My Mom Wrote Me An Early Dismissal Note.

"Keely, you're awesome."
"I know, Mom."

There are days when you feel so on top of the world and think that no one can even come close to touching the gigantic lead you've got on the rest of the human race...

...And then there are the days when you completely disregard the "suggested serving size" for your container of ice cream. For four containers of your ice cream.

There are moments where you get your stuff done like a competent member of society and actually produce stuff that makes you want to call up your fourth grade English teacher and thank her for inspiring you. (This tearful scene even plays out in your mind to the swelling of music. Perhaps Wind Beneath My Wings. Oh my God, that would be so pretty.)

...And there are moments where you wonder why anyone believed you when you said you could do all of these things with words and paper and deadlines and "work" and "returning phone calls," because now- apparently- you're expected to "do them." (And now you're feeling more Miss Otis Regrets than Wind Beneath My Wings- except you're feeling like the guy that Bette Midler shot in the former song. Have I lost all of you?)

There are the times when your kid tells you that you look so good that you must be going to a meeting. And when she asks if you took a shower, you regally nod and affirm that you have. Because you're wearing mascara. And pants. And socks that match and deodorant and shoes that are inappropriate for the season.

...And there will always be the times when you wish you were half as great as your mother thinks you are. Or at least that everyone knew how great she thinks you are. This one may actually be doable.

Because she's offered to call/write/email/show up in person to tell them.

And the encouragement/potential embarrassment of that scenario playing out is what keeps you going.

At least until your husband replenishes the sad state of affairs in the freezer.

Bloggy Boot Camp And My Email Addiction. (Unrelated.)

At BBC Chicago with the adorbs Denise from According To Denise.

Nora has informed me that I can no longer attend "meetings." To her, a "meeting" entails "leaving the house." "Taking a daytime shower." "Wearing mascara and/or a non-hoodie." (Seems like a "meeting" or two is kind of a welcome change around here.)

This past weekend's meeting was actually the famed Bloggy Boot Camp (in Chicago!), held by the awesomesauce SITS Girls. (You know, the folks who've taken me on as a Community Lead/Forum Gal and who generally allow me to hang around their savvitude like a privileged kid sister? Them.)

Without going into too much technical detail regarding the whom/what/where/why of how badly anyone  involved in social media needs this company's ABCs (because, you know, it's worth getting your own ticket for BBC '13)...I will tell you that the Friday through Saturday evening conference gave me some new rules of how to balance stuff. Like writing deadlines, spending time doing the things you actually wanna blog about, and not losing eleventy million billable hours to Twitter. (And Pinterest. And Instagram. And and and.) It also inspired me to take a hard look my own bad habits, interwebs-wise.

For starters, as of today I'm only checking my email hourly. Like on the hour. Which, admittedly, still seems like a stupid-crazy amount of time being accessible.

I mean, I'm not a medic.

But baby steps, right? Wish me luck. (But only expect a reply on the hour.)

At this "meeting," I also met up with some fantastic online friends (and stellar bloggers) as well as folks over whom I basically fawn. (Aside: It doesn't take much to make me fawn. Exceptional writing skills, a genuinely cool personality and the ability to make a comfy living on the internet will usually do.)

It made me want to be better at all of this.

It made me want to redefine "this" to include all of the things that inspire [and/or pay] me, and exclude anything eyeball-numbing and heart-crushing. (And other negative hyphenated things.)

And it really made me want to look like the kind of person who regularly attends "meetings."

At least in terms of showering and makeup.

This Whole Vending Machine's Out Of Order!

I object.

This past Friday, I was called to perform an extremely important duty. In an instant (after checking the hotline at 4:30pm, CST) I became Keely: Juror. 

I did not take this job lightly. (Most likely because I was stoked beyond belief to get to ride solo on a train, read a book, and potentially use the bathroom by myself at some point during the day.)

Here is how I prepared for my Big Day O' Juroring:
-I showered.
-I ate breakfast (at a table)!
-I packed a bag that did not possess a) toys, b) wipes, or c) sippies. (I still jam-packed that thing with snacks, however.)
-I bounced up and down a little.
-I mentally reviewed every episode of Law & Order that had ever made an impact (the one with the psychotic mother, the one where Clare was hit by a drunk driver, the one with Jerry Orbach's daughter as an informant).
-I way overcaffeinated. (I had spent the past 18 hours pumping milk with the abhorred pump, so I was totally good to go in terms of poisoning my own system.)

I potentially left a little too early, but you really can't be too careful with these transit things. These solo transit things. I stopped for another coffee. Beamed at fellow passengers on the brown line. Read a chapter. Listened to a few songs via my headphones. Made some phone calls.

All of these things were done before the train had fully made it three stops away.

Down at the courthouse, I breezed through security- most likely because I was no longer carrying any of the suspicious items that my children usually require me to possess. I received a panel number (34) and proceeded to set up camp at a nice table; I was going to finish my book. Catch up on all of my emails. Have a snack. Read some more. Snack some more. (After all, everyone had told me that- generally- no one ever gets called into a courtroom. Especially on a Friday. Also, to pack some snacks.)

We watched an incredibly informative video entitled You, The Juror, which pretty much summed up everything that I (and everyone around me) already knew from Law & Order. The best part was how the narrator was unable to say the word "juror" without adding at least seven more r's.

I had already decided that I liked being Me, The Jurrrrorrr.

Immediately after the video ended, panel 10 was called. (Suckers.) Five minutes later, panel 18 was asked to line up. (I unwrapped a fruit leather.) Then- "Panel 34, please line up in two rows."

What?! I haven't even had a chance to check out YouTube yet! But no, I had to close my laptop, decamp my already nicely decorated workstation, and shove the entirety of my snack into my mouth without detection. (Only two of those activities worked.) We were then led into a courtroom...where we proceeded to sit quietly (and sans aaaanything to do) for the next half an hour.

Finally, a judge, some attorneys, and one extremely suspicious-looking guy entered the courtroom. (Later found out he was the clerk.) Then, the two dudes involved in the civil case entered. (So much for a juicy murder trial or demands that people Look Into Their Hearts.)

Of the 18 people on the panel, only 12 were to be interviewed. The judge randomly selected 12 of us to sit in the jury box for the next round of questioning- guess who got the 12th seat? (And no, in case you're curious, having the same first name as the prosecuting attorney's last name does not excuse you from serving. Just a reminder.) I was excited for some hard-hitting questioning. Serious "make 'em sweat" stuff.

The attorneys addressed us all as a group:

"Has anyone here even been party to a vehicular accident?" (Okay, so they're ramping up.)
"Do any of you recognize anyone in the courtroom?" (Aside from name recognition, nope.)
"If selected, do you promise to carefully review all of the documentation?" (What?! How do you answer that one? Uh- nope. I can't promise I'll read. Can I recuse myself now?)

And that was it. I was alarmed at the lack of severity. I had hoped to be challenged, have some bit of top secret info revealed, been made to cry at least a little. But nope. The judge then chose six of us- at random again- and I wasn't among them. Ten minutes later, they handed me a check for my day's services (17.20- thanks, Illinois!) and was thanked for my work. Goodbye.

I was horrified. Where were the hours upon hours of solitary time (surrounded by hundreds of other Chicagoans)? I hadn't even checked my Twitter feed, yet! No one had yet held me in contempt! What a joke.

I was home by lunch.

Peej could tell that I was sad. (Probably because, when he answered the phone, I was sobbing.) He reassured me that I'd get some good alone time in the near future. Also, that I was probably an exceptional juror. He's a nice guy.

And that was that. I served, I deposited my sweet paycheck, and happily added another title to my growing list:

[Denied] Jurrrrorrr.

Spring Fever Is Darn Near Killing Me.

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

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

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

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

But this weather is destroying me.

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

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

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

BABIES NEED HATS!!

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

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

And not one toilet has been cleaned.

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

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

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

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


I've never been very good at tests.

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

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

Ferris Bueller Ain't Got Nothing On Me.

But I already ATE all the sugar.

There comes a point in any illness where high-pitched whines and manic energy overtake any real cold symptoms- excepting, of course, a positively astonishing sea of boogs.

Our household reached that point roughly two and a half days ago. That said, there is nothing particularly wrong with today.

Except.

I find myself possessing less than no desire to wipe or scrub or fold or sort or sanitize anything whatsoever.

In fact, it would be terrific if today could be declared A Day Where People Don't Hafta Touch Anything Unless They Wanna.

Let's go one step further. Let's add an addendum for this Day where, because we clearly don't give a fig for organic- or even hot- food on a Day like today, we get to eat cereal straight out of the box. Maybe we'll even make cookie dough that will never even see the inside of an oven because, on this Day, our apathy makes us stronger than salmonella.

On this Day, I want to remember how wonderful it feels to pull a heavy down comforter up to the side of my face as I snuggle in for a midday nap. I want to remember it AS I AM DOING IT. The kids can come, too. As long as they know that we are there to sleep. Not talk. Not play with figurines. Not chew on my shoulder.

Today, my word count is at 45,909. I would like- for this Day only- to have the word count remain at 45,909 and for everyone currently in the house to be totally cool with this. Guilt-free. Proud, even. This will be the thought in my mind as we all settle in for the blanket-on-the-face nap.

This is also the Day where I am not The Queen Of No. So when Nora, clutching an armload of winter gear and chasing Ender, informs me that "kittens need mittens and cats need hats," I'll nod appropriately and see how that storyline unfolds. And if- just as a suggestion- I tell her that the cat might snap at her from underneath his fleece earflaps, I will take her gleeful hope that it'll turn into a choreographed number from West Side Story as a truly valid one.

Today could be the day where I find out just why, exactly, those Birds are so Angry.

It will definitely be a Day where my kids could tell you- in great detail- How To Get To Sesame Street.

And as soon as I extract my toddler from beneath the couch and remove the glittery stickers from her eyelids, I'll tell her so.

Keely Is A Grubby Grub From Grubville.

I used to rock it. Sure, it was my wedding, but...

This is getting to be a problem.

Now, I enjoy a good pair of sweatpants as much as the next gal...but the time has come to kibosh. Sure, I had a baby five weeks ago and absolutely, whatever I wear WILL be covered in glitter and squashed blueberries by the end of the day...but that's really no [long-term] excuse.

I've gotten lazy. Not about the childcare, laundry, energetic toddler activities or writing (sloppy, yes- but not lazy). However, insofar as wardrobe is concerned? Slothful. Slovenly. (Sleepy.)

I hate to think that I'm falling into the Mom Trap of overly casual attire. It's certainly not because I'm too busy to get myself dressed. (I always get so annoyed, for example, when people say they're too busy to do things like pee. For the love of God, you're not launching a timely rocketship! Go urinate already!) I was way busier when I nannied full-time with Nora as an tagalong infant friend. And I [mostly] came to work all dressed and such.

It's not as if I don't have super nice clothing. Although there is a wide discrepancy between my collection of hoodies/yoga pants (seriously- when is the last time any of you saw any yoga action on my part?) and the perfectly folded cashmere sweaters/Italian leather boots. Maybe I should ask Santa for some Middle Ground clothing. Chinos, maybe? Dungarees? I don't even know what they're called anymore.

And- definitely- it's a lot nicer for a newborn to sleep against/spit up on a soft, unadorned piece of clothing as opposed to something with buttons and weaves and bells and whistles. ESPECIALLY the bells and whistles.

It's just that it's really easy to feel like working from home is all Saturdayesque. You know, all Big Mug Of Coffee, Cozy Hoodie, NPR On The Radio kinda Saturday. (Which, I'm quite certain is what a goodly portion of people think stay at home momitude really is. And they'd be right, ha HA!)

But it's really hard to feel productive, like Full Day Of Work productive, in one's sweats. And I'm the first to admit that this could be easily amended by putting on a pair of, I dunno, khakis or something. But unless I get dressed at 5am, I'd have to maneuver a nursing/clinging baby and a climbing/questioning toddler to do so at 7am. Or 8am. Or even 2pm. Which can be done. But- and here it comes again- I'm lazy.

It takes a moment like having one's husband ask why I'm all dressed up- and realizing that it's because I'm wearing a headband. Or the fond, though faded- so, so faded- memory of waking up early to put on makeup so that P.J. would think I looked that good while I slept.

So I'm going to try a little experiment and post the results next Thursday.

For the next week- starting last night, in fact- I'll be wearing something resembling Clothing To Be Worn In Front Of Strangers every day. (Boy, that sounds creepier than intended!) Day One went wholly unnoticed by the Over 2 set. But since I had signed on to bring a toddler and a newborn to the doctor on a rainy night- at dinnertime- this oversight can be forgiven. Although I looked awesome.

I shall also be wearing makeup. Why? Because it's just the kind of whimsical time-detractor that I've come to expect from myself. My novel would be done by now if I put that kind of daily energy into it.

Or maybe this new routine will kickstart my productivity! I'll finish the darned book before the interested parties realize they no longer want it! I shall learn to iron!

At the very least, I'll be pretty.

Ish.

Er.

Best. Résumé. Ever.

I [try to] make it a habit to not mock people. Truly.

But every now and again, something simply amazing crosses one's desk. Namely mine. And even though I cannot say whose impressive stats these are- nor how I received this gem- I felt that I had to share.

I give you Julia: 
 
But Keely, you say. That's nearly impossible to read! I know. Apparently in whatever region of the world in which this chick resides, the mimeograph machine is still alive and well. Adding to the background distortion is the unfortunate stationary choice of small, grey, musical notes.

I shall sum up.

Julia is looking to be a secretary. Or something in the "sales/manage" field. (Very lucrative, that.) She offers to furnish recommendations, but they are not attached- oh no, not our Julia. Keep 'em guessing. This seems to be a skill that has served her well in her past TWELVE FULL-TIME JOBS. And considering that she has a newborn son (we'll get to that later), I can't imagine she's geriatric.

She offers to work weekends- with notice. Don't go pulling out the last minute phone calls here, no sir. That will not play.

However, she was let go from her first listed job because she had to care for the aforementioned newborn son. The manager wouldn't accommodate her. Those fragrance counter bosses are jerks.

Her second most recent job was as a server (where she "served food to customers"- ah) which had to end because she wanted to work nearer to home. Also, "business slowed." Legit.

The next server job ended when she moved- this happens.


The restaurant job right before this told her she was "not needed." Right. Okay, Julia, I'm on your side.

Listed after that one was a restaurant where she she "served food and beverages." Emphasis mine. Good for you, J! Except- oh man- the cook "served too hot a plate- reheated" and you were "burnt and hurt." I would've quit, too. (Except my Dad would've told me to wear long sleeves and buck up. Whatever. Different styles, that's all.)

Then comes a waitress and bartending gig that turned out to be too far to drive in winter. You're killing me here, Julia.

This was preceded- incongruously enough- by a UPS job as a loader where you lost your job because of pneumonia. This sounds...improbable. BUT I WISH FOR HER TO SUCCEED so I continue reading on to...

...Another restaurant job where she left to- "care for son." Hmm. This wouldn't be the newborn, would it? Did she have all of these jobs within four months of giving birth?!

Then we've got bartending at Applebee's. And the reason we left- again- is "childcare." I'm starting to doubt either that a) Julia desires to work outside of the perimeter of her yard and b) that these "children" are real. Photographic evidence, please.

Another server job- except that this place was closing. I hear that. And she wanted to "work closer to home." JULIA!

Right before this was a semi-successful stint as a server and "inline dancer" that was abruptly ended when she was "hurt at dishwasher broke glass cut deep and manager not aware of problem in restaurant." Was he inline dancing? Was he also aware of the grammar problem in résumé ?

The oldest job was- yet again- a waitressing job gone bad. (Where the heck did UPS come from?) This time she had to leave because there weren't "enough computers to get work finished for serving." Which is compelling. Yet I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that maybe one's kids were involved. Or the proximity to someone's home. Maybe they made her dance.

She sums all of this up in a tidy paragraph reiterating that the aforementioned are all places at which she has worked. Adding to this list of skills are the curiously capitalized Secretary, Engineering Science, Architecture, Piano, Saxophone, 4-H, Modeling, Manager, and Assistant Manager (at a Mall.) Of lesser importance- and thusly not capitalized- are drafter, estimator, sewing, crafts, and makeup.

She has [unlisted] "retail experience."

Oh, and that year of Saxophone? She was privately tutored by someone who "graduated the Julia rd [sic] Music School."

I think she'll be just fine. How could she not? After all, she was a model.

And an estimator.

I have an estimation or two right now. More an "odds" kinda thing.

I've always been good with numbers, especially if they're of the two-step variety. But before you get too excited...

...I'm no Julia.