Enjoy while ya can!

This might just be my favorite new billboard- and that's saying a ton- courtesy of my big sis Kate:

Oh, Pittsfield. Thank you for your stellar advertising skillz.

Let's dissect, shall we?

Happy birthday, Margaret! One hundred years...wow! That's certainly something to...wait a sec. Who did you say was sponsoring this? Devanny Condron? The funeral home? Well, enjoy it now, Margaret. As Kate said- "Devanny Condron is waiting for you."

Now, personally, I'd like to be feted by sugar free Red Bull on my 100th birthday. Perhaps Spanx. Definitely Splenda, with which I will undoubtedly be preserved. Or maybe some futuristic jet pack/meal tablet amalgamation of awesome. I'm not picky. (Takin' notes, Peej?)

 And speaking of Berkshire County...I know a lot of gals from home are getting married this year. As I am still dealing with the fallout from [ahem] some vendors, I'd love to lend some advice. Sadly, I cannot. Yet. (At least not until my lawyer gives me the go-ahead. Oooh...) That said- do you like personal attention? Stand-up contractors? Stellar service down to the last detail?

If not- email me. Have I got some people for you.

Back to Chicago.

Opening this week is a show featured in the Five To See from Metromix! It stars our very own Annie Gloyn...and I shall be there Friday. Woo! Deets here.

Another big thing that happened this week: I was accused of being 23 years old. It was great. It was unexpected. It was...short-lived. You see, one of the homes in which I nanny also employs a part-time housekeeper from Poland. (Facebook friends- skip ahead if you like. I really need to stop updating my statuses prior to Thursday.) She's a very nice lady. But very Old Country. And not in the 'Buffet' way. When one of my kiddos mentioned that I was going to be THIRTY which is hardly even a NUMBER 'cause it's so HIGH, the housekeeper chimed in with- "No! You 30? No. I think 23, 24."

Me: Wow! Thanks! Nope. I'm gonna be 30!
Her: You look so young...
Me: Gee, I-
Her: But 30. That is so OLD! I did not know you were so OLD!
Me: I mean, I feel like 30 is the new-
Her: It is a good thing you had your baby when you did, no?
Me: ..........
Her: She is so pretty.
Me: Thank you.

Nevermind the fact that NONE of the families with which I work had their babies prior to 30, nor do I intend to not have any more, regardless of my perilous age. (Call Devanny Condron.) However, this is also the lady whom, right when I returned to work, mentioned my still-protruding belly. Which is never cool to mention unless it's to state how awesome you think it is. Although, when I first got engaged, she was the one who showed shock and dismay. Why, you might ask? Well, it's 'cause she thought I was only 17 and was worried about my future happiness. And that's terrific. (She should, however, have a better handle on my age by now. She's been mistaken about it no less than three times. Maybe she thinks I'm a different nanny. Perhaps we all look alike to her.)

And now, I get that unparalleled joy of having a stranger hold my infant daughter down and jab three needles into her thigh, while she simultaneously weeps and stares at me with a special mix of panic and betrayal.

Tradesies? Is it too early for a drink?

It's five o'clock in Oslo.

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. 

Wanna try for seven?

And now- An Open Letter To My Daughter, Currently Crawling On My Lap and Chewing On My Hoodie:

Dear Nora Jane,

Happy six months! We [you] did it! In honor of this momentous occasion, I'd like to point out a few key things that you've done to make us better people/grownups/housecleaners.

1) Since I found out about "you," and since the date of your arrival, all of my fears and nervous energies and unfocused creativities have channeled themselves into a new superpower. It's called The Ability To Write On A Deadline. (I was surprised, too.) At a period in my life when I've never had less alone time, I've suddenly never needed to write more. This is awesome.

2) Your Dad and I never quite knew just how filthy of an abode we kept. We sure do now! The squalor in which we dwelled (and with which we were fine, thankyouverymuch), suddenly is NOT COOL FOR THE BABY. Plates on the counter? Ants are gonna come and crawl all over THE BABY! Now we douse everything with industrial-strength Lysol, which- OH MY GOD, WE HAFTA USE BETTER PRODUCTS, WE'RE KILLING NORA'S PLANET! So- cleaner and way more neurotic. I'm still gonna call these "plusses."

3) And that guy I married? You know, your Wonder Twin to whom you gurgle "Hi?" Before you came along, I'm pretty sure he wasn't as adept at changing diapers (with or without "girl parts") in the middle of the night, nor was he so cheerful at 4am. Trust me, sister. You skipped into this world and tangled his thumb right around you. I'm not jealous so much as impressed. Also- singing and crawling around the kitchen floor before dinner? That was not part of his nightly routine. Not every night, anyhow.

4) Before you became the MiniMe strapped to my hip, I never realized my capacity for violence. I was a bit of a pacifist and had more than a little fear of confrontation. However, I almost ripped a woman's face off for poking you. Sure, abject brutality is rarely a 'pro,' but I'm kinda proud of my emerging Mama Bear instincts. (My coffee mug says so.) While never shy, I'm certainly done with politesse- at least where you're concerned. Maybe this will manifest itself in my next telemarketer convo! Although probably not.

5) Ironically, now that I have zippola "down time," I've never napped more. At least once a week, you'll scream like a banshee, become incredibly "difficult," and I'll crawl into bed with you to "calm you down, just for a minute." Then we'll sleep for three hours and it won't matter a bit about dishes, laundry, dinner, projects or whatever the heck it was that was making me [you] crazy. Well played, Bitsy.

6) Multitasking has become less of a concept and more of a synonym for "the day." Nannying with you in tow has made me quicker on the uptake. And the downtake. Which is a synonym for "catching things one-handed."

7) You've made your parents a better couple. I know, this shocked me as well. I already thought we worked pretty well as a team. But being shipwrecked together and/or the art of trust falls aside- few things bond people like holding a person who is equal parts Me and equal parts Him. Also in that bondy mix- Look At This Milestone/Good God, What's That Smell/Quick, Get Me A Towel/High Five!

8) And finally...I get my mother. And hers. And Peej's. And our sisters. And our friends with kiddos. Prior to you, doll, I had all sorts of Thoughts about Motherhood. And how everything people did was Different Than How I'd Do It. And now I get it- in that I don't get it at all. But I get what it is that I'm supposed to "get." And I can't explain it any further to you, Nora. For you do not yet (to the best of my knowledge) have children. And someday, if you have children, you'll kinda sorta understand me and the bizarre things I do. I hope. But for now, it's totally your job to look at me and wonder why I'm so ridiculous and angsty and pushing these weird wooden toys on you.

It's because I love you.

And am trying to be a Good Mom.

And, besides, the wooden toys are good for your brain.

"Well, um, actually a pretty nice little Saturday..."

I have Mount St. Laundry in my stairwell. And it cannot be scaled.

The tumbleweed cat hair is the size of the actual cats.

So of course on Saturday morning I told P.J.- "I need to paint the upstairs bathroom."

He responded to this the way he generally reacts to any major change in the household; with complete and utter dismay. A little stonewalling. Perhaps a half hour of ignoring (which never, never works). He asked me why.

I wanted to tell him that the aversion I have to that corner of the house is disturbing (I pretend that I know feng shui- I do not), that the "master" bathroom is essentially a few pieces of sheet rock propped up against a shower fitter- you know, the kind your Grandma has?- and that my hatred for the dingy walls represents everything that I hate and fear and want to change in the world...

"Because I want to," I told him.

After a few moments, he came back with this- "You want to paint it white, right?" Yep! Because when I crave change and pop and a new lease on life, I choose...white. Sure.

I told him that I wanted a deep brown, a color that has been chosen by folks for whom I've worked (and it's rocked.) He said no. I got so mad that I went into the backyard and pretended to mulch trees. Later, I was much too tired to think about painting a bathroom- and our excellent friend Jamie came over to shower us with gifts, Ecuadorian food, and lullabies for Nora. It was a fantastic evening, and one that gave Peej a false sense of security that the bathroom "thing" was over.

The next morning I left for Home Depot ("Where everybody knows your naaaame...") and picked out paint- I took into consideration P.J.'s trepidation towards dark colors and tried to temper my choices based on that. Bought one I dug and that I thought P.J. might actually...be okay with. I did not tell P.J. the color, nor did I let him see it until it was already slopped on the walls, rendering it DONE.

Turns out, he loves it. Or said he does. Which is wise. The color is Adobe Straw (Rachel: Ooh..! Keely: You have no idea what color that is, do you? Rachel: Nope!) And it's actually a variation on brown. (Shh...)

And here it is:

This is the best angle and lighting I can get, given that this bathroom is essentially the size of an escape pod. But as of last night it's an Adobe Straw escape pod. Maybe we can start to take the air quotes out of "master" bathroom. So now: The lower level bathroom has a soaking tub and new tile (and is rat-free! Woot!), the main floor bathroom is no longer teal and has shelving, and the upstairs bathroom doesn't make me cry any longer! Who says I can't have it all? (Whoever says otherwise will be argued down. Ask Peej.)

And here's a freebie li'l cleaning tip for you! Want a sparkling bathroom in five seconds? Take everything out of the bathroom, ever. It works wonders. Sure, your husband will search for months for his toothbrush and there will be no actual "soap" on the premises...but it'll look like a million bucks.

Or at least $23.47.