Boycotton 2: The Drawstring Strikes Back

It's fully been a week now of this whole Put On A Pair Of Pants Like You Mean It (And For God's Sake Maybe Comb That Hair), a.k.a. my attempt to not be Mayor McGrubbington.

For a solid week (actually, since last Wednesday- "counting" has never been one of my strongest suits) I've chosen a decent-ish outfit, sans sweatpants or hoodies, and attempted to style my hair and face. And here's what the past week has shown me.

I'm clearly bats**t crazy.

My hypothesis was that getting borderline purty all week would have an effect on my energy levels, my work ethic, and my ever-dwindling sense of self. Which, you know, it may have...if I weren't eyeball-poppingly tired from [being blessed with] a newly newborn from ILikeTheNightlifeVille.

Which explains my previous penchant for sweatpants. It's a vicious cycle.

But I did it. I completed the week. Every morning[ish] I would don my nicest pair of non-maternity pants that are not yet my pre-pregnancy size (it's a smaller pool from which to choose than you might think) and find a terrific shirt upon which to have someone yuke. Sometimes there were earrings. Generally wedding rings. (Occasionally I get dermatitis under one of the bands and- oh, we don't have time for that story right now.) My hair would be done in some mash-up of styles I think are cute right now and hairdos I know were cool back in '92.

I would have a fabulous- and yes, sure, drowsy- day with my two teensaroo daughters and then momentarily high-five my husband before we face-planted in a pile of Frog & Toad stories and tiny socks. In other words, no one really saw this glamorous transformation.

It got all Eleanor Rigby up in here.

My writing work output remained roughly the same, but I think that was less because of Professional Attire and more because of Blinding Terror Of Failure. (Also, I'm pretty sure I have a chapter that consists entirely of the phrase "The thing is..." over and over again. Word count ain't everything, folks.)

P.J. was kind, of course, and made every effort to compliment that day's Look, but he's also been known to insist that I don't need makeup. So, obviously he cannot be trusted.

As for makeup, that may have been the hardest thing about each day. Not so much the "putting it on" in the a.m. But if I have a sec to brush my teeth and change for bed between Suzy's clean plates at the all-night buffet, I want to make the most of it. Having to remove makeup has actually made me yell COME ON into my own reflection. Especially since I have apparentlyfound the most stubbornly water-resistant mascara ever to be created. (I am not a deep sea diver. I might need to think about downgrading the degree of elemental resistance.) But not taking off the makeup is a no-go as well; neither wrinkles nor raccoon eyes are exactly things that add to my overall hope of appearing well-rested. (And productive!)

So I'm back to my cozies today. I admit defeat. I am not ready to rejoin the race of Folks Who Look Awesome On A Daily Basis. (Okay, at best, I was a visitor to their ranks. Maybe a pre-frosh.) I did, however, pick up a new pack of hair combs for which to attempt hair-wranglin'.

And yes, I'm aware that I might be the only person who still uses hair combs. But they [sometimes] work.

They're made by Scunci, whose tagline "Effortless Beauty" is something I can really get behind.

Especially since that's exactly the amount of work I'm willing to put into it. Effortless. No effort.

They should have me as their new spokeswoman. Their tagline's tagline could read: Hey, At Least She Showered!

(Yesterday.)

Effortless Beauty.
(Hey, At Least She Showered!)
(Yesterday.)

Keely Is A Grubby Grub From Grubville.

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

This is getting to be a problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the very least, I'll be pretty.

Ish.

Er.

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.

Hoodies, hoodies, everywhere.

Okay.

This weather.

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

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

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

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

Woke up, checked again- back to 70.

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

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

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

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

Also- Sally Forth. Not an exceptional comic strip.

SO.

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

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

That's right. Draws.

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

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

A lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh! Good! Nora's up.

Storytime...