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

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

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

My colicky, allergic, and stranger-phobic baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so does napping. Napping is definitely gonna rock.

Writers Are Just The Worst.

Last night, I had a deadline.

More accurately, last Monday I had a deadline.

Now, here's how I generally work on plays:
-IdeaIDEAidea, wouldn't this be fun? (Four months.)
-Plot Out The Things What Happen. Bonus- Add some dialogue which, while not truly belonging anywhere, is wicked funny. (One month.)
-Freak out about character development and scrap the whole thing. (One month.)
-Realize I am left with nothin'. Bring some people/dialogue back. Write more appropriate-to-nothing funny dialogue. (One month, minus two days.)
-Pull two all-nighters and agree that- yes- some semblance of a story can be handed in/comprehended.
(-Extra credit: Do not work on a play for a full calendar year.)

I didn't say that this was the best method, just the one that frequently happens.

But the show for which I'm currently poking out my eyes was due last Monday. (And twasn't presentable. But man, if there wasn't hilarious, out-of-place dialogue for miles!) And this is my fourth rewrite of a full draft since the end of this summer. And I want this play to be awesome, because the company is awesome and the [tolerant/no, don't worry, I won't get used to anything I'm currently seeing in this play] cast is awesome.

And after the latest series of readings, I realized that elements of my storyline weren't awesome. And some character development left me cold. So this month I scrapped a [frightening] amount of the play and determined to piece new plot and reworked old plot and meld it into some sort of refreshing RoboPlay.

Except.

I have two wicked little kids/an elusive muse/way too late of a bedtime/infrequent bursts of time in which to pen the gloriousness which is my opus. Whine, whine, whine.

So. This weekend. I knew the play was [over]due and that the play needed to be in the hands of the actors sitting in a room on Monday. Whether or not I had showered since the previous Wednesday was immaterial. So I began the process of ramrodding my eyeballs into my laptop, and my ever-exceptional husband P.J. took the majority of kid/house/explosiveness that constitutes a normal weekend.

And it worked. Until it stopped, right around Sunday night. And it wouldn't come back. The story, that is. Right around cup nine of coffee, the scenes stopped making sense. The characters wouldn't talk. And it got ugly. Specifically with my tears. Ugly Cry tears. And I got frustrated. Because I had barely touched my children the entire weekend and missed things like movies and snuggles and Good God, they're going to college in like five minutes and I have nothing to show for an an overcaffeinated face and legs that haven't moved in hours and may never work again- I hate this chair, who bought this stupid chair?

It got real. Because there were two scenes left to rework and it seemed like something that should be within my reach. And I felt my heart punch out of my chest and I sobbed to P.J. that they'd all have to mime the play, I was an abject failure, I just needed to see my children, and theatre sucks.

P.J. removed my coffee cup from the premises.

And, without giving away too much of his magic, he Keely-Whisperered me. Patiently. He walked me through plot points and even formatting some of my wonky typing "styles." He gently reminded me that- no, no that isn't something a normal person would say...could we perhaps have something happen here, instead of the abject nothingness that's been going down for two pages...let's add something funny to this comedy, yeah?

This went down for hours. Eventually he went to bed. 'Cause I couldn't handle the a.m. carnage that would be two parents with an hour of rest. And I stayed up a little longer because somehow he had freed the plot and the dialogue and things zipped. I wrote like I was being filmed in a montage. And passed out in a fluttery bundle of exhilarated nerves at 3am.

So long story not that much shorter, it worked. Kinda.

Let you know after tonight's reading.

After I give my husband a three hour-long massage.

Keely: Television Series Addict.

I've always loved my television. The painfully specific- in unwise doses- programming of my television. The type which I consume during times of transition, stress, and/or necessary escapism.

The first show I can clearly remember doing this with is Twin Peaks. On a road trip- in a camper, no less- I marathoned nearly the entire series at a downright breakneck pace. It was immediately after I had graduated from college, and saw nothing wrong with losing an entire weekend to a show that I knew would give me nightmares. I mean, any show watched that rapidly is bound to give you some crossed brainwaves here and there- but when its recurring characters include a psychotic furniture-crawler and a backwards-speaking dwarf in a dreamlike red room? Hold the hallucinogens, Hunter S, I'm seeing my own trails.

This was my theatrical headshot circa 2002/2003. It has
nothing to do with this blog post, but don't I kinda look
like a girl who has just seen entirely too much David Lynch?

The second show to get my undivided attention was The Office. Some of you can remember back when Nora was first born, and I got to experience that whole "babies make their own hours" thing. So she and I spent many a night pounding through the first handful of seasons of that fantastically whimsical comedy. We became a tad too invested in the unfolding love story between Jim and Pam, but that wasn't nearly as time-consuming as having to check under my bed for the Twin Peaks' Log Lady. I did worry that she'd get a Pavlovian response to dairy-based beverages whenever she heard the opening theme as an adult...but anything that kept me awake and nursing the correct part of my child at 3am was worth the risk. Besides, the only other negative to come out of that whole scenario was when I developed the unfortunate habit of berating P.J. a la Dwight Schrute.

And now, the magic of Netflix has suggested that I check out a Canadian series called Murdoch Mysteries. From my viewing habits of the BBC's Sherlock, CBS' Elementary, the old Poirot films, the televised Nero Wolfe, the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes oldies and repeated Nick and Nora viewings, it deduced that I enjoyed an occasional mystery. So I checked it out one evening as I folded laundry in between writing articles [I had been avoiding]. And I was hooked. A ridiculously attractive Victorian-era detective on the forefront of forensic criminology with forays into steampunk-esque inventions? Sooold. And I began watching them in earnest, pounding through the available three seasons at any given moment. Between blogs and reviews, I'd tell myself. I'll just have one on in the background while I fact-check this thing about...Oh my God, is this episode about time travel?! Soon I'd be watching them as "a reward." I earned this show. I'd give myself "a break" from my play's third re-write, telling anyone who'd listen [usually P.J.] that my brain was too tired to write comedy. P.J. went away for a weekend and I tucked myself into bed at 8pm each night with my laptop ready for hours of episodes-watchin'. (I missed him terribly, though. I did.) But eventually I had to admit to the fact that my increased TV viewing was directly correlated to the amount of writing work I had taken on [and was uber-lucky to have] but which was frightening my poor brain to death.

This realization came about when I found myself wishing I could trade places with a character on the show. Who was residing in a psych ward in the year 1900. Because at least she wasn't facing down a re-write of 16 scenes.

It was then that I stepped away. Started setting bedtimes for myself. Turned down writing gigs and ensured that the ones I took were finished in a timely manner and of a decent-ish quality. Because there's a time for escapism and a time for putting on your Big Girl Cap and doing your damn job.

Besides, I totally caught up on the series.

Writing Is Not For The Sane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because- why does he hate art?

I'm Sorry, WHAT Was A Weekend?

What do you mean, you need to "shower?"

On Friday night, Nora threw up. (Alllll over P.J.) And as we cleaned her- and the kitchen, and the tub, and ourselves- up, I wondered...was this what Friday night had become? Two consecutive Friday nights with undigested pasta, boiling hot faces, and people screaming every two hours...

This is the worst discotheque I've ever attended.

Saturday brought the diagnosis of an ear infection. And with it, more antibiotics, more kiddo ibuprofen, more kiddo Tylenol, more children skipping their midday naps, more purple Popsicles, and the exact same episodes of Dora the Explorer. 

That night, there was also a slight uptick in the amount of alcoholic beverages poured. (Very rapidly. Because- why are people awake again?!)

There was a marked downshift in the output of completed scenes. (Unless you're the among the producer/director/company members staging my show in a really short amount of time. Then- Oh my God, you guys. This play is totally awesome and stupidly close to being done! Forever!)

Susannah is in the Totally Better, Except Still A Liiiittle Off phase of things. You know the kind. No fever, no symptoms, eating and drinking like a champ...but CANNOT BE MORE THAN HALF AN INCH FROM YOUR NOSTRILS AT ALL TIMES. Or it's a freakout fest of velociraptor proportions.

I expect Nora will be there in a day and a half. As will my completed script. I totally promise.

I hope you guys enjoy ridiculously awesome dialogue and gripping character development.

Printed on paper slightly dampened by Ugly Tears.

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.

2013 Is For Nappers.

Kinda like the Baby New Year (and her sister)...but noisier.

Happy Day After New Year's Day! Which isn't a real thing, but I'm still in yelly, celebratory mode from this intense holiday season!

So, I've gotta say, I enjoyed the heck out of my miniature blogcation- which is the last time I shall utter that word, I promise. (But I did.) It's been a kinda crazed past few weeks, and it was nice to be able to [guilt-free] omit something from my daily list.

And yeah, "Re-Cap Hilarity That Was Monday-Tuesday" is on my To Do list for my midweek post. Kinda feels like I'm revealing the ol' man behind the curtain a little, doesn't it?

ANYWAY. I hope you all had a wundy Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Festivus and that you didn't miss me too much. ('Cause I totally missed the heck outta you.) Another reason I felt okie doke with taking a bloggy break was because I know that a goodly cross-section of you follow me on Facebook and Twitter, et. al. (Because, yeah, this non sequitur/randomsauce display of verbal explosiveness/lifestyle wherein I overshare pictures of Nora drawing on Zuzu's head cannot be contained to thrice-weekly postings. I've tried.)

But if you're not a rabid follower (which is totally cool- it can be exhausting), here's whatcha may have missed:

At the risk of coming off as the most maudlin gal around, I helped close out the year over at Families In The Loop with Goodbye 2012, A Year Of Heartache, Loss & Hope.

On New Year's Day, I was stoked to be the first post of Project: UnderBlog for January with my slacktacular list of 10 Totally Attainable Resolutions For The New Year.

Speaking of 2013, New Year's Day was spent wonderfully. Because, as we all know, whatever you do on New Year's Day reflects what you're going to be doing throughout the year. Like a fortuitous Groundhog's Day. The Bill Murray vehicle, not Punxsutawney Phil. (Sidenote: MS Word just attempted to change "Punxsutawney" to "Subcutaneous." Helpful! It's rough when even your word processor thinks you're just batting words at the page like so many bundled gypsy "babies.")

So yes. New Year's Day. According to my January 1st, the entirety of 2013 will be spent sleeping in, reading, napping, taking baths, forcing my neighbors to provide gourmet feasts, playing board games on the floor, removing Play-Doh from Susannah's mouth, calling my family, and ordering Chinese food from up the street. That's a mostly amazing year!

P.J.'s will be spent re-watching Twister.

He did not plan ahead for this one.

I'm Not Lazy, I'm REMINISCING.

I'm feeling awfully throw-backy today. Who wants to check in with me and see what- exactly- we were doing four years ago this very week? (All of you? Awesomesauce.)

***

Art Imitates Life. And Sometimes Other Art.

Originally Posted November 19th, 2008

Is it really Wednesday? Time does fly, especially when you've set an I've Got Health Insurance, Perhaps I Should See Some Doctors month. Really, taking an hour here and there to have all of your blood drawn and replaced with Oregon Trail-type preventative vaccinations...well, it certainly does make the work week go faster. 

This month has brought two new doctors (and subsequent pokey needles), and three cavities- with six shots of novocaine...I was brave, ask anyone- with at least three more appointments on the horizon before 2009! We've got it covered from new dental x-rays all the way down to a podiatry appointment. I even cut my hair. 

Is anything wrong, you may ask? NOT YET. But we're sure to find it if it happens!

Between all of these weekly appointments I like to spend fifty hours at a place called "work." (Two little girls are currently playing nurse with their dolls and one just informed me that her baby is "really high." I think she means in temperature.) 

And in the hours between "work" and Preventative Medicine- I try to write. And I'll tell you this much...one of the real dangers in telling people that you're a writer is: they expect you to actually do so. This contrasts sharply with the life of lazy lesiure I imagine for myself. Oh well. 

When I DO get to write, it seems to be going okay. The first meeting with Local 75 was awesomely wonderful- Chris and Aaron are superb people, not to mention really talented writers, and the "critiquing" of my play seemed like anything but. Imagine that. Workshopping a play without personal agendas or general ignorance of the play? Or the playwright? Or humor? This may just be my personal writing heaven.

We spent a good deal of time discussing what I find funny and that led to an interesting question: Is my comedic style more 'Clue' or 'Deathtrap?' I still don't know, because initially they said 'Mousetrap' and my mind wandered off in the direction of 'Ten Little Indians.' Or, as I like to call it, 'And Then There Were None.' Specifically because I had a horrifically long and horrifically horrific dream last week where I was in a real version of that play. Suffice to say, I knew how it would end. And four hours later it did. 

And speaking of not getting amazing sleep, I haven't been. Even my characters aren't sleeping. I've been editing a series of scenes where my main gal keeps ending up in the living room at 3am to see if a new episode of 'Dragnet' is on. (Relatively new, that is.) And yes, this is thinly veiled scene showcasing my desire for 'Law & Order' to be on AT ALL TIMES.  (Thanks, Peej.)

Finally, a snippet pertaining to sleep, fantastic dialogue AND P.J.? Okay! The other night (early morning, whatever) when P.J. was drifting off to sleep and vehemently denying any such thing, he began "sleep talking." As he does. Frequently. (He'll deny this as well.) His sleep talking occurs in that dreamlike state of not quite being asleep and still pretending to carry on a conversation. I don't remember what we had been talking about- quite possibly making plans for not sleeping the following night- when all of a sudden he stated quite clearly, "That Ender [our cat] is an old-fashioned kind of dude. He realizes the importance of credit."

I was shocked. Ender had been listening all these years?

I was charmed; somehow we've managed to instill good values in our cat.

And I was thoroughly reminded- why sleep and miss all the good dialogue?

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.

Keely And The Terrible, Horrible...Oh, I Give Up.

A very old pic, but an all-too-recent sentiment.

Put quite simply, Tuesday was a rough day.

It started out well enough. Nora was dropped off at preschool, happily tossed Doc Bullfrog into the backseat of the car, and bounded into her classroom with nary a fuss. 'Cause she loves it there. Which is great, because I had worried [slightly]. I drove home to get Susannah ready for a nap, glowing with the self-satisfaction that comes from knowing you've made the right decisions for your kids and that you might actually be a good parent.

It was short-lived.

When I arrived to pick her up, I was faced with a weeping mess. Seriously, the kid was standing there, looking for all the world like a professional Sicilian mourner. Turns out, I had forgotten to remind her that Doc (whom she had left in the car by herself) wasn't going to remain in her backpack that day. And apparently we need to discuss it at length and all have vocal acknowledgements of where the frog is. Because when she went to check on him- and he wasn't there- she thought someone had stolen him. And since she didn't have the exact words to tell her teacher ALL OF THESE FEELINGS, she imploded. Now, if you're a parent, you have the ability to ignore a good 99 percent of your kid's tears, knowing them for what they are, and how easily they'll be over. But that last one percent? Those are the tears that BREAK you as a parent, because you recognize your own kid's tears of terror/devastation/parental failure.

We got home in time to receive a message that my book- the one on which I had spent the entirety of the past year- had just been shot dead in the water. The folks for whom I had done drafts and rewrites since Susannah's third week on this planet had backed out. I had written while nursing a newborn.Written while in the passenger seat of long car trips. Written instead of doing dishes, making hot dinners, or sleeping in any normal fashion. They wished me a ton o' luck, but they backed out. Wasn't going in the direction they had thought, they told me. Hilarious, they said. Laugh out loud funny, but nothing they were gonna go ahead with.

Which is their right. Obviously. And rejection is a natural part of yadda yadda. So I dealt with it in the obvious way: I fixed Nora a pb&j, strapped Zuzu into her high chair with some Cheerios, locked myself in the bathroom, sat down on the floor, and cried for about three minutes.

Then I filled some sippy cups, got two kids ready for naptime, told the laundry to go eff itself, pulled my blanket over my head, and prepared to wallow away naptime. (This lasted twenty minutes, until Susannah decided that the whole "resting" thing was done for the day.)

I decided to reclaim some productivity for Tuesday and, when Nora woke up, I dragged the kids out for a bunch of errands. At Target, I placed Susannah in the cart and Nora happily pushed her [reeeeally fast]. This went well until, at the pharmacy, I noticed that the safety buckle was broken and had slid apart, allowing our little monkey to climb around like no one's business. As I finished paying for a prescription, I swapped Susannah into another nearby cart, one with a nice working buckle. Nora reminded me that we needed cupcake stuff for Zu's upcoming birthday. So we took off.

It wasn't until we were pulling out of the parking lot that I realized I had no idea where my prescription was. Then, with a cold shock, I remembered tossing it in the bottom of the cart before I had moved Zuzu. The broken cart.

So we went back. I unbuckled both kids and hefted them into the store, Nora wailing all the while about someone having stolen our 'scripty. I attempted to tell her that Mommy had lost the prescription- it hadn't been stolen- but she wouldn't hear a word of it. After a few I gave up and let her go at it. (I was feeling melodramatic, too.)

The pharmacy people hadn't seen it. The customer service folks encouraged me to check with the pharmacy. A gal putting away carts warned me that it was gone- long gone. (Because "people do some weird stuff with other people's meds" and "good luck findin' that.) After a few more minutes spent looking into other people's carts like a creeper, I carried the kids back out to the parking lot and put them in the car.

Then, standing beside my car in a half-empty Target parking lot, I cried again. Big, embarrassing, snarfy Failure Tears. I didn't know where my prescription was. I had just wasted an hour of my life attempting productivity. And NO ONE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE WOULD EVER READ MY BOOK.

Susannah looked concerned. Nora started ranting again about thievery.

So I drove to a park and placed my confused children into a pair of swings. "We're having fun, AREN'T WE," I demanded to know. They agreed. This was just about the most fun they'd ever had with a weeping lunatic.

Two minutes later, Target pharmacy called and told me that someone had dropped off my pills at the counter: Did I want to come back? And even though I was only a few minutes down the road, I told them I'd be in a little later. Because I know myself well enough (and have read enough Greek tragedies) to understand when you've really gotta just stay down. No more driving about for the day. No more encountering anything or anyone who might have an opinion.

And while that wasn't the end of that day's laundry list of epic fails, this is the end of the space and/or time in which I've allowed myself to whine/wallow.

My final failure came around 10pm, right about when I decided to make myself a humongous drink of something alcoholic.

I ended up falling asleep instead.

But I forgave myself for that one.

She Sure Does Love Cheese, Doesn't She?

Every Chicagoan know where I am and what I'm holding.
(Also, thanks to Instagram, I can be as orange as the cheese!)

I have a confession.

I was not in Chicago this weekend. P.J., Nora, and Susannah were...but I was not. My wonderful husband actually sent me away (muttering something about house-related post traumatic stress, tightly wound, and something something- finish your book).

No one knew about this plan. I hadn't told anyone because a) I was feeling incredibly guilty about running off, and b) up until 6pm on Friday night, I wasn't even sure I was going to go.

Because Zuzu and I had never been apart. And Nora was used to the way things were. And it was unfair for Peej to have to shoulder one hundred percent of the meals, kid-wranglin', and housiness on his lonesome. (On his weekend. I mean, dude has a job, too.) I didn't want to be away from them; and not just in a "this is how things have to be" way. It's no secret that I'm madly in love with my husband. And that my kids make me deliriously happy (and sometimes just delirious). I like to be with them.

But, P.J.'s as stubborn as he is altruistic. So, at 6pm on Friday evening, I hopped into the car to drive up to East Troy, Wisconsin. It was pouring. I missed them already. And I was crying and pretending I wasn't crying and then yelling at myself for crying, and then crying because I hate to be yelled at.

It occurred to me that I had never done this before; drive off by myself to spend a weekend with no one else. That struck me as absurd. I'm 32 years old. I've never traveled without a boyfriend or friend or family member, ever? Ever ever?

So I stopped crying.

A little under two hours later, I arrived at The Pickwick Inn- a gorgeous Victorian b&b- and checked myself into the Louisa May Alcott room. ('Cause every room was named for a literary figure. Books n' books n' books were everywhere in the house. My heart felt happy.) My room featured a carved bed. Period decor. A chandelier that filled me with love/envy. And a double jacuzzi ALL FOR ME.

I'm not gonna lie- I stood in the room just staring around for roughly ten minutes. Seriously, ten minutes. There was no one to feed, nothing to unpack, no potty breaks to enforce, no bedtime routine to start...and I forgot how to function. So I moved my possessions around the room a few times. Took a bath (while furtively watching for anyone to burst in and tell me this was a big ol' joke). Found wine coolers in the hallway mini fridge. Read one of the [4!] books I had packed. Called P.J. twice. (Was told twice by P.J. to go to bed.) Read some more. And slept. I slept alone, with nothing and no one to answer for; no nursing sessions, no weird sounds, no street fights or sirens, and no reason to get out of bed until breakfast the following morning. (So of course I woke up four times in the night to just make sure everything was cool.)

I woke up in the same room, with everything I owned still right where I had left it. I had forgotten how nice it could be to get dressed and ready for the day by myself, first thing. But I soon remembered. And I went to downstairs to a gourmet breakfast that seriously blew me out of the water. Blueberry stuffed French toast. Peach cobbler. Egg and sausage frittata. Fruit n' bacon n' more coffee than I could consume in a week. (But I sure tried.) I met lovely people and had even lovelier conversations.

And then? Oh, then- it was time to write. P.J. had sent me off to finish my book- the book that had been looming over my head ever since interest was expressed in it (when Zu was a whopping three weeks old). And I'd tried, really I had, to work on it almost every single day. But things happened, like sick kids and visitors and sewer pipe implosions. The weight of this unfinished book was sucking all of the air out of my summer with the kids; I wanted to be their focused Mom again, not just some crazy person who would whip out a laptop or a scrap of paper every time they napped or ate a meal or sat down for a moment.

So I wrote. I wrote for four and a half hours straight. I wrote out on a beautiful screened-in porch, with the soft breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass to soothe me. (And to counteract the bucket of coffee I'd consumed.) Walking into town for a quick break, I felt like I was in a screenplay. Or the heroine at the beginning of an Americana novel. (It was awesome.) The waitress at the diner complimented my shoes and asked what brought me here.

"I'm a writer. I'm writing a book." (And the best part is- on that day it was totally the truth.)

And then I went back to the inn and wrote for another four straight hours, stopping at dusk to drive to a nearby dockside restaurant (and have the absolute slowest service yet the absolute yummiest ahi tuna wrap this side of anywhere). I came back after 9pm and wrote for another hour and a half. Then- and I'm not gonna lie- I had another wine cooler. And another bath. And devoured a Sookie Stackhouse novel.

I still missed my babies. And felt- as I always do when P.J. isn't beside me at night- like there was a Peej-sized hole in the bed. But I slept deeply (excepting the mandatory four times I woke up to check on the room).

Breakfast the next morning was even better than the previous day's. And even though I needed to check out at 11am, the owners welcomed me to stay and finish my book on the porch. (Finish my book? Heck, I was ready to finish my summer with these amazingly sweet people.)

So I set up camp on the porch for the next three hours. And you know what? I finished that book. (Here's the best part; I actually think it's pretty good. This will probably change. Because it's most likely just the "well-rested" part of me speaking.)

Inordinately proud of myself, I took a winding drive home, stopping in Geneva to (among other things) buy a McCoy strawberry cookie jar that I cannot live without. And no trip to Wisconsin would be complete without a jaunt to the Mars Cheese Castle (amiright?) for some cheese curds. (And maybe the best liverwurst sandwich that I've ever had, which would include all of the ones that I mainlined during both pregnancies. That's a good processed meat sandwich.)

I felt like a new person. Or maybe like me, but happier. I sang/screamed along to the radio and didn't even change the channel when Jon Secada came on. "YOU KNOW WHAT," I yelled to myself, "WE'RE JUST GONNA LET THIS ONE PLAY OUT." Because when you're in a mood that good, few artists (aside from Stabbing Westward or Mazzy Star) are gonna kill that buzz.

Peej got a happier wife back (along with some butterscotch root beer and a six pack of Spotted Cow).  The girls got a calmer mother (along with some vintage jewelry and buttons shaped like flowers). And cheese curds, too. There were still some cheese curds left.

I feel normal again. Or, rather, maybe not normal. Because "normal" people don't get gifts like this all too often, nor do they get to return home to the very things they'd missed, and keep on doing the stuff they love, surrounded by people who inspire them.

And sometimes it takes a wonderful weekend away to realize all that.

The cheese curds don't hurt, either.

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.)