Say It With Slacks.

It's officially Spring! Happy Spring, everyone!

Okay, fine, maybe not "weather-wise," but in terms of whimsical, breezy fashion? SPRING. 

For example:

Let's begin.

• They are not only "slacks," but they are LADIES' SLACKS. 
• These slacks require zero ironing. Which is good, because I couldn't tell you the timesuck that ironing my slacks has become.
• No matter what circumstances are going down in your life, the elastic waistband of these beauties will not roll. Weeding azaleas, running from the fuzz, your waistband= solidly in place. Somewhere up there by your ribcage.
• Two handy pockets! For your handies! (Compared to other slacks' pockets which aren't so useful?)
• "Rich" "Miracle" "Polyester" are all words that they've used in the same sentence as "Fabric." 
• A lifetime indelible crease. Frankly, that kind of staying power frightens me. 
• The woman on the left has never before been out-of-doors. You can tell by the way she's holding her wrists and that one foot.
• The woman on the right is a mobster's wife. I'm sorry, fanning out cash?
• They are seven dollars a pair when you buy four pairs. Wait- just wait- they also do the math for you if you want to buy FIVE OR EVEN SIX PAIRS. So not only do they fully expect their clientele to wear these slacks every day of the week, they're also assuming you don't know what seven times however many pairs of slacks you need would be. There's no discount or anything. They're just letting you know they think you're rather slow. 

But exquisitely slack-ed. 

The Evolution Of A Day's Outfit.

Night attire, obviously. Butterfly sundress, polka dot blouse, pink stretch pants, moose socks.

Midmorning play clothes (chosen by 17 month-old): A perfectly acceptable
cozy outfit, plus maroon tutu, plus bandanna, plus pink Red Sox cap.

Post-nap ladybug dress over striped pants, with the addition of at least one glitter flip flop.

Checking themselves out in the mirror- once Zuzu chose her own ladybug dress, obvie.

Ladybugs with flip flops. "We should really see if someone's outside, we look incredible."

Say It With Elastic Waist Jeans.

I have a new favorite advertisement. And it's for elastic jeans.

Let's begin.

As the ad so clearly states: That's Amazing!

Some of the text is mighty small, so I shall clarify. For starters, this pair of dungarees features the company's "most comfortable 360 degree stretch waist." That's right, we're not talking just a little stretch action by the zipper, no sir. You could comfortably invite a friend in there with you. (Maybe not so "comfortably" for your "friend"- but there'd be room enough for both of you, and that's my point.)

Secondly, these fine pants come in many washes; vintage grey, indigo, medium blue, light blue, and washed black. I, for one, would enjoy seeing a gentleman out on the town in his finest stretchy black jeans- washed or not. I'd say to myself- there's a guy who knows how to make the scene. Also? I'm pretty sure there's nothing "vintage" about these jeans. Your grandpappy would not know what to make of the 360 degree stretch. In fact, he'd be ashamed.

And I think we can all agree that this is a classic case of The Model Did Not Know For What His Picture Was To Be Used. Pretttty sure he would've had a slightly different expression on his face, had he known he would be shilling size 60 waist jeggings.

The company's mailing address is on Bargain Place. That, and the fact that they're offering two pairs for 29.99 (a ten dollar savings), inspires me to visit this magical place. Because you know they don't just stop at stretchy jeans. (There's a website on the bottom of the ad, but I'm terrified to click through. Terrified of the awesome. And terrified of P.J.'s reaction when I tell him he can't have a birthday present because I bought crazy things due to the inspiration of washed black elastic-waisted jeans. Have another cupcake!)

And they feature five pockets- which Peej thinks is impossible. (I assure him it is possible, because I was once a girl who possessed Z. Cavaricci jeans with loads of pockets...even though they only came in boring ol' distressed stonewash blue with nary an elastic. YAWN.)

Finally, the ad assures me that these jeans are "100 percent easy wash and wear." You know, compared to the relative difficulty of laundering my current pair of jeans. (Why is my denim so fragile to the touch?!)

Listen, it's my job to alert you fine folks to the veritable treasure-trove of Things You Can Buy On The Interwebs. (And business is good.) But don't thank me just yet.

Because, by the time of this posting, this company will be completely sold out of the washed black stretchies.

Early bird gets the solid brass zipper.

Boycotton. That's Right.

Rainbow stripes are slimming.

And now, a half-week update on Boycotton (a term I've just now thoroughly invented to define my week-long ban on sweatpants):

I continue to not wear my cozies- excepting, obviously, those occasions wherein it is not only acceptable but expected; bedtime, early evening viewings of Jane Eyre, etc., etc.- and here is what I've found.

It is difficult. Because nothing fits. Nothing. I am too small to wear my maternity pants (you so rarely hear the upside of gestational diabetes), but haven't as yet been able to smoothly transition to my normal jeans. The operative word being "smooth."

And yes. I am temporarily boycotting sweatpants but have no issue with the denim.

So. Thursday I wore ill-fitting jeans and a sweater. Upon which Suzy promptly spit up, but which I continued to wear. Because I am fancy and was able to hide it under the baby sling. I wore makeup and brushed my hair. P.J., who reads this blog and was intensely aware of this project, told me that I looked "nice." (And when I announced that I was going to put on my pajamas, he gave me a look that I SWEAR asked if I wasn't already wearing them.)

Friday. That night was Neil's going away party, and I dressed up the gals- and myself- to have an early din out on the town. Because nothing says FUN like taking a toddler and a newborn to a pub by oneself. (Oh, the looks.) My pants and top were no match for my elder daughter's self-picked outfit of a sweater dress, skinny jeans, and shiny red Mary Janes. Hipster. (Susannah wore a clever hat and a baby sling. I wore Susannah.) I'm pretty sure that I did something different with my hair. I might even have used a styling product. Today's experiment went entirely unnoticed except for the Under-2 set. (Nora, for her part, has been amazing throughout this endeavor. "Mommy, are you wearing stripes? Is that an orange shirt? Your hair is pretty! Can I wear that shoe? There's a sticker on your leg!")

Saturday. I looked awesome on Saturday. Layers, boots, showerliness, all of it. We all looked really good. Why? Well, we had to jaunt over to our pals' home for the birthday party of their two year-old, Elijah. Which...is actually next weekend. (Sorry, Cassie.) And did I mention that they just had a baby and Saturday was their first day home? Yeah, we're that family.

On Sunday we went to Mass, so I wore an entirely different sweater and pair of bizarrely fitting pants...but paired with the baby sling (holding the zonked-out baby) it only served to bunch up the sweater. Causing me to look like a lady wearing an ill-fitting afghan and bizarrely fitting pants. I had put my hair half up but, due to the crazy gales of wind, I looked like Don King. In an ill-fitting afghan and such.

When we got home I gave up and put on my Hampshire hoodie.

Which is the new subtitle of my memoirs.

These Are My Current Events, Darnit.

THIS is what "30s With Kids" looks like.
Hoodies and kitchen floors.
Nary a sensible handbag.

Okay, now I'm not one to dwell [overmuch, publicly] on things, but...

Seriously. The ending of the seventh Harry Potter movie (Part 2, if you will, of The Deathly Hallows). And I swear that this is not a spoiler. Not unless you like wardrobe choice to be a tightly held secret. (Like a royal wedding!)

Yeah, yeah, Voldemort (we can say his name now, yes?) and Snape and Harry Potter and yesyesyes, all of that.

But that last scene on the train platform? Nineteen years have passed. The "kids" are sending their own kids off to Hogwarts. They are a mere five years older than I am at the very time of this posting.

So why are they so frumpy and old-looking?

It looks like they're playing dress-up. Ginny Weasley has a sensible bob and the mommiest purse I've ever seen in my life. Ron has a paunch and a wide forehead. Harry has prosthetic wrinkles (wrinkles!!) and a blazer. HERMIONE HAS HER HAIR IN A FRENCH TWIST.

Seriously. I understand that they needed some props to age these youngsters, but really? P.J. and I discussed what we'd be wearing if we drove to the train station to see our kids off to boarding school; jeans and hoodies. Same as we wear every day. And sure, the Harry Potter kids have been wearing that very outfit since movie One. So it wouldn't really have the aging effect the studio was looking for, I get that.

But there is an awfully big difference between looking 36 and looking 76. (There is, isn't there? Tell me there is. Would I look that old on a train platform? Tell me my butt wouldn't look that wide as I embraced by 11 year-old. TELL ME.)

I saw this movie exactly a week ago. And I am haunted- HAUNTED- by this scene. Basically what the film industry is telling me is that- barring turning yourself into some sort of "real" housewife or glamorously and vigorously anti-aging yourself into a Botoxed wonder- the rest of us jerks look like this in their mind's eye.

At 36.

I am going Sexy Purse shopping.

This goes way beyond Mommy Fashion.

Fashion.

During our commute this morning, I handed a book back to Nora and saw that it had been in publication for 25 years. I laughed and said that was crazy, since that was how old I was. Then I paused, realizing that I was indeed that age...plus five years and ten months. Which makes me painfully close to 31. 

I mentioned to Peej that I still felt like I was in my mid-twenties, and if I had to check a box or something, I usually felt pretty jarred to realize that it just wasn't the case. I started to ask him how old he felt in his mind's eye and got as far as "How old do you-"

"38," was his immediate response.

And since he's only 29, I can shoulder some of that rapid aging onto myself. For our lifestyle, our sleep habits, and my incessant need to know what he's thinking about. 

The subject of age has come up a lot lately- twice this week with my sister, in fact. She was lamenting the fact that, whenever she goes into a store, she's either in the tween section or the aged and dusty section. And she's not a big fan of "the skanky jeans" (direct quote) nor, I imagine, is she fond of the oversized cardigan and teensy floral-printed slacks display. So what to do?

Answer: nothing. 

Even stores and brands that promise not to make you look like a fifteen year old...somehow do. Or send you decades in the opposite direction. 

One of my most shocking incidents from mid-twentyhood occurred in the [at the time] new H&M down on Michigan. While I was happily pawing through eclectic and affordable Euro clothing, I was almost bumped into by a group of teenaged girls. 

"Oh my GOD," one of them squealed at her friends. "You almost wandered into the OLD PERSON SECTION."

I stared around in horror. Where?! As a twenty three year-old, I didn't want to be there either! Turns out, it was the whole floor. And I embodied it. Confusingly enough. 

Eventually, I gave up on buying "new" things. So here's what I do now: clothing from college (at one time nearing the spectrum of acceptable fashion, this I promise you) is WORN TO THE GROUND. Also paired with hoodies, grubby shoes (also at one point pretty darned cute), and tie the [unwashed] hair up into a ponytail. Maybe use your toddler's hair clip, if handy and left on the floor for dead. Voila. 

"But Keely," you ask. "Isn't that the epitome of youthful dressing? Wearing actual clothing from one's youth?"

Yes. But while you'll look like a thirteen year-old, you won't be a SEXY thirteen year-old. And that's my point.

My friend Nat and I love to mock those bright yellow bags from Forever 21. Because while, sure, the clothing there is ridiculously affordable and not entirely out of my age range, anything you buy is placed into a neon bag proclaiming you to be FOREVER 21. (Twenty-one 4eva!) This leads the random passerby to believe that indeed, you believe yourself to be twenty-one. Forever. 

I like Nora's method of dressing "her age." Ever since she was in the womb, we've had generous (and impeccably stylish) friends and family load her future closet with clothing so new that P.J. and I are ashamed to touch them with our thrift-store selves. Even more importantly, she stubbornly remains six to nine months behind her current size. That's right, my [almost] one and a half year old rocks the 12 month clothing. (Just barely, and awfully recently.) This means that her current wardrobe will last- oh, for years. (Maybe 4eva!)

THAT is how it's done. 

For the rest of us [me], let's just hope that faded and baggy layers (some of them maternity!) come back into raging style. We'll see who's laughing then. 

It'll be anyone witnessing the 31 year-old (thinking she's a 25 year-old) in positively ragged outfits, carting around a designer princess...

...Getting asked if she's the nanny. 

A kiss for luck and we're on our way...

Crazy kids.

First off, a big ol' smoochy Thank You to everyone who bloggily voted. As clichéd as it sounds, I was stoked to be a top five nominee...and surrounded by stellar loved ones/fans/readers with top notch internet service. Results next Sunday night! Meetcha by the Twitter feed.

I've got anniversaries on the brain as of late. This past Friday was the 37th wedding anniversary for my folks Deb and Dave- or, more commonly, Mim and Pop. (I actually coined both of those nicknames back in high school, way before they were grandparents. Who would've thought my quirky nomenclature would be immortalized by four short people? Their grandkids, btw, not their daughters.)

Mama Moderne actually just posted my latest piece, which details the love story of those very same parents. Or at least the cleaned-up, made for mid-afternoon TV love story.

Thirty seven years seems positively ambitious at times. Especially when I'm just approaching three years of wedded bliss with my patient husband whom, just last night, gave me the world-weariest look o' looks. (And we've only just begun!)

Last week also marked a different anniversary of sorts for me; it was a year ago that I decided to buy the rights to my blog. Now, I don't know if the shorter web addy has anything to do with it, but I've steadily added 2k new hits to my blog each month since then. That's also around the time when I began taking occasional advertisers and doing reviews. I don't want to brag, but my bi-monthly income would let me live a pretty sweet life in Malawi. For about a week.

Yesterday some lovely friends were over for brunch, and the topic turned- as it so often does among the late-twenties/early thirties set- of piercings we used to possess. They included the typical earrings and lip rings- and someone's husband had a truly questionable piercing inspired by a long ago girlfriend who would never become his wife- and it was then that I remembered my own odd piercing. And how it was the ten year anniversary of such.

When I was 20 years old- and it can't even be called a rebellious piercing, since that's embarrassingly late for such- I had my tragus pierced. (As my Dad said when I called to announce it- That'd better be visible.) And it is. Unless I'm wearing my hair down. (It's on the ear.) Back then, getting the inner flap of one's ear pierced was all the rage. Among hippie hipsters in Amherst, MA. I have no idea what inspired it, but one morning I woke up and informed my friend Vicky that we were going to drive into town and get me some piercin'.

And then I chickened out. But by that time, a guy was coming at me with a hook-shaped needle. Thankfully, he was so bogglingly attractive that I stared at his pretty face until my nerves settled and the blood subsided. (It freaking hurt. And it turned out that he was gay. Thanks for nothing, Hot Piercing Boy.)

At first I really dug it. And then I got a little sick of it. But every time I almost removed it for good, I remembered the searing pain. So in it stayed. Then years went by and the longer I kept it, the longer I felt I should keep it. Other things came and went, like the belly button ring (as a joke with a boyfriend who indeed became a husband) that I feared would not stand the test of motherhood. (I do not miss it. My halter-wearing, bejeweled-navel ship has since set sail. Toot toot.)

So happy anniversary Mom and Dad, Lollygag Blog, and left ear. May you always be as blissfully happy as you were that very day.

Except for the tragus thing.

I am not kidding about the pain.

November is for sleeping.

Firstly and foremostly, congrats to Kelly F, winner extraordinaire of the Brain Noodles giveaway! (And no, that does not read 'Keely F.' It doesn't.) Hope you have some fun kiddos in your life- or enjoy a good crafty evening by yourself. 'Cause who doesn't?

Except for autophobes.

Hmm. So. Where did October go?

Ah yes, now I remember. We sent it packing with armloads of confetti and [impossible to open] plastic toy enclosures, a face full of Trick or Treat makeup and frosting up its nostril.

Maybe a frozen Reese's cup in its back pocket. (I'm kidding. I ate all of those. In the state.)

Hey gorgeous. Cupcake? Sure!

Yes. This weekend. Friday was a crazypants day, full of tutus, graphic tees proclaiming 'ONE,' zoo trips, zero naps, and all sorts of good foods. And some really bad ones. We took Nora Noodle to the zoo for her big day and decided to make up for the other afternoon where we tried to squeeze an entire visit into the last fifteen minutes before closing time. We failed.


Here is what she dug:
-The cats. And they were all 'cats.' The lions, servals, panthers, tigers, seals...
-The birds. Flamingos, ducks, nearby chickadees and street pigeons.
-Dad was there. Dad! DAAAAAD!
-Smelling the gardenias inside the conservatory.
-Walking about on the pavement.
-The snack I had brought.

Here is what she did not care for:
-The fact that the monkey house was indoors and dim. Also, kinda smelly.
-That she could not hold the snake.
-Not being allowed to walk about on the pavement the entire time.
-The near-freezing temps.
-Not being allowed IN the koi pond at the conservatory.
-When I removed the empty snack container from her hands.

I had made all of her favorite foods for that day- in fact, for the whole week. P.J's as well- because, as everyone knows, she's taking notes. And will remember. These foods included: French toast with bananas, mini croissant sandwiches, a sweet potato and apple bake, eggplant parmesan, and a chocolate cherry cupcake (from Sweet Mandy B's. I cannot bake.) I'm rather surprised she didn't explode.

As for the cupcake itself, we had a very cool (and rather Epcot World of Tomorrow moment) where my parents got to Skype and see Nora blow out her first candle. (We live in the future!) It was pretty neat, especially when everyone got a close up look at my delicate daughter smashing her face (hands-free...she's a LADY) directly into the frosting.

We undressed her right over the bathtub and she took a nice long soak surrounded by cake and eggplant bits. YUM.

Dux.

She awoke the next morning to find her parents in a frenzy. Why? Oh, because they had decided on a no-stress mini party for their toddler at her favorite nearby playlot. And that required multiple trips to multiple stores. And they needed to get food and drinks (and adult "juice") and presents and paper goods and wipes and candles (and and and) to the park that may or may not have available picnic tables because, once again, it is a free city park. Also, the forecast had- ever so helpfully- been fluctuating between  a pleasant mid-60s sunny day and a positively frigid rainy 40-something. Which meant that the party MIGHT have had to take place at the homestead. Which was also frantically being cleaned for the arrival of P.J.'s parents sometime that day. (Sorry Nora, happy birthday and all- go lay down.)

And when she decided to nap for a whopping twenty minutes that day? No one was surprised. But thankfully, the day turned out to be gorgeous, Nora was thrilled when she realized where we were taking her, even more ecstatic when she realized that other people she knew were there (Hey guys! You're at my park!), and she devoured a second glorious cupcake (punkin' this time, made by the fabulous Cindy/Julia Team O' Excellence) with all the acumen of a seasoned pro.

Of course, we had decided to have it at the park to best accommodate all of her miniature friends...four of whom were able to show up. (There were various illnesses and weekendy plans. You know how it goes.) However, a whopping 90% of our friends made it, allowing for a positively creepy number of adults san children at a public playlot. Lots of bench-sitting and "juice" drinking. I had fun. Nora thought it was terrific.


That night she passed out atop brightly wrapped boxes, clutching a questionably "food"-covered Doc Bullfrog. Party over, I could almost hear her bitsy (and racing) mind decide.

Miiine.

Except.

The next day was Halloween. A day for masks, Skyping with a good half of Trick or Treating cousins (what's a telephone?), carving pumpkins (you're doing WHAT to the punkins?!), giving buckets of candy away to other kids (they get ALL of it?) and dressing up as Raggedy Ann (I did this last week, weirdos.) Aside from the oddity of hearing the doorbell every five minutes, she had a pretty decent time. She even got to take a bath with all of the leftover cupcake ducks.

There's a sentence I've never before typed.

But now that it's November, maybe we can all agree to take a nap? Specifically the shorties? I need all the extra time I can get to dispose of the veritable kitchen candyland we're got going on (immediately into my face) and find some sort of order for the F.A.O. Schwartz open for business in our playroom. (Nora: It is fine the way it is. Leave it. LEAVE IT.)

Raggedy Tired.

I might start by doing a big ol' load of laundry. That's right. Let's start with the upstairs bedding. I'm probably gonna need to crawl under the sheets to make sure I can reach all of the blankets. And I should rest there for a few.

This hand holding the cupcake is getting heavy.

Vacation + Blogging= Vlog!

(That IS what it stands for, yeah?)

So, in light of the fact that I am currently in Napa for the wedding of two darling friends...here's something kinda sorta completely different.

A Vlog that Nora and I recorded last week. You're welcome. And...if you hate it...

...I'm sorry. (But you won't.)

love, Keely
(p.s. This is the most still my child has ever been. Ever.)

I mock because I envy.

The single best thing that has ever been randomly sent through the U.S. Mail- ever- is something that I'm about to share with you.

It is a catalog. And it has changed my life.

Not only that, but I am also able to show you each individual item that has made me a better American- nay, human being. For- their online catalog is gonna allow me some visual aides.

Ready? (Of course you aren't. How do you prepare for something of this magnitude? As for me, I usually take a little power nap.)

Let's begin with an item I like to call- My Back Is On Fire. This gem, a.k.a. the Rock Music Men's Hoodie, features a guy who's too cool for any school (except, inexplicably, he seems to be in some sort of establishment with lovely wood paneling, so I guess he did all right for himself anyhow)- with a gigantic electric guitar on his back. And it is aflame. In blue! The color of rock! On the front you've got a nice little pick. Aflame as well, obviously. The axe not your thing? My apologies, Mr. Rick Allen, how about the flaming drums? On the front is...well, another picture of a drum. I guess a random stick would be weird. My favorite part that was weirdly omitted from the online version? "Rockin' hoodies let him show a little attitude." Key word- "little." Now get back inside and sort your socks.

Up next we've got some Laughing Crazy Critters. And yes, they've actually copyrighted that phrase- so back off. There's a dog and a monkey...and they are CRAZY. Ha Ha Ha, they are shown as saying. "You can't help but join in with these merry animals." Really? I don't need any more compulsion in my life, thanks. Also- "A great pick-me-up-gift for anyone who could use a laugh." While it's nice to help friends who are down in the dumps, if I ever approach you with a wiggling stuffed animal that will force you to laugh (Ha Ha Ha), I give you full permission to hit me with it. "But Keely," you implore. "Some people like animals that bring a chuckle." Check out the product video. See if it brings anything but confusion, crazy or otherwise.

Then we've got the 40" Lighted Stars. Innocuous enough, if you can get over the fact that you've got three mammoth glowy stars on your front porch. Which, nicely enough, I can. What really sells this one for me is the non-pictured phrase (why are they making me do all the work?)- "Holiday cheer no one can overlook." ACKNOWLEDGE MY FESTIVITY.

On to the Plush Turtle Ball Pit. This is a stuffed turtle with a gaping hole in its back.
Crinkle, crinkle, it says happily, or so they'd have you believe. It's for babies and toddlers, obviously, and I adore the fact that the instructions tell you to "sit your baby inside the Turtle Activity Bag's soft shell and fill it with...25 play balls." Yeah, when I was little that was called being buried alive. Bonus feature= the balls can be "pushed through a special hole in the turtle's shell." Nope! No thank you! No special hole playing, here! Also, despite your claim that my infant will love to throw the balls and/or "roll around in them," I highly doubt that this will bring "hours of fun." Maybe a good twenty seconds before she realizes she can roll out of it. Unless I've covered her with balls.

Next is the 10 Piece Cleaning Trolly with Working Vacuum. Now, aside from the fact that you're essentially paying for cleaning supplies for your kid (Rags and a pail? Really?), the kicker is that the working vacuum comes with polyfoam pellets for your child to suction up. Let's be clear here: if and when Nora gets her own vacuum, it will be called a DustBuster and we won't have to invent messes of which she shall clean. And while I'm all for playing house n' babies' and laundry...this is downright janitorial. You can almost see the weariness in her eyes, the long nights, the no-good bum who skipped town and left her in this sitch...

I bet she wishes she had owned a Guard Your I.D. Stamp, back in those days when she was flush with cash. This handy tool allows you to- instead of troublesome shredding- simply stamp and ink and do mini art projects over any worthwhile information. Now this kinda seems akin to the workload of pushing paper through a machine, but it could be rather fun. Plus- and this is where it trumps a shredder- I'm able to "carry it in [my] purse while traveling." Phew. That would have saved me literally a minute of bothersome paper-dealin' this past week. But you know what else fits in a purse? A Sharpie.

Oh, it's time to get creepy. Thank you, La Newborn Real Life Doll Set, for filling that niche in this catalog. Not only will "little girls love playing Mommy" (not even touching that one today), but this little beastie features "soft skin," a "baby nursery scent" (I guarantee that a real nursery scent would dissuade even the most motherly of little girls) and has been "designed to capture the experience of a newborn's first few days of life." Again, really? Because- and I loved becoming a mother- the first few days are the scariest, most overwhelming and rather painful for all involved. Does the baby need to eat every fifteen minutes? Are the nurses checking your milk output with military precision? Are they weighing her and threatening to bring her to the nursery if her latch doesn't improve? No..? So by "first few days of life," you mean...she feels soft? I cry False.

And- though I could go on for each page of this epic catalog- I'll leave you with the Knit Novelty Lounge Pants. For 9.95 you can have sweatpants featuring "realistic designs." Instead of relaxing with your favorite (yet constricting!) pair of faded jeans, these products allow you to wear sweats that look like "fun pairs of pants[!]" in such styles as denim and CHAPS. You know, when you're home on a Saturday and can't find your COMFY CHAPS? Fake belt buckle and pretend back pockets aside, we're one or two accessories away from being a Village Person.




Enough of this. I have real work to do. After I put on my loungiest of outfits and fish Nora out from her ball pit, it's time to start decorating for the holidays. After we protect our I.D.s, invent messes and smell her nursery.

Ha Ha Ha.

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.