So we certainly had a lot going on this weekend.
Namely, the horse that I picked to win it all at the Kentucky Derby managed to get second place. Since I have no familial ties to that second place winner, I was able to be completely overcome with excitement for the real winner and his trainer. I wanted to jump up and down with them there at the end, and shout, “You won! You won!” And then I wanted to make my way to the winner’s circle, too, and have some flowers placed in my own arms. I’ve said for a hundred years now that if I ever win the lottery (that lottery that I never actually play), I’m going to buy a horse ranch in Kentucky and raise Derby winners. Hubs claims that I don’t know anything about horses, so this might be a problem, but listen: The same jackpot that buys me that ranch will also hire me a real good trainer, who DOES know his way around horses. My job will be to walk out to the stables early every morning with my mug of chai tea, so that I can check in with that trainer… see what he has lined up for the horse’s exercises that day. And then I’ll visit for a while, before I announce that I really need to go get on the riding lawn mower and knock the grass down a bit, but I’d extend an invitation for my trainer and his family to join us for some of Hubs’ barbecued ribs on the back porch later that afternoon.
I think that’s how they’d do things on a horse ranch in Kentucky.
They’d probably also make their own potato salad from scratch, and not count the deli as an option, so I’d need to check into that, too.
And then… how about that new royal princess? I came in with the second place guess there, too, which seemed to be the theme of the weekend, because I was predicting that little Prince George would get a baby brother. My biggest admiration, though, goes out to Princess Kate, standing on the steps of the hospital some twelve hours after having pushed a baby girl out, looking exactly like she’d been away at a spa, before she came home to pick up the baby from the stork.
Twelve hours after I gave birth (which was a C-section with very limited anesthesia, as I jumped during the insertion of THE NEEDLE and managed to redirect all manner of numbing goodness away from the spot where the doctor would be cutting), I looked like a bloated whale on a beach, who was in the throes of an allergic reaction to an IV antibiotic that involved hives the size of Canada. I came with a PG-13 rating that day, because young children needed parental permission to gaze upon the scariness that was me. My hair hadn’t seen the hot rollers… my lips hadn’t seen the peachy gloss… my ankles, which were the size of trees that they cut tunnels through, weren’t bedecked with high heels.
It just makes me admire Princess Kate a little more, and wonder why the Holy Spirit meets with her whenever she does her hair, while He lets me struggle with limp locks that don’t hold a curl for all the gold in Alaska.
And then, that child that I birthed with very little anesthesia and a whole lot of crying to JUST STOP! STOP CUTTING NOW! I DON’T WANT THE BABY OUT! I QUIT!, had a piano recital yesterday afternoon.
I may have admitted here on the blog a time or nineteen that the boy is incredibly talented on the piano. He gets none of his musical talent from me, because I played the violin for six years and managed to never understand how to incorporate a sharp or a flat into what I was playing. The grave disappointment of my instructor was a testimony to that fact. And Hubs is the one who was asked by his high school band teacher to please put his trumpet up and leave class NOW, because Hubs had shot too many bugs through that trumpet at the girls sitting in front of him. Hubs admits that he took band because of THE EASY A, and then it turned out that he nearly flunked the class, because he lacked passion or the willingness to actually practice.
Hubs and I were both musical failures.
Thankfully, that generational sin stopped with us, and the boy can play the piano exactly like one of the great composers from ye olden days.
We did have a little disagreement on what he was going to wear to his recital. His piano teacher had stated that there were to be no jeans, so I pulled a lovely pair of just-handed-down-to-us-from-the-cute-neighbor-boy slacks out of the boy’s closet. They were from American Eagle, and they were a lovely shade of baby blue that PERFECTLY matched the shirt the boy was going to wear.
In other words, they were VERY FASHIONABLE.
The boy took one look at them and said, “No.” There was much drama about how HE DOESN’T WEAR COLORED SLACKS… JUST BEIGE OR BLACK!! There were comments of I’D RATHER DIG MY OWN EYES OUT WITH SPOONS THAN BE SEEN IN PUBLIC IN PALE BLUE SLACKS!! Scarlet O’Hara couldn’t have held a candle up to all the outfit drama that the boy put forth yesterday afternoon. He accused me of wanting him to dress like Liberace.
It was a pair of awesome, pale blue pants! There wasn’t a single sequin or embedded jewel to be found! He wasn’t going to sparkle on stage under the lights!
In the end, he wore the shirt with a pair of khaki dress slacks. The baby blue pants from American Eagle have been folded up, with strict instructions to PLEASE DONATE THESE TO A GIRL SOMEWHERE, BECAUSE NO BOY WOULD EVER WEAR THEM.
Thankfully, our cute neighbor boy knows great fashion when he sees it, and he’s willing to walk in that great fashion and wear cool pants.
I think my kid is an amazing piano player; he definitely has a gift there, and the two piano teachers that he’s had over the years have done a wonderful job of bringing out that natural talent of his. Just listening to the boy play makes me wish that I’d taken music a little more seriously when I was a young teenager.
Here are a couple of videos of the boy in action. The first one is the piece that he actually played in his recital, while the second video is one of him working on a new song that he hasn’t quite memorized yet.
I could have spent my days on the ranch in Kentucky, playing the piano for my horses, right before I boiled my own potatoes for a nice, not-bought-from-the-deli salad.
Y’all have a lovely Sunday evening.