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.)

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!)

The New Normal.

Sure thing, Mom.

Things are finally starting to settle into a routine around here.

This is good news, as Susannah is exactly a month old tomorrow and that's a rather long time for a hazy, crazy bit of whirliness.

It's also juuust about long enough for Nora's panic/insanity/full-body-tantrums-every-time-the-doorbell-rings to have run its course. Some might say it's actually a few days too long, but we try not to judge, overmuch.

We're beginning to discover what the New Normal means- which is way different from the New Normal of Oct. '09 (and waaaay different from the New Normal of Newlywed Oct. '08, triple sigh)- and it's actually pretty nice.

Sometimes Susannah sleeps for five or six hours at night, letting us get more rest than is actually allowed at this stage of the game. Other times she keeps us guessing and wakes up every hour just to say hi. (Hi! Go back to bed!)

The two year-old gets up each a.m. with her Dad- unless, of course, she's spent a solid three hours berating or laughing with her Beanie bears at positively awful hours of the early morning- in which case she awakens at 9am. Or 8:30. Or 6. (Keep 'em guessing, that's her motto!) Then the team of gals waves off Peej, sometimes from the picture window, sometimes from the stairwell, and proceeds to list/negate every breakfast choice offered. Unless it's bacon.

Sometimes "breakfast" consists of the smallest member of the team getting nursed on the kitchen floor by the biggest, with the middle debating whether or not she needs a straw/a diaper/a shoe. Martha Stewart Living, it ain't.

Then there's writing, some paid, some not so much. Nora does her part during these interludes by coloring, puzzling, and stickering the baby. Suzy generally sleeps on me/near me or poops on me/near me. A surprising output of work comes from these sessions.

Occasionally we go out, bringing slightly more stuff than would be needed for a Transatlantic crossing. (That's ALL Zuzu- Nora and I had it down to the science of a wallet, some wet wipes, and Doc Bullfrog. My youngest apparently needs three pairs of jammies to accompany us to the grocery store.) Sometimes we go to a fabulous playgroup. Other times we jaunt to the Middle Eastern bakery to get scolded about how I am carrying the baby.

Lunch is the same as breakfast, with slightly more clothing. Usually. Occasionally I'll try to clean a room while we are still using it. This yields mixed results; sometimes I get depressed at the non-change in the area, other times I'm thrilled its dirtiness is remaining status quo.

Some days are way harder than others, what with varying temperaments (mine included), varying activities, and varying degrees of unmatched socks. The best days, obviously, are those with a minimum of activities, a decent amount of agreement, and a maximum of easily put-away-able laundry.

Then there is mandatory naptime. People always say "nap when the baby naps." Dude, I've been napping- with or without babies- since day one. Sometimes I'll try to squeeze in about twenty more minutes of writing immediately after Nora's book/book/book/song/snuggle/bed routine...but not always. Once Nora is in bed, the baby and I are in bed. (And that is why this will always be the best job, ever, anywhere, Amen.)

Upon waking, there is Jeopardy. Laundry. Glitter. The eight thousandth diaper change- per girl. Books books books. Frequent attempts to kickstart an Arena Rock dance party. The park, the playhouse, harvesting of green tomatoes, and forcefeeding the pacifier to the baby sister.

We make/defrost/order dinner, since the dinner train has pretty much left the station. (Okay, I really miss that part of the Old Normal.)

P.J. returns home and, after waiting for my turn to have his attention (it can be a whiiiile, what with dancing, hugs, and re-enactments of Strawberry Shortcake and pals' escapades), we have dinner. Bathe the girls. Pretend to clean the kitchen. And on nights when N goes to bed at 7:45 and Suzy settles into her room for a lengthy nap...we find that we have a smallish window of time.

In which to fall asleep on the couch.

Okay, so perhaps the New Normal looks a bit like the Old one.

Only with way more socks.

Is that not the best short fiction title EVER?

I was not kidding.

I've recently begun a new project.

Which means I've been talking about it nonstop and whining about it to my big sister.

But not so much actually "doing" it. (We all have our process, right?)

And it's a big undertaking; I'm going to attempt to scan and file every single document of importance ever, so that future generations can marvel at my utter inability to throw away a napkin.

Picture this- I've kept a scrapbook binder of STUFF since middle school. One for each year. I am now 31. And I've been keeping one for Nora since her birth. She's gonna be two this year. Now, I'm no math expert, but I'm getting some pretty scary exponential numbers in my head here. (Okay, on my fingies.)

Plus, I've been watching an awful lot of Clean House lately...and it's always the same. Women who don't have a problem, confronted with their problem, crying about how they didn't know they had a problem, and later yelling at the people who are trying to take their problem stuff away to the Salvation Army. Television magic, sure, but it hit a couple of crowded nerves. (My elbows were resting on binders and scrap boxes at the time. Scrap boxes, you ask? Oh, that's when she's too lazy to actually rubber cement or three hole punch something- and just shoves it into a random shoe box for later sorting. I could open the worst Foot Locker ever.)

It got me thinking. This kind of keepsaking is a type of vanity, isn't it? Like I'm thinking to myself, not only is my stuff amazing, but the trajectory of my life has been so unreal awesomesauce that people I don't even know will want to analyze my dating history. And who thought I was great enough to send me a postcard from Rome that one time. Or ponder the significance of the one Highland School Field Day ribbon, circa 1987. (None. Everyone got one.)

Not to mention all the room this stuff takes up. I already have a lot of- er- collections. Teacups. Handbags. Leather boots. Books n' books n' books n' books. Quantum Leap fan fiction- whatever- we don't have to psychoanalyze it. The point is, I've always entered into any relationship with a bucket o' parts. I married this last guy and we darn near completed a wedding registry. (That's expensive stuff!) And now that I've passed a good chunk of my childhood possessions onto my kid (provided she plays with them correctly), I'm starting to see what's important and what isn't.

Starting to.

My new guideline is this: if- God forbid- there were a mammoth fire tomorrow, what personal documents would I be devastated to lose? (I have to keep this hypothetical situation strictly to random documents. The idea of a real, Lose Everything kinda fire makes me want to run around screaming with armloads of knicknacks, Ender and Bean, and that new pink armchair I love. Nora's got new sneakers- not only can she follow me outside, but she can grab my Kate Spade china mugs as she goes.)

The problem- beyond a culture that prides itself on ownership- is that I have an eighth grade-esque love for every single thing I own. It's true. There are very few things in my home to which I'd give a disinterested shrug. (Which would also be odd to see.) I love dreaming over things, organizing them, moving them around, and telling other people how much I adore them. (The things, not the people. If the people don't know how much I love them, well- one can only do so much.) And I realize that we are not our possessions. I know this. I do.

Baby steps.

So. Yes. My plan is to copy every document, save and tag it, and file it on a big ol' external hard drive. That way I can take a walk down memory lane without getting beaned in the head by 1998. (A good year for memorabilia.) Hopefully, that will free me up to toss out napkins and movie stubs, saving room in my ONE scrapbook for truly important things.

I have not yet narrowed down what that may be.

Pretty sure all of my writings penned around second grade need to be immortalized in hard copy. Especially the ones where I was also the illustrator. Double especially the ones with a foreword- by me, obvie- and credits. Which was...all of them.

Definitely yes. Those need to stay.

I can sense that I may run into some difficulty, here.

Mrs. Innes Thinks I'm Special- (my pencil says so.)

The blog is up mighty early today, I realize. 

There are few people in this world for whom I would early-blog. (Actually, it's a pretty vast category, but as it's a rather benign request I'd be more inclined to say no. And depending on the hour in which you asked me, it might not be as pleasant as all that. But why are we arguing so early?) My point is, my darling pal Lori- ahem, Mrs. Innes- asked if she could use my blog as a creative writing example for her AP Language and Comp class.

Just let that sink in for a second. 

Of course I agreed- happily- and then instantly wondered if I should go back and edit three years of incredibly loose grammar and imaginary words. Laziness won out. 

So, APLn'C class- welcome. Stay in school. Learn really important things, like how one should never begin a sentence with 'and.' And then how it's sometimes okay to write in your own style, anyhow. Go easy on the commas and other such punctuation. (I realize that this is reading like a letter to myself, circa last week.) 

A great rule of thumb for making up a person's nickname is as follows: Adjective Hyphen Noun, Part of Name (this is what lends gravity), Adjective Hyphen Noun. All is true. For instance: Radface McAwesomepants. Lady Spitup Von Chickenlegs. (Actual names used in this blog, the latter being my baby.) In cases such as the second, the first adjective can be replaced with a title signifying royalty. I am not the one making up these rules. And "creative words" such as j'accusity and blahdiblah are a success only if they need no further explanation.

I also talk a lot about Mayor McCheese. Occasionally The Hamburglar. But NEVER Birdie the Early Bird, that minx. 

That's it. Those are all of my secrets and the sum of my writing knowledge. You're welcome and I'm sorry.

Feel free to go browse some of my more "cohesive" posts or ones with "through-lines." Perhaps ones that don't "ramble." (Good luck.) 

Or...how about tales of your teacher when SHE was in high school? Yeah? 

Okay, I can't really go nuts on the storytelling for a few reasons: 

a) She's really, really strong. Quite possibly a lot stronger than she looks. Which is strong.

b) She was always popular. Which is insanely annoying. Even worse? Here was her secret: She was nice to everybody. She was fabulous to people so they liked her a ton. Jerk.

c) She has way worse stories on me, from fashion to dating to questionable hobbies. And besides- I was the "funny friend." You know the one. Not hilarious enough to be the ridiculously cool kid who happened to be funny- usually reserved for the varsity soccer captain whom, every now and then, said something witty and unbelievably well-timed- but the other one. The girl who sat behind the awesome girl in AP History and blurted out [what she thought were] appropriate quips regarding the Civil War? Yeah. 

But I will leave you with this fabulous image, forever to be sealed into your retinas...I give you Middle School, 1992.

That's right, shells. I won 6th grade.

And just how did she manage to make her oversized sweater looks less awkward than mine? She has POWERS.

Anyway, yes. Creative writing. 

It is my hope of hopes that I have not yet stunted your capacity for words nor your predilection toward actual, legitimate linguistics. 

Happy Thursday.

I am so lazy.

This floor is dirtying my nightgown.

"Fast, cheap, and good… pick two. If it’s fast and cheap it won’t be good. If it’s cheap and good it won’t be fast. If it’s fast and good it won’t be cheap. Fast, cheap, and good… pick two words to live by." - Tom Waits

That's one of my husband's favorite quotes. And it happens to be attributed to one of my favorite songwriters. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, in terms of general housiness and productivity.

My trifecta, however, is more noun-related: Baby, Household, Writing. I cannot have more than two awesome nouns at a time. I've tried it. Repeatedly. It doesn't work.

On days where I feel on top of the mopping/scrubbing/folding and manage to teach my kid her colors/take a blanket tent nap (with her, of course), I feel like a really great Mom/wife/homeowner. Too bad my laptop doesn't get opened and zero projects get attempted, let alone completed.

Then there are times when the house is immaculate- or at least mildly sanitized- and I've blogged, essayed, scripted, emailed and filed. But Nora has watched five back to back episodes of Clifford the Big Red Dog. Including commercials. Extra commercials, in fact.

The best of the three options happens when I play on the floor with Nora for hours on end, and follow it up with some stellar writing once she naps. Dual job-wise, I feel invincible. Food and homestead-wise, I feel hungry, dirty and cluttered.

(All bets are off on days when Nora and I are at work, however. On those days, my home actually gets messier and my documents begin deleting themselves word by word. Nora and I would be cool with each other on work days, if not for the fact that I wake her at least twice to run errands and pick up kiddos. I'm pretty sure she'd rather we not talk on work days. But then again, we don't get paid to clean our house/write an opus/snuggle stuffed frogs...and her braces aren't gonna fund themselves. So we must resign ourselves to a few grumbles. Besides, the trade-off is that she gets to be with her favorite big kids in the entire Chicagoland area. Some things are worth being woken up for.)

The other day I thought I could beat the system. Nora "helped" me fold an impossibly large number of laundry loads (I am still not entirely convinced that people are NOT randomly dropping off clothing to be laundered and then spirited away while I towel-nap. Who owns all these socks?) and clean the floor. (Her contribution was removing cat hair from the Swiffer while I mopped- and then holding dirt and furballs up to me with a disdainful "yuck." Then she'd empty out the Tupperware cabinet and throw bibs around.) But the house was decently clean. So we made Valentines. Really sparkly ones with extra stickers and purple crayons. We followed that up by opening the Little People playhouses across the floor and arranging a township's worth of plastic pilots, squirrels, princesses and backpack-clad kids on appropriate seating. Then we fed them tea. She had a multi-food group lunch (and so did I!) and then settled down for a big ol' after lunch nap.

And I opened my laptop. I knew that I'd have at least the next two hours available for some quality writing time.

A fact which apparently crippled me.

I got nothing done. Less than nothing, actually. I may have even killed some brain cells with the stupidity of the few sentences I managed to eke out. They were the worst sentences ever to be typed and then immediately deleted. If I could have deleted them multiple times, I would have.

They were that bad.

And I wasn't surprised. After all, I was taunting Fate- who had VERY CLEARLY laid out the rules of productivity. Choose two.

Most days I wish I could just choose Nora twice. 

The real low men on the totem pole are the cats, though. They used to be in the triple rotation, with special treats and five page manifestos for the cat sitters. And even though I still adore them, I fall back on this idea that- at heart- they're wild animals who prefer to fend for themselves. (If only they had thumbs!)

At least they're not the plants, which haven't been watered in months. 

Prioritizing is hard.

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

This was no ordinary unicorn...

Get to work. Maybe comb that hair.

The other day I was asked- by more than one person- what I was "working on" these days.

Writing, I replied.

Real writing? They asked. Or just blogging?

Which made me think. 'Cause it's true- what initially began as a creative outlet for my projects and an incentive to keep going has rapidly become the norm in terms of output. And it's not like I don't have a plethora of other thingies on which to work. I do. Tons.

But here's the kicker: none of them are [yet] on the interwebz.

Thusly, the instant gratification of publication and glory of crazy page views is nonexistent. Meaning- I have to write it for good ol' fashioned personal purposes. And hope that someone with the ability to dole out paychecks will a) read it, b) pay me, and c) put it on the interwebz. Sure, the majority of stuff that I write about on this blog is Not Art, but do you see my conundrum? I'm already attaining the end result of publication, sans paycheck. Or glory.

Okay, it's not a conundrum so much as laziness.

'Cause here's the thing- I AM lazy. I can hear you thinking to yourself [Mom]: Keely, you are NOT lazy. You are energetic and wonderful and beautiful and fiercely intelligent.

And while two of those things are undoubtedly true, the busy work with which I exhaust my husband is not the product of non-laziness, but rather a childlike and irritating OCDesque tendency to do what feels right for that very moment until it stops being exciting and then it's time for a nap. I am a furniture-moving hedonist.

How does this affect my Good Writing? Well, it's a two-fold answer. The first part is this: anything remotely witty or funny or weird I immediately reserve for the blog. And use a ton of energy to [stupidly] make awkwardly long essays on Mondays and Thursdays. (Why are they so long? I have no editor. That's another one of those "paycheck" things.)

The second part concerns the snippets of time wherein I actually feel like producing actual words on paper. If and when the stars align- Nora is napping/I am caffeinated/the furniture isn't bugging me- then I usually feel a guilty twinge about starting the next blog post. Because- and this is the special part- the [minor] success of the blog has ensured that I value [obsess over] reader comments and feedback. And since I've been gently reminded [berated] to post when I'm an hour or two late, I certainly don't want to offend/lose my audience/feel even more guilt over my inability to just get one more thing done OH MY GOD THAT OTTOMAN IS ALL WRONG.

This is a very long-winded way of announcing that today's blog may suffer a tad in Awesome. As will the state of Feng Shui in my house. For my resolution in the month of December (New Year's? Yeah- anyone can do that) is to stop being such a leech of time and energy.

For example, if I played Farmville? I would stop.

That hour after Nora goes to bed and right before I watch some programmes? I will stop whining to P.J. about How. Much. I. Have. To. Do. And I may actually do it.

I shall expand my workable [writeable] hours to now include right before bed (too sleeeeepy), while Nora's happily playing with her Miniature Army of Cute ('cause while I usually say that I'm trying to be In The Moment with her...I'm really just checking Facebook statuses on my iPhone) and I may even start to include some unorthodox methods of writing such as using actual paper and pens.

I will finish plays and one-acts and short stories and essays and that book about snarky unicorns. (Intrigued? Okay, it's really about babies and falling-down houses. But that raises an excellent question- would you buy a book about a snarky unicorn? 'Cause that could totally be bumped up on the priority list.)

Starting now.

Or maybe after work.

If Nora goes to sleep smoothly and there isn't too much carnage to pretend to clean.

But definitely tomorrow morning.

Because a [writing] writer's lifestyle is possible to maintain and that's my point. It is. Possible and my point. Both.

The End.

For now.

Times a million minus a nap.

***

"Once upon a time, there was a marvelous horned beast named Chester..." <---(How's it done.)

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.

I also call people "Baby" a lot. This bugs certain Big Kids.

Due to the fact that I am still in Massachusetts, still surrounded by genetically terrific children, and still not convinced that it isn't Thursday...

...May I present a smallish sampling of things I've learned about myself?

On Speech: Turns out, I abbreviate and nickname a LOT. When my sister asked if something needed to happen and I responded with "potenstsh," a vehement "IALLY" came from the 4 year-old in the other room. The little guys have also started referring to Nora solely as "Noodle," "Silly Sally" and "BugBug." Cole may believe, in fact, that he has multiple female cousins. (There's certainly enough people touching his stuff.)

On How My Writing Is Being Perceived: Quinn was peeking up at his Mom's laptop and saw my blog's site open. He asked "Is this Auntie Kiki's blog?" When  he was assured that it was, he pitched his voice a little higher and began to speak- "I was walking down the street and blahderlilalalila..." (That is NOT my process, Q-Dog.)

On Things I Should've Been Saying Already: Tom and I were having a beer with our Mexican fiesta the other night when 2 year-old Cole, leaning over to stare at my bottle, asked if he could Look in [Your] Beerhole. Bumper sticker...go.

On How Easily Disturbed I Am: Kate and I have been watching a ton of late night TV. Okay, 8:30pm TV. But there's a new Hamburger Helper commercial that takes place at- get this- a yard sale.  You know, dirty Fisher-Price toys, clothing from the '80s...and a plate of ground beef mixed with pasta. BEING PASSED AROUND ON A PLATE. "Best deal of the day," a mother joyfully exclaims to her two children. Really? Is the "best deal" the plate, the meal, or the heat-induced food poisoning? I asked Kate if she'd ever eat someone else's communal Hamburger Helper at a yard sale.  "Depends on how much it was."

And finally, Why Those Old-Peopley Pill Containers Are A Good Idea: For this week's trip, I put all of my vitamins and pills into one drawstring baggie (because, you know, it's SO hard to pack for a week at a sibling's house) and was feeling good about remembering to take them each night before bed. In the room I've been sharing with Nora. In the dark. Going on feel alone, I've proudly been popping pills sight unseen, a fact that became a little too obvious the other night. Tasting something a tad minty, I realized too late that a) I'd mixed painkillers- and forgotten about them- in with the vitamins, b) Target's version of Tylenol is delicious, and c) I may have scurvy but I FEEL NO PAIN.

And that's all we have time for today, folks. Because eventually, someone's gonna come for these four children. Hopefully their real parents.

And Kate and I need to be ready for that.

With cocktails. (And beerholes.)

Now you're thinking about the taco spoon, aren't you?

There's something quite special about waking up on a Monday morning- and feeling like you're already way behind. Here's the problem: On the weekends, I like to play this game called I Have No Responsibility. It's true. I don't know where this bad habit came from. I've never in my life had more to do on the weekends and have never been better at disregarding it.

It's strange. Most weekend mornings, Peej and Nora let me sleep in 'til the 7 o'clock hour (= Disneyland n' puppies n' sunshine) and he gets to be the one covered in all things breakfast. Sometimes he puts her down for- not one- but two naps! You'd think all of this would free me up for things like cleaning, preparing meals, maybe writing? Nooope. While he's wrangling the Bitsy, I can usually be found lying on the living room floor, balancing my second mug of coffee on my chest (I hope someone out there is enjoying the benefits of my half-caf experiment, for my system sure isn't) and whining about how much I have to do. And then not doing it.

And then P.J. works on the yard. And I follow him out to kick at the dirt and ask him what he's doing. Over. And. Over. It's almost like I expect this sudden help/freedom to immediately equate an 8 year-old's summer vacation. Take away the mad rush of stress and I am utterly useless.

P.J. suggests that I go rest or read. I snap at him that he's trying to make me go away.

P.J. [carefully] states that I sure have been wanting some time to write. I'm not in the Right Mood, I tell him. Obviously. (I kinda wonder if he thinks that Right Mood needs to go hand in hand with a sparkling clean house, a fully caffeinated beverage, and a foot rub. At the ocean. With someone else recording my thoughts. And a small but respectable crowd applauding politely.)

And then Nora wakes up and I snap back into Busy Mode. Because- and this has always, always been the case- our summer weekends start booking up in March. Not because we are popular. Oh no. In fact, most of our friends dislike us greatly for our inability to hang out- so we make one on one plans with them. On the next free weekend. And when someone has a shindig or a non baby-friendly event (totally their right- sometimes I feel downright PG-13 myself) we try to ease the sting of our lameness by giving them the NEXT free weekend after that. And, because we're a couple between the ages of 20-45, this is "wedding season." Making it sound like people are shooting at married people. (Which, being one, I also totally understand.) On top of that, P.J. and I have a combined seven siblings, five sibling in-laws, four parents, and ten nieces and nephews who do really fun things like a) get born, b) vacation in boaty places and c) like to see us on non-holiday-esque weekends. (Which, when the others' hear about these jaunts, they join on in. Making it a holiday-esque weekend.) And THEN- oh then- on weekends when we could feasibly stay in the place where we toss all of our savings (Home Depot), we hear about Festivals That We Love.


And here's a little secret about Chicago. In the summer, you can't win. There will never be a weekend where you can enjoy one great event and not completely miss out on another. The weather is so rotten here for so much of the year that the city decides to cram as much amazingness as possible into ten short weekends. ("Please stay one more year," they seem to implore.) This past weekend, for example, was the Folk and Roots Festival. Which I missed. Because the Roscoe Village Garden Walk/Burger Fest was going on. (Hint- if you ever wish to locate the Schoeny family, check out local Garden Walks. We cannot resist them. Also, burgers.) 


We got to give in to two of our favorite cravings yesterday; street fair food and pretending we still live in Roscoe Village. Nora had her first cheese curds yesterday. Not surprisingly, she dug them. (Actual overheard conversation at a vendor: Girl returning her cheese curds- "Uh, this is just fried cheese!?" Vendor- ..."Yeah?" Points to sign: Fried. Cheese. Curds.) 


Also, I love that Nora chows on grilled bok choy and sautéed rainbow chard during the week...and eats like a frat boy on the weekends. (Although I did bring her a baggie of peas which she much preferred to her Stilton burger.)

I tried to bake yesterday morning- even though baking requires precise "math" and usually, my eyes glaze over when I try to follow detailed directions. But there was this fabulous-looking recipe for lemon and sour cream muffins in Parade magazine (Pah-rahd) and it seemed simple enough for a preschooler to follow. Perfect. Sure, the sour cream had been compromised (a taco spoon had been dipped- oh, maybe two weeks ago) but that sure wasn't gonna stop me. And yes, the magazine forgot to include that pesky little detail of how hot to make the oven, but- those two details aside, they came out tasting like MUFFINS!  P.J. and Nora each had two. I had four. Which brings us to...

...Last night I went to Pilates, bringing my non-Wii workouts for the past two months up to...once.

And last night, after the obligatory (for Peej) viewing of True Blood, I experienced the manliest channel surfing experience ever. Alien vs. Predator/The Godfather (Part 1)/Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Some thoughts:

a) Could this be the bloodiest three hours of television ever viewed?
b) What about the last one makes it a "requiem?" That sounds like an awfully fancy way of saying "we did it again."
c) Why was Appollonia never again acknowledged by Al Pacino- or anyone else in the movie- in Sicily, America or otherwise? This hampered my movie-viewing experience. Then again, the baby being carted around in The Hangover had a similar effect. (It was WAY too long for that kid to not have eaten/napped/been in the shade.)

So. Right. Monday.

From the hours of 6:30am to 8am I fed Nora, cleaned Nora, mopped the floor (not out of any virtuous desire- I was kinda stuck to it) and did a load of laundry (same reasons). Played with Nora's toys- she did, too- and read a dozen animal books, making appropriate sounds. Got packed up for this late morning/afternoon's work and, realizing that Nora had a nose full of boogs- wiped it on my shirt. (Why? Why do I do this? And not even on her shirt- mine!) Started another load of laundry.

In short, I got more "done" around the house in an hour and a half than I did all weekend. There's gotta be some lesson or moral in here.

And I'm totally gonna think about that.

After one more muffin.

Hoodies, hoodies, everywhere.

Okay.

This weather.

It's been pseudo-springtime here for a couple of weeks and it's been fantastic. Sure, it gets chilly again at night, but it's been quite the welcome reminder that spring is coming.

Earlier this week, however, the weather people told me that it was gonna be close to 70 degrees today (noaa.gov- that's right, I use NASA's weather people). I have been so excited for this day to get here that I [mentally] planned out three or four different hoodie/yoga pants combos. Last night I checked once more before bed- to find out that it would be mid-fifties at best.

A fine temperature for March. Heck, tropical for March in Chicago.

I [mentally] added another layer for the day's outfit.

Woke up, checked again- back to 70.

Stop playing me like a lute, noaa.gov. I live here all year 'round, and the changing of the seasons is really all that keeps me going at the beginning of the year. Unless you count the Irish parade stuff. Which, clearly, I don't.

Look, meteorologists, I have an infant daughter who thinks 5am is a spiffy time to talk about our feelings, enough active and activity-laden children to fill a minivan, and, ridiculously enough, some writing I plan on finishing before Nora gets braces. I need to know that if you tell me crazy amounts of sun are coming, then CRAZY AMOUNTS OF SUN ARE COMING. My Vitamin-D intake is getting to be a desperate situation, here.

Maybe I'll start checking accuweather. They're awfully optimistic.

I'm currently wearing my mustard-yellow vintage Converse- which I love- but I'm getting the "first real sneaker of spring" callous on the back of my heels- which I do not love. After a season of winter boots followed by a few weeks of rain boots, my feet have gone soft. Kinda. It's weird to try to re-train your feet to accept athletic footwear...but if it means I'm actually out of doors wearing my shoes (and not crying because of it) we'll sally forth.

Also- Sally Forth. Not an exceptional comic strip.

SO.

I took Lily and Baby NorNor (as Lil has begun emphatically calling her- sounds vaguely Martian, but trying to get a two year old to unnickname someone is pretty darned impossible) to the library in our spring sneakers. Have you ever gone to a public library with a biggie and a little-little? I highly recommend it, as long as you like loud noises to go with your daily helping of guilt. Also- modulated observations about patrons from the Division/Clybourn neighborhood and checkouts with everyone helping with every.little.book.and.card.and.scan. Which, thankfully, I do.

And on the walk home we saw this sign in a store window: Boxers Draws (Underwear!)...which is extremely specific, if not marginally incorrect.

That's right. Draws.

I am so tired that, when I just yawned, my eyelid flipped up. (Gettin' too 'real' for you? Like all MTV 'real.') This is probably because Nora (and thusly, her parents) cannot adjust to the time change. Sure, it's an hour. Sure, infants can't tell the difference of an hour, especially when her nap schedules aren't carved into any sort of nonporous rock.

Still, she knows something has changed. And it angers her.

A lot.

She shows her displeasure by refusing to nap for longer than twenty minutes, which is, oh- the amount of time it takes to actually close the door and take the stairs. Maybe pee, if one is ambitious and extraordinarily fortunate.

I hope today's that kind of day. I feel lucky enough to pee.

And- just so you don't think I live in some sort of idyllic parenting-magazine-cover-sitting-with-a-cup-of-tea-watching-the-children-play-beautifully-typing-on-a-laptop-for-hours-and-hours kind of world- I'm gonna come clean. I start my blogs the night before.

And type before I wake her for work. Usually on my Blackberry while I'm brushing my hair. (And tossing out miniature wigs from the pileup on the brush- I will be bald by May.)

And then again in the car if Peej is driving. (I am law-abiding, thankyouverymuch.)

And during the first nap- if I don't hafta pee.

Perhaps again during Lily or Scout's naps...as long as Nora isn't awake and sweetly yelling directly into my nostril.

And try to finish it up before "lunch." (I don't think it can be considered a real meal if you're hovering over the sink and choking on a grape.)

Oops, I think I've gone too far from Don't Think My Life Is Plush directly into the territory of Please Don't Pity Me.  It all evens out by the weekends. Nora gets to chomp on P.J.'s chin, I eat lovely meals while sitting on all types of furniture...and I get to pee. A lot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to read a chapter of Encyclopedia Brown and The Case of The Secret Pitch.

To Nora. We got it for Julia from the library.

Neither are here right now...but I'll just have it out and ready. Maybe open.

Oh! Good! Nora's up.

Storytime...

Through-line free since 2008!

Sometimes I make notes on my phone, stuff I want to remember and randomly insert into a blog post. I use my version of shorthand- which is really not shorthand at ALL, nor is it terribly short- which proves confusing, occasionally.

Today's note- vmpre bathroom. (See? That second word wasn't even any different!) I was pretty sure I meant "vampire" bathroom, which made me feel good to figure out. Then I felt badly again, realizing that I still had no idea what a vampire bathroom was.

I was thoroughly, utterly confused for perhaps way too long. Was this a True Blood reference? Blade? A bathroom in my house? (No longer scary, but perhaps this was an old jot?)

Then it hit me. The night that we saw Avatar at Webster, I ran into the bathroom pre-3 hour long viewing. Have any of you ever been in this ladies' room? I thought that there were only about five or six stalls with opposing sinks and mirrors. When I went to check myself out in the full-length mirror on the far wall- I saw nothing. No reflection. My first thought- obviously- was that I was a vampire. Yep. (Apparently at any given time I am one step away from believing something supernatural is occurring. Please do not ever 'punk' me.) So what really happened?

I was looking into a doorway. That's right. What I thought was framing for a mirror was actually a pass-through for another identical set of five or six stalls and opposing sinks. And what's amazing...is that this is not the first time I'd been to this bathroom. Or had this thought.

I've probably jotted it down before and been unable to decipher. Aren't you glad we figured it out?

And now onto- pesticides.

I have never cared much about food additives, chemicals in beauty products- although I've always been staunchly against animal testing, unless it's voluntary, or unless the animal looks REALLY pretty afterwards- or harsh things in household cleaners. Heck [one of ] my middle names is 'Splenda.'

However, my mother sent me this article yesterday. It will haunt me forever. Basically, it concerns a number of household products that are slowly killing you dead. Like the rubber duck.

I've always thought mothers and fathers who were strictly organic and chemical-free were a little a)crazy hippie, probably a holdover from my Hampshire days, or b)able to throw around their copious piles of cash on the trendy new "green" product. (I put "green" in parenthesis, for most of these families do not recycle. Just spend money on expensive "green" cleansers. See? I did it again.)

I swore I would never be one of those But What About The Children parents, nor one of those who only bought free-range piles of meat to go with my macrobiotic side dishes. I guess I always felt that stating the only types of food my child could eat would kinda go hand in hand with PickyEaterdom, which- as everyone knows- is a one way ticket to anorexia. (I had a LOT of ideas before I had a child.)

So what happened? I had a child.

Suddenly, every rash is a chemical burn, every projectile vomit is a direct response to the second cup of coffee I ingested that morning (that one's probably true) and the Clorox which, months before, was okey-dokie for (in theory) scrubbing the bathroom, was now slowly poisoning my kid's lungs, brains and toenails.

I'll admit it. Having a baby has made me certifiably insane about Products and Food. And not because I want to keep up with the Joneses nor turn up my nose at People Who Hate The Planet.

It's because I'm madly in love with Nora. I get it now. I don't want things around her that will stunt her growth (she's already pretty short) or halt her brain development or give her a moments pain for even a second of her long, wonderful life. I get it. As it turns out, we are responsible for everything that happens to her up to and including the age of eighteen. This is in the booklet you get at the hospital. You nod and smile. Because she's just a person- a wonderful person, mind you, but no more deserving of a clean planet or Egyptian cotton than anyone else you know. Right?

Oh, hah ha. How we are now laughing.

Okay, too heavy for a Thursday morning.

The other day on Facebook I feel like I really keyed into a portion of the general populace's brain. Specifically, I mentioned that Mayor McCheese made me laugh until I pee. This is true. Something about that random figure with a sash (why the sash?) and ginormous burger-head gets me going every time. Especially when I think of the Hamburglar chasing after him and trying to steal his big ol' head of meat.

That paragraph took me way too long to type.

However, the comments, emails and texts that started rolling in made me realize- the majority of us have a shared response to McDonalds and their cast of lovable, wacky characters.

We all think they're flipping insane.

Apparently, everyone wanted a party at the Playland, no one gets why most of the characters run around trying to steal your milkshake/fries/burger face, and no less than two of my friends have gotten stuck in the throat of a metal burger head.

Seriously. Typing is hard when you're Ugly Cry-laughing.

This is not the first time I've posted about Mayor McCheese. (Nor will it be the last. I could write forever about this.) Also- nothin' organic in THAT last segment, eh?

I think we'll all be okay.

As long as we size up the metal burger head accordingly and wait our turns.

Are they trying to intimidate me?

Well, I needn’t have been worried. With the end of Great Expectations (the class, not the book- I finished that in ’96) I feared that my baby saga would no longer be funny- or, worse yet, no longer bring up relevant and timely pregnancy ads on my sidebar. (Have you noticed them? I get maybe an eighth of a cent every time you use one. Click click, people!)

As it turns out, being pregnant is still SO MUCH FUN that the wackiness practically perpetuates itself. For example, leaving the doctor’s office the other day (kiddo is still breech, there’s nothing joyful and wacky in that- it’s just mean) some random dude approached me on Michigan Ave and jazz-handed this amazing bit of advice into my general midsection area: “If it’s a boy, name him KEITH!” Which is a very nice name, all in all, but I now associate it with a heart attack.

And as I walked into Sephora for some much needed makeup reinforcements, I was greeted with the phrase, “Hi there, Big Mommy!” Uh, wha? I am not your Mommy, FRIEND, not even in the hip hop sense. (And I know much bigger people, with child or not. So there.)

As for the Bitsy not turning head-down yet, P.J. had a stunning realization last night before sleep (which, as I’m finding out, is when a goodly bit of all frightening parental revelations occur)- NEITHER OF US EVER LEARNED TO DIVE. Ever! Sure, we’ve taken countless lessons and know the basic mechanics, but we’ve never been able to get past that critical last second don’t-move-your-upper-torso, rendering us doomed to face-plant and/or belly flop. We have no one to blame but ourselves! Perhaps we are genetically geared to fear being fully head-down. I forgive you, Bitsy. And I apologize.

This past weekend we had the distinct pleasure of having no less than four family members stay at the new Chez Schoeny! (Even more doors and baseboards have been added, making a fairly convincing case that people can, indeed, reside here.) P.J.'s parents were hosting a faboo baby shower for us, and my mom and big sis both came to play! (In my mother's case, she came to do all of the baby's laundry and cook and store enough of my favorite foods for me to have three or more maternity leaves. Oooh...)

The shower was superbly fun, and I was feted with gifts that, years ago, would have warranted a polite smile and a carefully worded thank-you note; now they receive a full on bear hug and awkward amounts of grateful tears. For example: receiving blankets. Now, I have blankets. BUT NOT LIKE THESE! These are crafted from clouds and embroidered with whimsical animals that, you guessed it, make me cry. And a Pack n' Play, which, as everybody knows, is essentially a padded cage. With monkeys. BUT NOT MINE! Mine is a place to Put. The. Baby. Down. With monkeys. (And, according to my mother, I refused to be removed from my playpen- as they were called in the good ol' days of 1980- until I was roughly seven years of age. I think this will be a good addition to our home.)

But then everybody left and I cried (not in the good way- there's a slight difference in cadence of sobs) and then I took a nap. And then I ate more food than was potentially wise. (Whatever, it was in my freezer and my mother labeled it. Are you saying my MOTHER'S food isn't wise? It is very wise. And Armenian! Which, as you'll all remember, is calorie-free.)

So, back to work. I spent the morning with my 18-month old gal Scout (who, for the record, is not feeling well. And may the record show that neither are Julia or Lily. COME ON, GALS! Chance is fine, but just informed me that the soccer practice I took him to was, "kinda a dropoff class, Kiki, so, uh...")

Scout has a doll house from the '70s that I adore playing with. One of the big ol' Fisher-Price plastic deals with housewife dolls in orange floral jumpers and babies with Kewpie-doll curls. As we played, however, I found myself admiring the yellow plastic staircase and the extra-wide pink master bathroom sink near the curvy "plush" (read: plastic) bed. After a moment, I realized that the feeling in my gut was (not intestinal distress- though common), but...envy. I was JEALOUS of a three-story Victorian PLASTIC house with a wraparound porch and terrace windows in the attic! I had malice in my heart for anyone lucky enough to live in a furnished Fisher-Price house. How messed up is that? (I know, I know, we've done a ton to our li'l piece of the Fisher-Price American Dream already, and soon we'll be in excellent shape. You know, once we add the rest of the doors and baseboards, finish painting the trim and some fixtures, completely revamp the bathrooms, purge the furnace vents and find out what is making THAT TERRIBLE SMELL.)

And I get to have a baby soon!

I also recently remembered that, when I'm not pregnant, I enjoy writing. In fact, I enjoy it SO much that I signed on for playwriting projects MONTHS ago...that I just had the distinct pleasure of recalling their deadlines. Which happened to be this week. Last night was a blur of reformatting Final Draft scripts, attempting to print them out into legible portfolios, and driving around to various office supply stores to find a mammoth enough manila envelope that would safely encase the gargantuan piles of paper (of which my printed name may or may not be the only intelligible portion.) Please continue to hire me, Chicago theatre community!

And that was the only aberration from Date Night Month (the happiest newly-created and soon to be a distant memory Month of the year!) We started off with a home-cooked meal and a baked apple crisp (I baked! And nothing terrible happened!) followed by an evening of our favorite On Demand shows- or, as I call them, my Programs. (I am so very much my Nana Alice at times.) The next night we saw "The Informant" (you know, starring my good pal Scott Bakula? He knows me) at the Davis Theatre and had a dinner of popcorn and Coldstone Creamery, followed by a bedtime of 9:30pm- WOO! Tonight we're making it to an actual Cubs game, after having successfully eaten the cost of the other five times we tried to go this season. Sure, it'll be down to the '40s in temp tonight, and yeah, it may or may not rain...but we are going to have a DATE NIGHT with the CUBS and perhaps a HOTDOG.

Oh, and the picture posted above? Yeah, that's the actual sign on the hand dryer at my doctor's office (where they make me pee in cups roughly five times a visit- which is, sadly, totally do-able.) FEEL THE POWER, it says. Oh, and I do. One swipe of my slightly damp hands anywhere within ten feet of the nozzle and it's suddenly a leaf-blower. You know when skydivers get that rubber face from all the wind shoving their cheeks back like Wallace and Gromit? It's like that. The skin on my hands actually wiggles. And I do NOT have wiggly skin.

Yet.

Gimme a few more weeks. I'm sure I'll have an equally delightful name for that Month as well.

Thirty weeks! That sounds close.

It kinda feels like I'm in the "official" part of my pregnancy- like, now that it's ten weeks or less 'til Baby Central, this means that I actually have to HAVE THE KID. And other such fun.

I'm thoroughly NOT enjoying the every two weeks appointments. The constant poking, prodding and weigh-ins make me feel less Earth Mother and more Rocky Post-Retirement. Or like a science experiment gone horribly awry. ("Why are you still gaining weight?" "Well, until the kid starts shrinking, it may become a necessary evil.")

I'm rather done with caring about weight gain at this point. (*Rather*, mind you. I will always be enough of an actress to wonder how close or off the mark I am to the weight listed on my theatre resume. 125lbs. Shut up.) Besides, if my doctors really wanted me to obsess about my weight, they're about nine years late to the party. We don't do that here anymore. And if they really wanted me to count calories (yep, there they are!) then tomorrow I'll just get off at the floor hosting the Weight Watchers meeting and skip the blood draw altogether. If I'm humongously overweight when the kid hits middle school (and still blaming the pregnancy), then yes, get my bum to step aerobics. Until then, pass the pumpernickel.

We start our childbirth classes next Tuesday, a blend of Lamaze and Bradley techniques: half 'Oh, this is gonna hurt, so breathe rhythmically like they do in the movies' and half 'Oh, pain is totally cool. Visualize a cloud. Don't you like CLOUDS?' I hope they offer snacks with the informative videos. I hope I can record P.J.'s face whilst watching the informative videos.

Yesterday I finished up a one-act play about biological clocks- seems to be a bit on the brain- except that my female protagonist can't find hers and desperately wishes to. Ha! It's funny, 'cause it's a myth! Like people who gain seven pounds during pregnancy! Because what woman DOESN'T hear her clock chirping in the middle of the night like a Tourette's-afflicted cockatiel with ADD on a sugar high? Wearing little finger cymbals and an umbrella hat? (The umbrella hat doesn't make noise, it's strictly a sight-gag.)

Oh, for real?

You don't find that this is GENERALLY the case? Oh.

That's weird.

So, tonight may be the night that a "guy" comes over and "saws our couch in half." And we're paying him cash money to do this! At this point I'd give him one of the cats if he could unwedge the sectional from the stairwell. I find that I'm losing my ability to notice large, out-of-place objects in my daily life. Totally walked into a filing cabinet two days ago- it COULD have belonged in the family room...who am I to argue with the laws of spatial relations? (On a positive note, we still have a homeless box spring blocking the storage area, rendering it officially Not My Problem. There's clutter back there? Prove it.)

But for now, murder, mayhem and diamond theft. For at least three more scenes. And then perhaps elevated ankles, strategically-placed pillows and a snore or two.

For at least twenty more minutes.

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!

Starin' down the business end of 29.

Or as my sis Kate tells me- The Beginning of My 30th Year. (Not helpful. Accurate, but still unneccessary.) And my youngest sister Emma insists that '30' is still technically one's late '20s. "I mean, it's 30, but whatever." Okie doke! 

But that is for another year. This is the era where '28' passes off the baton to '29'- more like '28' shoves the baton into '29's' reluctant palms like it's covered in a swine flu/strep amalgamation (currently running rampart in Chi's private schools, trust me.)

Not to be all VH1 (I love you, VH1- or I did when you played music, pop-up videos and only the occasional "reality show") but this has been the Best Year Ever. Disregard what I may have personally told you about last year, THIS one has been the Best. 

Some highlights: 

After that whole marriage/Virgin Islands trek/throwing out anything "pre-registry" awesomeness, I got heath insurance. And saw a primary care physician for the first time since my parents had to bribe me with Ben & Jerry's. (Sadly, it wasn't as long ago as that may insinuate.) Health insurance is amazing! So is dental. I have become one of those people that stubs a toe, overflosses and decides that a prescription Vitamin C sounds fun. Better go to the doctor! (Sure, P.J.'s monthly rate has gone up, but they take that outta his check! For me, it's free money. Free cash doctor money.)

My family has managed to graduate four out of the four Flynn girls in some sort of East Coast college! (Well, Em's graduation is on Sunday, but I have the highest of hopes.) I was also lucky enough to see my family, roughly 865 miles away, an average of roughly 57 times. Give or take. 

Which brings me to...trips. Boston, Pittsfield, Cape Cod, Cincinnati, Miami (for like a day and a half, but it was delightful), Los Angeles and various points Midwestern. I have discovered that I am an exceptional passenger. I passenge superbly; radio deejay, instant Google fact-checker, restroom alarm, quiet-snorey-napper, silent crossword puzzler and, when the mood calls for it, Ugly Cry-laugher at your jokes. (P.J. drives. That is why our marriage is so rock solid. That is the only reason.)

People are catching on to the fact that I've been writing since 1988! (Sure, I was eight years old, but truly. Some people start- or peak- early. Would you like to read my early Star Wars/Quantum Leap scripts?) This year alone I've been lucky enough to be featured in Instant Theatre at Chicago Dramatists about ten times, had a play picked up for workshopping by Local 75, finished about ten one-acts and [almost] three full-lengths, had two plays chosen for production by 20% Theatre (one at this summer's Snapshots at Strawdog Theatre and the other at the Pilsen Arts Festival this fall!) and had my first novella win a major competition in Los Angeles. It's just a matter of time before the rest of the money will [start to] roll in.

I met Scott Bakula. He hugged me. 

I have fine-tuned my group of bestest friends into stellar people who happen to have marketable skills that I can enjoy for free (massage therapy, Pilates, shoulders meant for crying) and that have somehow not yet tired of my incessant demands for movies in Grant Park, tacos & spicy tuna rolls and ginger vodkas. Sigh.

P.J. and I had a 4br, 1ba housing deal fall through...only to score one with 5br and 3ba. For 25k cheaper and a mile closer to the glorious neighborhood in which we now reside.

We got pregnant! And while this was not a mandatory "28" goal, it was most definitely on the "Can we try for pre-30?" checklist. P.J. gets major points for staying ahead of my Life Worksheet. (It seems unfair to simultaneously blame him for my unnerving weight gain, but sometimes I still do.)

We celebrated a year of marriage over Memorial Day weekend. That whole thing about the first year of marriage being the hardest? All lies. The first year consists solely of weekend brunch, Mario Kart & Mortal Kombat on the Wii and picking strawberries in the backyard. (Now, the first year of LIVING together was essentially a plate-throwing fest and copious amounts of tears. Phew! Glad THAT'S done!)

And while I'm fairly certain that 29 will have its share of "high points," (meeting my kid, actually living in the house that we're buying, making a year-end list for '29,') I'm still going to state for the record that '28' is the best that could possibly happen in a year. 

Until the Def Leppard concert this summer. Then this year will totally be disregarded.

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.

I need a vacation from my vacation.

I think that should be up there with "I don't do Mondays," "Hang in there," and "I'm with stupid." (Also, as it was recently pointed out to me: phrases on a mug= witty, ironic humor. Phrases on a tee shirt? Not quite so classy.)

Anyhow, as I've recently come back from *Cali '09,* I thought I'd share some highlights. Highlights, mind you, and not full blown tales. I am EXHAUSTED, after all.

Los Angeles- Met Scott Bakula. (Life highlight, I daresay.) He was superbly kind, generous with his time and not at all fazed by crazies (me and the Peej). Check out my Facebook pic. It is glorious. Met Donald Bellisario (Me: Thank you for creating my favorite show! D.B.: Uhh...you're welcome.) Met Deborah Pratt. She HUGGED me after I won first place for the novella competition.

Oh, didn't I mention? I WON FIRST PLACE IN THE NOVELLA COMPETITION! And had my copy signed by my heroes.

Lowlight: Ended up on a Quantum Leap trivia panel and got SCHOOLED by a lady who knew Sam Beckett's (mind you, a fictitious character) social security number. I told P.J. that perhaps I wasn't a SuperFan. He said that maybe it was okay.

Had brunch with Sonal, a rockstar gal that P.J. went to school with and I performed with years ago...she's currently on Scrubs and is one of the sweetest people in L.A. We went to a fabulous outdoor brunchy place and I perhaps ate too much, maybe leading her to believe that I am one of the gluttoniest people in Chicago.

I cannot help this.

After L.A. we took Highway 1 up to Monterey for about six and a half hours; at night that road can get kinda crazy, so that's EXACTLY when we drove it! (Highlight: dozing with the sea breeze against my face. Lowlight: It was at midnight. Also, I was woken by P.J. laughing maniacally, our car hugging the cliff's edge and my husband exclaiming "This is NUTS!")

Ordered pizza at 1am and had it delivered to our hotel (we proceeded to eat breakfast from this amazing pizza for the next two days. It was that good.)

Another highlight: Monterey Bay Aquarium! With otters and rooms of glowy jellies and sting rays that I could touch (and I did!)

Lowlight: Whatever that horrific smell was that came from outside the parking garage. Seriously. Get on that, please.

More highlights: A fabulous dinner, courtesy of my folks...with lobsters! The Jabberwock Inn, the cutest inn EVER, whose proprietors allowed us to explore the grounds like crazies. The drive BACK down Highway 1 to Nepenthe in Big Sur- treetop dining overlooking some pretty angry surf. The wooden stairs Peej and I found, leading down to a wild area of beach right off of Highway.

Lowlight: Um, how am I still in this car? Are we done with the car? Almost? Okay.

San Francisco! Okay, so there was a bit more driving. About three hours. But then it was smooth sailing. Until P.J. lost his sunglasses. But by this point we had dropped off the car, shuttled to the airport, found our way to the BART (kinda like our Metra) to take us downtown...and had been riding the BART for about twenty minutes. Oh HAH! So...we went back. (Highlight: The BART employees were so kind and helpful. Seriously. It was almost embarassing how good to us they were. Lowlight: WE DID NOT FIND THE SUNGLASSES.)

Highlights: Dinner at the oldest Italian restaurant in America. Ferrying to Alcatraz and taking very serious poses in jail cells. Re-enacted scenes from So I Married An Axe Murderer ("...I love Vicki. She's the best!") Fresh crab rolls by the docks. Renting a bike and riding over the Golden Gate Bridge into Sausalito. Dim sum in Chinatown (bean paste sesame buns that I cannot pronounce and it doesn't MATTER!) and excellent Middle Eastern in Haight-Ashbury. (I swear we did more than just eat.)

Lowlights: When P.J. said we'd ditch the car for ease of travel, he meant we'd start WALKING everywhere. Also, tandem bikes are not quaint or charming, regardless of what any musical/Golden Era flick may try to tell you. I spent half the time in fear that I'd fall off the back and the other half nagging P.J. and wondering when he'd PUSH me off. Dirty hippies in Haight-Ashbury. If I really needed to get a fix I'd go back to Hampshire [Rim shot.]

All in all a glorious[ly exhausting] trip. I slept for a goodly bit of the next day upon our return, and P.J...began a two-week tech for his new show "The Long Count" at New Leaf Theatre. As you do. We DID get a day together since being back...Easter was superbly relaxed, with a double feature of Bull Durham and Tell No One- the former being an awesome Costner/Sarandon love fest and the latter being an intense French thriller than caused my nightlight to work overtime. It was also a day of multiple naps and various snacky foods and pastel candies being consumed in place of large "meals." (And no worries- we went to the Easter vigil the night before. What good Catholics.)

And now, it's time for my nap.

(Read- more fifty hour work weeks...and perhaps finishing up one of the three writing projects I have going. Sigh. I got to rest on my laurels for two weeks.)

Kind of the same thing.