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.
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