Hmm. Awfully muggy for "Fall."

Rearranging the dining room.

It is officially Fall. I know this because a) I own a calendar [app], and b) people keep wishing each other a Happy Solstice on Facebook. (What did I DO before Facebook? I'll tell you- I wrote in a paper journal and called P.J. eighty times a day to tell him hilarious anecdotes. I think we can all agree that Facebook has kickstarted my blogging and saved my marriage.)

Also a marriage-saver: Last night P.J. found a mouse that had- ahem- ceased to be in the corner of the garage. Actually, it had ceased to be in any locale. He discovered and disposed of it in the time it took me to ask "What's so snicky?" This is a great skill in a husband. He also reassured me that there were no holes in the garage or the shed, that it most likely snuck in while the garage door was open one night. This bothered me greatly so he amended it, remembering that he had also spied a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's person- so he must have died of old age.

Food for thought- does a mouse have a person? Or is it a 'mouse?' There was a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's mouse.

Nope. Can't use it in that sense.

And have you noticed that a story involving a rat= panic/anger/hatred and a field mouse= confusion/sadness/whimsical storytelling? That's because mice are itty bitty squeakers and rats can suck it. (My mother: Keely! Me: Sorry!)

Back to the Solstice.

I have been feeling so crazypants lately and it's nice to have something new to blame it on. I've been cleaning and rearranging to a ridiculous extent; my office, my desk, the living room furniture, P.J.'s dresser (gave that one up midway through- I can admit defeat when need be.)

P.J. does not care for this. He does not like "change," overmuch. But then again, he wasn't too keen on moving in together four and a half years ago, nor was he ready to have a baby/buy a home/get a car before we had a chance to really thiiiiink it over. For what that's worth.

Besides, I can't help all of this moving things about. At the risk of sounding compulsive, the idea plants itself in my mind and I know the only way to get peace is to physically shift and poke and spin things around. And it works. Because the things- rooms, desk drawers, half of dressers- look fabulous after I tweak 'em. They always do.

And clearly, I can use a change. At the risk of my mother saying I'm being down on myself- I'm falling apart. For no discernible reason. 10pm Bedtime Month is still going [relatively] strong. (I mean, sometimes you hafta stay up late to scope Lamebook while eating PB out of the jar.) So I'm rested. Plus I'm happy with my new work/home ratio. And Nora's the easiest kiddo ever.

But twice last week I fell out of my shoes. All the way to the pavement out. Another time I tripped and, instead of catching myself on anything nearby, I compensated for balance by flinging the baby monitor down the stairs. (I'm fine. The monitor is not. Somewhere in mid-fling the audio wire snapped. Perhaps when it met the ground.)

And the other day while riding public transit, the elastic holding my hair up just sorta...pinged apart. I actually heard a 'ping.' Didn't know what it was. But it kinda felt like someone was poking the top of my scalp- which is not altogether unheard of on the CTA. And the other riders got to stare at me while my hair slowly fell to the sides of my face. Which I'm actually kind of sorry to have missed. (That's like- performance art!)

Maybe this is why the other Moms at the playlot won't talk to me. Falling down, throwing things and personal grooming failures are rather off-putting.

But, you know what?

It's probably just the Solstice.

Bringin' the issues.

I've spent the morning g-chatting with my younger sister Chelly- her weekend was consumed with the taking of the SATs. No, she's not 18. She's just a tutor of said test. I can't imagine accepting any job that would make me relive the longest nine hours of my life (I took it three separate times and got the exact same score. No, I will not tell you what it was. Let's just say that I was lucky to be such a good college interviewee.) 


Here's what I've learned about how the test has changed: Frida Kahlo is apparently a pinata. Or giant, pinata-shaped metaphor. The test-makers are racist. If you do really well on the essay part, they create a new grade for you. (Gonna call 'shenanigans' on that one, Rachel. Regardless of how Nadia Comaneci-esque your performance was; apparently it combined scene analysis from 'Angels in America' with a lyrical breakdown of Ke$ha's 'Tik Tok.' I'm starting to understand my score a little bit better.) 


When compared to a weekend like that, one can't help but measure the success of their own Saturdays and Sundays. If I had to sum up my weekend in three words, I would choose these: Derby, Walgreens & Jorts. 


Before you are consumed with jealousy (and, likely, more than a little confusion), lemme add three more: Boppy, Sports Bra (two words?), Weed Whacker (okay, five.)


I will elaborate on the first three while I prop my laptop on a nursing boppy, wearing (among other things) a sports bra that I donned before Pilates yesterday- and has subsequently become painful to try and remove, so I haven't- and am listening my neighbor do yard work outside my front window. And, so help me God, if the whacking o' the weeds wakes up the wee one, it may get ugly. 


I'm ready for anything. I am wearing a sports bra, after all.


SO.


The weekend began with a Kentucky Derby party at the home of some rad pals. There were juleps. And televised horses with phrase-y names. And babies in hats. In fact, there was a competition for Best Baby Hat. And, oh- didn't I mention? NORA WON. I have succeeded in making her awesome. That's right, my infant daughter is being shoved to the floor by the weight of my adolescent hopes and dreams. Winning a competition. Based on something having to do with looks. Call up Toddlers n' Tiaras- someone's ready for her spray tan and infant stilettos.


Okay, or it may just end there. Because- Nora is a little bit of a barefoot hippie. (*Cough*LikeHerDad*Cough*) I had put these miniature pink patent leather Mary Janes on her feet before we left the house and, by the time we parked the car, her toes were poking out of the middle, rendering the footwear a really awkward set of ankle bracelets. So the shoes went. And the hat was a glorious monstrosity of ribbons and curlicues. She hated that, too. So, after the initial parading of Baby With Hat, she became Barefoot Baby with Bald Head. (Sigh.) And, after the blue sundress became too constricting, she dropped that as well. It was that kind of party.


Also, the horse that P.J. was gunning for- and the horse that won- was named Super Saver. Who saw that coming? Coupon humor!


Next word. Nora and I walked over to our corner Walgreens to pick up some photos yesterday. On the way we were stopped by a man collecting money for feeding the homeless. He looked at Nora, clad in a romper covered in rosebuds and a purple hoodie, and asked- "How old is he?" 


I need to put a wrapping paper bow on her head or something.


The prints I had ordered were a mix of old photos; my Nana as a young woman, my Dad as an infant, etc. Basically cool photos for our front wall. They were so cool, in fact, that the guy ringing me up exclaimed "I loved looking through your pictures!" (What? Isn't that kinda something you're not supposed to admit?) 


He followed that up with "I wish I lived in your time." (Um, that actually wasn't 29 year old me in those grainy, black and white pictures of babies in buggies and such. 'Cause that was the 1950s. As stated by the scrawled words 'April 1953', for example. Or maybe he means the non-Walgreens vortex. That makes sense.)


Then he proceeded to tell me that the name on the photo slip was incorrect. 
"Is this how you spell it?"
"Yep." 
"But there's two 'e's." 
"Uh huh." 
"But it's wrong on the front." 
"Nope." 
"That's not how you spell Kelly." 
"In fact it is not." 


Pausepausepausepause.


"What is your name?"
"Keely. Like on the front."
"Oh, I didn't know how to pronounce it!"
"No!"
"Now I know."


Which is awesome. Because now we can definitely avoid such exchanges in the future. 


He also tried to sell me on the rack of dollar DVDS up front.


"You like movies?"
"Yep."
"You should get some from over there. They're a dollar."
"Awesome!"
"Can't have this one, though, [holds up a copy of 'Wolverine.'] 'cause I got the ONLY ONE."


Weekend= near to ruined.


And that brings us to...Jorts.


My big ol' project this weekend was taking the rest of my maternity clothes and putting them into storage- and getting all of the spring-y, smaller sized clothing out into the light of day. Being as I was fairly preggo last year around this time, some of this clothing hasn't seen any action since I was but a carefree newlywed with nary a mortgage and possessing pockets of time in which to be bored. (Sigh.)


I tried it all on. And 75 percent of it FIT! I was so excited that, naturally, I updated my Facebook status with this phrase: "just tried on cutoff jeans from three summers ago. And they fit. This should probably not elicit the amount of excitement that I am currently experiencing." 


People responded, as I knew they might. Fourteen females 'liked' it and responded positively. Three guys questioned the style choice, the possessing of 'jorts' and whether or not it was 1993. 


But here's the kicker: they're a size 4. That's right. Ridicule away, boys, I'm too busy dancing around in teensy-tiny knee-length shorts to devote the amount of tears that a Facebook-trouncin' would normally require. 


Which is a lot.


Although not nearly the volume elicited by the SATs. 


Maybe I should have worn my Jorts. 

Friends: 0. (Sigh.)

At the risk of sounding like a fourteen year-old girl, I am going to start implementing some changes to my Facebook page.

Notably, my "friends." Notice the quotes. I do not put the quotes around my real friends. (I use my arms!) The former are people whom, if I happened to bump into, would most likely not recognize. My "friends" are people who could care less about my writing, my daughter, my husband, my "dream house" (more quotes!) or status updates regarding anything in the previous list. I shall delete with wild abandon, starting with:


People Who Are Stupid: Yes, on paper this sounds harsh (but on a webpage it's positively blinding). People who cannot spell, consistently fail to use punctuation (four sentences with nary a comma nor a period, por ejemplo) or who think THAT ALL CAPS IS ACCEPTABLE FOR STATUSES LONGER THAN A WORD. Quality of status is nice, too, but I thinking I'm aiming too high. Maybe we can put a kibosh on statuses that are the entire day's happenings, complete with color commentary and a tremendously abusive amount of 'lol,' j/k, 'hahahahahahahahahas,' and such.


This group is but a distant, stupid memory to me. Also:


The Malcontents: Yes, we all have gripes. I'm having one right now! But c'mon, peeps, if every single day is such a trial, perhaps you have bigger problems than "Monday again? DAMMIT!" The amount of people for whom each day's status is a complaint that it's "that" day...is simply staggering. And those are the folks who post all Sunday about how the weekend is almost over! So, Saturday at 11am is a good status-time, then? (Unless you're hungover. DAMMIT!)


And let's not forget...


The Flag-Wavers: I am consistently alarmed and amazed by the amount of so-called patriotic citizens on Facebook who could not give a fig about 80% of this nation's residents. Supporting our troops is great. I love America, our armed forces, the freedoms we enjoy and the ability to complain about it. But sometimes I want to ask the Flag Wavers whom, exactly, they think our troops are fighting to protect? If I go by status updates, I'd have to guess upper class, Republican, straight white dudes. Apparently everyone else is on their own. (Interesting to note: this group and the ALL CAPS ALL THE TIME gang do a lot of cross- mingling.)


Wow. That was, quite possibly, the most political I've ever gotten on here.


Let's take it back down a notch to-


The Rest Of The Bunch: The Haterz, The Drunks, The Pollyannas, The Loss-Of-Identity-My-Baby's-Pic-Has-Replaced-Mine-Procreators...oh, I could go on.


And yes, I'm highly aware of the fact that I break a ton of rules as well. I post about Nora like it's a part-time job (as someone snarkily asked me last week- "So, you have a kid?" DELETED!) My housing problems are the biggest deal in the world. I litter your homepage with blog posts. I'm [usually] irritatingly optimistic. My husband is hot.


These things annoy a ton of people. I understand.


However- and this is the crux o' the whole thing- if we are friends? Real friends? How-are-you-I'll-wait-for-a-response friends? These updates shouldn't be akin to nails on a chalkboard.


Just sayin'.


*****


Confidential to...anyone who hasn't deleted me by now:


Nora's five months old today/We had an ant "thing" in the house but Peej obliterated them/Went to a great dinner party with the extraordinarily tolerant bitsy babe/Met with the Lady Writers this weekend for brunch, ginger cocktails and superior writing/Had my butt handed to me in pilates- since it's still big enough to actually be handed, I should probably continue to go/I'm making this rad shrimp dish for din tonight/I managed to shower today- before noon!/Good God, are you still reading? We must be friends.


Hugs (with arms, not quotes),
Keely