my face, causing me to sway and cough like a moron. "The nitrogen won't hurt you," the waiter cavalierly told me. "I CANNOT SEE," I retorted, most uncouthly. 

But it was still rad.

The next day I enjoyed another hour and a half sunning myself on the exceptional balcony (all the while pretending I was readying myself for my cousin's wedding.) Then my mom, dad and I hopped into our rental car and drove up to Cape Coral, FL. Two and a half hours away. Unfortunately, we didn't make it to the actual wedding, as we were stuck in traffic for double the time it should've taken to drive there. Super unfortunately, we soon found out the reason for the delay- a motor home had crashed and INCINERATED on the spot. Eight emergency vehicles had whizzed past us on a strip known as "Alligator Alley" (don't unlock your doors, folks) and rendered miles of highway immovable. By the time we got up to the accident there was a huge scorch mark on the ground. Creepy. Kind of made us feel bad for whining about the drive- but we still didn't feel amazing about the fact that the accident had occurred ten miles past our starting point. Sigh. 

Four hours later we made it to the reception and actually had a nice time, although I kept sneaking out of the reception hall and making excuses to call people on my cell. (I needed to get sunshine SOMEHOW!!)

Two and a half hour drive home, straight to bed, eaaaaarly rising (5:30am, minus an hour for the time change, minus an hour for Chicago time- 3:30! Woot!) for my 8am flight...to Atlanta...and then Midway (45 minute circling through thunderstormy clouds- "This is how it's going to end," she thought to herself") and back up to Roscoe Village.

Total travel= 24 combined hours. Total sunshine= 3 combined hours. That= wrong.

But it's okay, because yesterday got up to a balmy 65 degree...thunderstorm...and this morning was, well, 4.

That's kind of the same thing, right?

Wrote two scenes for the piece due this weekend and I can honestly state that I have no idea how wundy or god awful they are. Plus, I may have to throw in the towel for the short mystery due on Sunday. (Seriously, a complex piece that I have YET TO START? How much terrific potential does THAT have? Mmm hmm. Lots.)

And two nights ago I attended a meeting for Chicago Dramatists alongside some pretty big names. They're starting a campaign for '30 for 30,' a drive to raise money for a theatre that has spawned some pretty spectacular works and careers (ever heard of Tina Fey? She wrote and had a play produced about Catherine the Great that put her on the map fifteen years ago. And then she did some TV.) They're having some great events and speakers- for example, Rick Cleveland (former Dramatists writer), now a mucky muck with Mad Men and former writer for West Wing, is giving a seminar, plus doing a separate downtown show...and giving all the proceeds to Chi Dramatists. Pretty spiffy! They also happen to be the company that has given me my biggest and best chances for showcasing work, plus they've featured me as a playwright a time or eleven. 

Want to donate or find out more cool stuff about them? You can find them at www.chicagodramatists.org or even become their friend on Facebook. Yay for the combination of incredible theatre + the technology favored by fourteen-year old girls! 

(And uber-lax bloggers.)

My B.

That's what my brother-in-law Tom says when he does something wrong. My B. It's almost like saying "my bad" is gonna take up too much time; let's just lock & load and fix this thing. My B. 

Anyhow, I'm terribly sorry for being such a lax blogger. My [B]B. 

Posting is the only thing I've let slide in the recent rush of deadlines and activities...except maybe advanced personal grooming. (Is that an acceptable use? You know, when people are mucca busy they say things like 'I haven't even had time to pee!' (I always, ALWAYS make time to pee) and 'I don't even have time for basic personal hygiene.' I try to stay on top of that, but I think the next level would be 'advanced,' i.e. eyebrow plucking and bi-weekly exfoliation.) 

I think it would be fun to list the themes about which I'm writing and editing...just to give you an inkling of why I can't sleep "dreamlessly:" two boyhood friends arguing about coming of age and Chicago-style hotdogs, an updated 'And Then There Were None' (and shortened to under 45 minutes), a virtual date between two music junkies and commitment-phobes in an era of technological relationships, a murder mystery spanning 2 decades and ending in a midwestern circus, editing a shoot 'em up thriller for a literary manager pal, and [recently finished!] editing my youngest sis' short story about a man outrunning his personal demons. 

Add the 50+ hours in my work week and, (for some bizarre reason) the pressing need to organize every nook and closet within 3000 feet of my bedroom and donate all the excessive stuff to charity, and it equals a tired me. Plus, our pal Matt (Hi Matt! Stop reading my blog and go do your work- and no, Bejeweled Blitz does not count) has been staying with us for the past 3 weeks (he does dishes, so he= awesome), but P.J. and I have been a two-person show for a few years and a third party does make for a new dance of sorts. We're also either traveling or having someone stay with us every week/weekend until the beginning of April- which is great, truly- but as everything is due by March 15th...

Whee!

Also not helping the situation- people who do not use their bodies the way they ought during certain transit situations. For example, the other morning I was running up the southbound Addison brown line stairs behind a TALL MAN WITH LONG LEGS. Who was walking. Ambling, really. I missed a train because, although I was racing my stubby legs like a hamster on a wheel, Daddy Longlegs (who could have taken the steps three at a time, no prob) decided that this was the perfect venue for his morning constitutional (a guy I knew once thought that meant 'using the bathroom'- that is not the definition of which I speak). Anyhow, I think it is the civic duty of all the stretchy people out there to not block the already-too-narrow steps with intentional sloth. I said it.

And since I had failed to update since the 12th I also missed wishing everyone a happy Valentine's Day! I have always loved this holiday, ever since I was a little kid and craved cellophane-wrapped hearts, overflowing desk envelopes and parties that I would get sick in anticipation of. (Really- my mom had to pick me up early for multiple years' classroom parties...I would make myself ill even BEFORE I overindulged in too much candy. I was excitable. It was sad.) My parents always used to make a special dinner and give my sisters and I small presents at the table. To this day I obsess over making handmade valentines and calling friends all over the country to tell them I love them on that day. Also, I overdo the wearing of the red. 

This year was pretty sweet. P.J. and I usually get each other something kinda teensy and symbolic, plus I always make the biggest, sparkliest card for him...

He got me a 42 inch HD flat screen television.

I got him a new pair of gloves.

He also took me out to Turquoise for din, but by that point I had already decided to let him win arguments for the next...month. (I'm trying, anyhow.) The rest of the night was spent playing Mortal Kombat on the Wii...very largely...and seeing how clearly bad computer graphics would appear in the movie 'Blades of Glory.' (Awfully clearly.)

I am almost rabidly looking forward to lounging on my couch and watching marathons of Law & Order...

...in April.