An Ode to the Commode in my Abode

I can't believe it's the end of the sixth week of my blogosphere debut.  And it's another Facebook Friday, a magical day where I act like I'm not phoning it in and offer a look at my past facebook statuses.  I wasn't sure which direction to go this week.  Normally, I find one status I really want to use and collect others that could fit in a loose theme that seems vaguely organized.  I know myself pretty well, but even I was surprised at the number of facebook statuses I had involving the humble toilet.  Lucky for you - there are enough to dedicate Facebook Friday strictly to the privy.

On the Potty and the Kiddos

If my life was an episode of Pee-Wee's Playhouse, the word of the day would be "potty".  As in, "Mo-om!  Ezra's playing in the POTTY again!" or "Where's my hairbrush?"  "In the POTTY!" or "Mama - I had to go POTTY but couldn't get my (overall) straps off, so I went on the floor.  On accident."  Feel free to let out a holler every time you hear the word of the day.  We do.

Esther's head is soaked.  She looks scared.  "Mama, I did something ON ACCIDENT.  It was ON ACCIDENT.  My head got in the potty."  Because ON ACCIDENT is the new "I stuck my head in the potty on purpose."

"Mom! I TOTALLY helped with the cleaning!  I wiped down the counters, the stove, the toaster, AND the potty!"  "Thanks, baby ... um, which one did you do first?"  "First the potty, then the counters, stove, and toaster."  Yes, all with the same sponge.  Anyone want to come over for dinner?

Oh Lord.  I'm not even going to even bother with the context of this conversation.  Draw your own conclusions.  "Girls, uh-uh.  That is NOT a toy."  "Mama, if it's not a toy, why do they call it a toy-let?"

Just discovered the sweetest little mommy in training as Esther was giving her doll a bath ... in the toilet.

On the Potty and Me

Every night that I get snuggled into my cozy bed and hear the toilet still running, I spend a few minutes willing it to stop with my mind.  A part of me actually believes this will one day work.

Confession:  I so subscribe to the "over" theory that I've switched the toilet paper at your house.

The most conflict-free way to resolve the "2 beaters/3 kids" dilemma is to sneak in the bathroom and lick both beaters by yourself.


All these potty statuses remind of an extra story just for fun.  One time, I was on a grown-up Girl's Night Out with Lauren, and we were eating at a fancy-schmancy restaurant in Ann Arbor.  I went in feeling kind of nervous because it was nicer than most places I frequent, but after nailing the correct fork usage and refraining from ordering a Diet Coke when they asked if I would like a drink, I felt pretty confident in my ability to fake it.  Then, I had to use the facilities.  I put on my "I totally belong here and wasn't just cleaning prunes from the neck crevice of a six month old an hour ago" face and walked like a super model to the back of the restaurant.  Then I was struck dumb because the restroom signs were in French.  And there weren't any stick figures to help a sister out.  My choices were "femmes" and "hommes".  THANK GOD I was able to fall back on my immense knowledge of ghetto slang,  and I was able to deduce that since I'm definitely not a "homie", I must certainly be a femmes.  Then I remembered "La Femme Nikita," so, yeah, thank you pop culture for saving me.


For all of you who truly enjoy this blog, I thank you.  And I'm letting you know I will not be around next week because of the Great Cottage Get-Away of 2012.  I'll be back (in all my barely literate brilliance) on Monday, August 6.  For all of you that truly hate my blog and are just reading to see when I will go out of town so you can burgle my home, in the words of the great Thomas DeCarlo Callaway, better known by his stage name Cee Lo Green, "Forget you."  (Because I'm a radio-friendly kind of girl.)  Also, Potential Burglars?  Don't bother.  The people that robbed us in 2004 got everything already There will be someone in residence.  And? All my neighbors that take the Neighborhood Watch really seriously love their firearms and would look for any reason to use them.  Plus, my house is armed with grenades. And the flesh eating virus.  And In-Laws.  And those little bags of ink that explode when you try to open them off site.  It's just not worth it.

All of these are on my Bucket List*

Did you see what I did here?

Now that my triathlon is accomplished (I have mentioned I did a triathlon, right?) I realized I should tackle some of the other things on my Bucket List.  This really occurred to me while I was in Whole Foods with the kiddos, stocking up for the Great Cottage Get-Away of 2012.  (I love going into WF and purchasing only the following items:  Skinny Pop popcorn, Barney Butter, 3 bags of chocolate chips, marshmallows, boxed macaroni and cheese, freezer waffles, and freezer french toast. It's like the total crap aspect of my purchase is negated by the WF shopping bag.)(Also, WF sells People magazine.  I want to meet the person brazen enough to buy an entertainment gossip magazine - probably printed on massacred trees of the Amazon rainforest using ink from the blood of baby seals - from WF.)

While I was in WF letting the kids consume their daily calories in samples taste a few new treats, we stopped and stared in awe, appreciating anew the dessert showcase.  I realized I have never eaten at WF.  Not the hot bar, not the salad bar, and certainly not the mecca of chocolate goodness that disguises it's empty calories behind mind-blowingly gorgeous artistic creations that deserve to be eaten.   And I thought, "I totally want to eat everything here."  Hence, Summer List #1.  Eat at WF strictly for the dessert.

Another thing I want to do this summer is kayak.  Since I've done well with learning to overcome my fear of lakes, I feel pretty confident that even if I tipped my kayak I wouldn't panic in such a way that would make me seem like an epileptic krumping in the middle of Lake Huron.  Also, since I've lost 105 pounds, I feel I'm less inclined to get wedged firmly with no hope of escape inside the kayak. So, Summer List #2. Go Kayaking.

Summer List #3 is one people have been trying to sell me on for years.  #3.  Go camping.  Every year our church goes on a weekend camping trip.  It's a ton of fun I've heard because I never attend. The kids run free while the adults chill out.  There is swimming, hot dog eating, camp fire visiting (that's where people visit with one another around a campfire, not visiting actual campfires, FYI), and basically everything awesome about camping rolled into one weekend, with a hundred of your buddies (and kiddo's buddies).  The only thing is, I really like air conditioning.  And beds.  And showers.  And I like a little privacy when I'm doing my business.

(True Story:  In tenth grade I went to Interlochen Arts Camp for two weeks.  This is a camp to which you have to be accepted via vocal audition (well, for the choir part), and it's kind of a big deal in my head only to go.  Music camp?  I know most some of you are thinking, "This one time, at band camp ..." but it totally wasn't like that.  Too much.  Really.  Anyway, Interlochen didn't really specialize much in privacy (and with a bunch of performance-loving campers, the "I like to poop in private" demographic was minute) so I didn't go for two whole weeks. No joke.  And you wonder why I don't like camping?)

So this summer we are signed up for the camping trip.  I will go, and also go.  Because I'm also currently skipping my iron.

Summer List #4. Have a girly get together (probably in a restaurant because I'm not driven enough to host a soiree) with tons of friends mainly so I can wear heels. You are all invited.  (But this can't turn into Project X, so be rational people.)

This list is neither exhaustive or conclusive.  I was going to post a well thought out, complete list, but then I went to the gym where I watched both TMZ and Extra, and now I'm a bit blindsided that Kristen cheated on Rob.  Whaaaaa?  Now it's like I can't even focus.  So, yeah, cheating ruins it for everyone.

What's on your summer list?  Help me out, because obviously Kristen made some bad decisions without even factoring in my To-Do List, and now I'm just ... lost.




*The title = I'm not going to lie.  I stole this joke.  The whole Bucket List/picture of buckets thing.  I stole it from Bo Reinhart, guitar player of my favorite band in the whole world, who I might stalk on Twitter even though I don't have a Twitter account and maybe just spent a lonely night looking up Twitter accounts and reading them like a housewife reads 50 Shades.  Desperately.

P.S.  This post probably has the most links in one post that link directly back to my own blog. Which is both awesome and self-indulgent.  If you need an exit strategy ...

My Last Tri Post Ever (about this specific race)

So what might I do differently next triathlon?  For starters, I will remember to wear deodorant.  This is just out of love and respect for the human race.  I will also remember to moisturize with the special shimmer lotion I occasionally wear because just maybe it makes me feel like a Cullen.  I really planned on crossing the finish line looking like a vampire Sparkle Princess, so I totally dropped the ball there.

In terms of actual helpful info for potential triathletes, I will be way more aggressive in the water.  I won't sell my abilities short, start way in the back, and end up stuck behind all the breast strokers.  I will start mid-pack and be less prone to wait for a considerable sized opening to swim through; I will take advantage of any opening I can.  I will be less afraid to kick or punch someone during the swim. (Not purposefully.  Dude.  What kind of girl do you think I am?)

If there is a lot of sand from the water to transition I will have a bucket of water ready, and also socks that fit.  I thought the sand wouldn't bother me, but it did.  I also thought I was being clever by bringing old socks that were a little stretched out so they would be easier to get onto wet feet.  They were easier to get on, but I also spent the run with my socks bunched all funny in my shoes, and that plan gave me a blister.  (Fun fact = Esther calls them "blistards" which is kind of a great mash up of the actual name and my self-commentary when I see them on my feet.)

I will make a point not to drop my water bottle mid-ride.  It wasn't the best execution of smoothness, and was completely unhelpful in terms of overall performance.

To conclude the great triathlon experience, here are some jokes.

Q: How do you know if there is a triathlete at your party?
A: He'll tell you.

Q: What's the difference between God and an Ironman?
A: God doesn't think he's an Ironman.

And to finish:

Triathalivin' - Part Two

What am I smiling about?  I'm probably terrified
about the hill five yards away, and trying to distract
myself with thoughts of Technotronic.  

After obsessively planning every single part of this triathlon, something unexpected happened.  No, my planned super delicious and healthy pre-race Egg McMuffin went down without a hitch, and stayed there, so it wasn't my nutrition that went awry. (Fuel for Triathletes = I'm doing it right.) Everything went smoothly in the swim to bike transition (mostly my helmet wasn't put on backwards) so I was okay there as well.  I even managed to get up the GIANT HILL that started the bike course without looking too much like I was going to fall over.

It was once I turned onto the main road, checked out Sarah's fancy-schmancy bike computer for my speed (and felt like a BOSS because I was FLYING)(But then realized I was looking at the wrong number and got slightly humbled because I was just doing okay), and took a sip of water from my* water bottle that it happened.
*It was actually Sarah's water bottle that I was borrowing because mine didn't fit in the water bottle holder so I was being ghetto and just using an Absopure water and Sarah was all, "I have a smaller one that fits."  Hence, I was using hers.  This is actually significant, so thank you for persevering through this drivel.

When I went to place the water bottle back into the holder I dropped it.  I probably also said a curse word that rhymes with "zit".  This was mile two of an eleven mile bike course.  I also had a 5K to run after the bike.  Because I'm such a hardcore athlete, of course I left it there and kept going.  But that meant reworking my plan around not having any hydration for a while.

The ride along the main road was uneventful after the water bottle was sacrificed to the pavement.  I was totally thirsty right away because my mind is my number one frenemy.  I kept pace with a 36 year old Marine, who probably had Another Bad Creation's Iesha in his head also, and that's why we stayed so perfectly in sync.

The turn on to Old Country Road brought a new surprise.  It smelled vaguely "poo-ish".  To a city girl like me it seemed like cow poop.  Turns out it totally was cow poop.  And a lot of it.  Unknowingly, it was also a steady three mile incline.  I watched my speed drop all the way down to 13.8 mph and freaked the heck out, thinking I had burned myself out halfway through the bike and had nothing left for the rest of the tri.  At the turn-around I got some water (while riding my bike, which felt amazingly rock star-like when I didn't fall off or spill too much) and started back.  I noticed I was getting faster and faster on the way back.  My speed topped out a 26 mph, and that's when I figured out I had been climbing on the way out, and was descending on the way back.  I'm pretty observant about stuff like that.

This 26 mph stretch was the most fun ever.  This is where I probably "wooted" and yelled, "I'm in a triathlon!" to anyone listening.  I also spent this time photo bombing as many cameras as possible. Sometimes I would raise my arm in a fist pump and open my mouth wide a la "WHAAAAAA" (like I'm in KISS).  Things settled down dramatically once I left Old Country Road and got reacquainted with the main road.

THIS FACE?  Is awesome.  The hill is much bigger in real life.
Seriously.

The main thing I did on miles 7-11 was obsess about the hill I climbed up when the bike portion started.  That hill would now be a descent (thank God) and was now at the very end of the bike, so the worst thing that could happen was that I would slip and skid down the entire hill on my arm/face/shin/back in front of all the spectators, marring Sarah's bike and being the worst kind of photobomb (i.e. the unfunny one).  So in miles 8-11 I wrote and practiced the Oscar worthy speech I would give when this happened and they tried to take me out of the race.

"Please, I've been training all my life for this moment for months and it's just a little blood.  And a few broken bones. But they are in my arms, so I can still run.  Please, I beg of you, don't steal my dream.  I'm so close.  Let me finish."

That's kind of a condensed version of my monologue, but I assure you, it was convincing.

Then I totally didn't wipe out on the hill, but at least I was prepared.

Flyin' ... solo

Bike to run transition (T2, which sadly has nothing to do with the movie) was a bit slow as I took a second to look for some water (and found none)(but I did munch on the pre-unwrapped piece of gum that I always chew when I run)(it was a fresh piece I thoughtfully placed in transition)(I didn't mean that I always chew the same piece of gum) and put on my running watch so I could keep track of my splits.  (Haha, this is a joke because I don't know how that function works so I just use it as a fancy watch to give me some idea of my ballpark time.)

The run was through some pretty neighborhoods, and the people who love triathletes left their sprinklers on facing the road so we could occasionally cool off.  I walked for about ten seconds at each water station, and the run was pretty fantastic.  Shady.  (Like, there was lots of shade from trees.)(Not like it was suspicious.)  Sarah, who had already finished, came back and ran about 600 yards with me.  It made it seem like I had my own personal pacer, which really indulged my Western States 100 fantasy, and also encouraged me to move it a little more.

BIG FINISH

Sarah dropped off as I neared the finish.  I began to sprint, causing several spectators to call out, "Big Finish!" and I probably raised my arms and screamed a "WOOOOOO!" when I crossed the finish line.  It totally wasn't obnoxious or over the top at all.

My goal all along was to finish in under two hours, with a smile on my face.  My official chip finish was 1:30:39.  BOO-YA.  I beat my goal by a half an hour, and I PR'd my 5K time.
What?

The numbers:
Official Bike time? 40:59, avg. 16.1 mph
Official T2 time?     1:20
Official Run time?   31:18, avg. pace 10:06
Official Chip time?  1:30:39 with a smile 

Lauren and I at the finish

Sarah and I at the finish

  I am awesome at layout.

Entering these two pictures took a little less than half my will to live.  Here is me with my super supportive friends.  Where are the pictures with my husband and kiddos? I'm such a great wife/mother I don't have any. 

I will end this post the way all good things should end.  Sweetly.  Literally.

This is my reward for completing the triathlon.  And chill out, I don't usually reward myself with food, but this is a snickerdoodle cupcake.  So yeah, exception made.

Triathalivin' - Part One

My Vanna White tri pic.  Just one more
for the modeling portfolio.  I could
dominate Ugly Race Pics.

So.  It was a pretty blah weekend.  I ran some errands, did some laundry, oh, and COMPLETED MY FIRST TRIATHLON.

It took a mere four months of five workouts per week to prepare for this bad boy.  However, the real prep for this triathlon started two days prior as I became so nervous I gave myself diarrhea.  For two days. That was pretty awesome.  Also, you can totally do a triathlon on three hours sleep.  You know, just in case you are up late laying in bed imagining all the terrible things that will surely occur the next morning packing your gear. (FYI?  Probably a manure truck won't pull a Back to the Future on your minivan, but in case it does, message me because I have a stellar exit plan already in place. Because I use my time wisely.)

4:00 a.m. Pre-deuce.

Brian set his alarm for 3:30 a.m. so he could shower (?) before we left, so I woke up with him.  We needed to leave around 4:00 a.m. (I know what you are thinking, "4:00 a.m.,THE HECK?")  My triathlon was two hours away, and I needed to be there at 6:30.  For those of you who know math and wonder about the extra half an hour, I also needed to factor in Deuce Time.  (Because why make a triathlon harder by dealing with Runner's Trots?  I'm a planner, people.)

Upon arrival I got the best. surprise. ever.  Sarah!  She wasn't sure she could make it because she has a real, grown-up, medical type job that sometimes requires her to be present for spontaneous surgery.  (Well, unplanned surgery would be more accurate.  It's not like she has a natural impulse or tendency, without effort or premeditation, to suddenly operate.) She brought all her tri gear and wondered if I would like her to join me.  Dude.  This was turning into the best triathlon scenario possible.

At registration I got my race packet, ankle chip, and then got marked.  This was pretty much my favorite part of the whole experience, as it really fulfilled my Ironman fantasies.  I got a giant "S" on one arm and leg (for Sprint) and a "33" on the other arm and leg for my age. (I may have had a minor panic attack based on second guessing how old I am.)

Brian admitted he was wrong forgave me for being
grumpy and took my picture

Next I had to set up my transition area.  This started by Brian and I almost getting a divorce over putting the tire back on my* bike.  I might have been a teensy anxious and a little quick to threaten his life if he screwed up the assembly point out when he needed to make some adjustments in helping me.  I finally got my bike assembled and racked, my gear laid out, and Sarah and I went for a quick warm-up run in the parking lot. Then we headed to the beach.

The swim course was a simple out and back.  At 500 yards, it is one of the shortest sprint swim distances you can do, but that didn't stop it from being the leg of the tri I was most worried about.  You know, because of the leeches.

Sarah and I waving.  I told you I was
pretty hot in my tri shorts.  Also the
green caps are great for scaring leeches
looking ridiculous.

I started off in the water by peeing.  Then I made my way to the back of the pack where they tell all open water virgins to hang out.  (Fleeing the scene of the crime, if you will.) At the horn blast I started swimming. But it turns out that while all my swim training was time well spent, I should have spent a few weeks honing my MMA skills, because triathlon swimming is apparently a lot more about beating the snot out of people being aggressive than I imagined.

Actually?  Remember how worried I was about the swimming?  It was the easiest part. The waves were really big, but so big that instead of my stroke chopping mid-wave, my whole body floated with it and I swam much more efficiently than expected. The big waves made it really hard to spot the course bouys, but thankfully I had my choice of swimmers to follow, so that wasn't a huge issue.  (I did decide to skip the tethering.  I think it was a good choice.) The water was deep; most of the swim was in twenty feet or so of water, so no plants.  And the fish were repelled by all the triathlete urine humans in the water.

(*Extra fun fact that effectively demonstrates how much Navy Sealism I embody?  The word on the street from the veteran triathletes is that it was a really difficult swim.  So yeah, Hoorah.)

I'm bringing sexy back.

(I did manage to get off course once.  I decided that since I was in the home stretch I could just plow full speed ahead without doing much sighting.  I mean, I would hit the shore eventually, right? This is not a great plan unless you want to end up swimming in the opposite direction from the beach.)


The timed swim continued until you entered the transition area, which was a long.freaking.way. from the shoreline.  It was about a hundred yards of soft, deep sand, so I totally didn't need to exfoliate my feet that night.  Thank you, triathlon. 

You gotta a license for those guns?

My swim to bike transition (T1) was not the fastest thing I've ever done, but I did manage to pull it off without looking like a SPAZZ like a lot of other triathletes I've seen, so mission accomplished. I did make it into the official photos.  I'm pretty sure they are naming next year's triathlon after me and my bike helmet, which I wasn't aware made me look like an extra from Alien.  Just an added bonus.


Then came the bike portion, and something happened that was so unexpected, it became a major game changer for me.  I will write all about it tomorrow. (And THAT'S called a cliffhanger.)(This cliffhanger is just like when Cherry got stuck in the refrigerator and almost died)(but Punky Brewster saved her in the next episode.)(Except I think that was all wrapped up in one episode.)(Because seven year olds can't handle that much dramatic tension.)(So actually this is nothing like that episode of Punky Brewster, and more just a trip down memory lane for some of us.)(A traumatic trip.)(Sorry about that.)

Official swim time?  14:12 (that includes the beach walk run to transition)
Official T1 time?        2:52 (that includes me focusing on not looking like a            
                                       panicking SPAZZ)




*"My" bike is really one of Sarah's road bikes I borrowed for the race.  It's just too cumbersome to type "Sarah's bike" every time I refer to the bike.  Just a full disclaimer.

I Just Might Puke Today

If blogging doesn't work out for me, I might go into
modeling.  This is my Victory pose after finishing the
Warrior Dash.  That handsome dude workin' it is my
baby brother.

I am so nervous for this race.

I thought that for this Facebook Friday I would focus on fitness (I have been working on that alliteration for about thirty seconds and am tickled pink that it just totally happened all week). I've found some of my Facebook statuses through the years about fitness.  They are loosely in chronological order.  It's fun for me only to see the progression from a 253 pound couch potato to a 148 pound (almost) triathlete.  (Have I mentioned that I'm nervous about the triathlon tomorrow?)

ON FITNESS

Everyone previews exercise videos while sitting on the couch eating Captain Crunch ... right?


Day One of training for my first 5K.  It was awesome.  And by awesome I mean I threw up.


When I get in my van after a particularly "fun" workout I think, "Thank God I have all these McDonald's napkins to wipe up my sweaty face."


Counterproductive = using the money from the Personal Trainer Fund to pay for Girl Scout cookies.


First early morning run = tripped and skinned both hands, elbow, and upper arm; ran into a spiderweb, blew my nose in my shirt, and a bird pooped on me.  But still my best run so far as I just pretended I was doing the Warrior Dash.  Love me some VICTORY in the morning.


Instructors should be morally obligated to send home donut pillows with first time spin class attendees.


Upon my return from the gym.  "Mama, gross.  You smell like running." - Esther, age 3.  Nice.


All of Esther's barbies are doing downward facing dog. I'm weirdly proud.


I have the heart of an ultramarathoner trapped in a body that has decided an ultramarathon is about four miles.


Last night I ran part of my run with a 2011 Lake Placid IRONMAN, which I'm pretty sure makes me an Ironman by osmosis.

After a 21 mile bike ride, the psoas muscle in the only muscle that sounds how it feels.

Because I'm feeling generous, here are some more pics from my modeling portfolio.

 Check out my first 5K.  My hands looked like that the entire time.

Look at that face.  You are welcome.

Have a happy weekend y'all.  Pray for me as I am being attacked by leeches rocking my first triathlon.  See you Monday!

"LEECHES!"

Confession:  Lake water freaks me out.  This is a fear I really need to overcome in order to do my triathlon.  Which is in Lake Huron.  Not an ordinary lake.  One of the five Great Lakes. A lake so great it can be seen from outer space.  
It's not so much the actual lake water that scares me, but more what is without question dwelling in the water unseen that is ready to slay or maim me that I am bothered by.  I can handle being in any lake depth I can clearly see the bottom of, as long as there is no other living being, plant or animal, in sight.  Even now, as I write this, I know that statement is suspect, because - leeches. You can't always see leeches, but they are there.  It's at this point that I hear several friends laughing and saying (in British accents, I don't know why)(I don't have any British friends)(which is a shame)(Although I do pretend to be Adele at least once a day while I'm performing in the shower), "There aren't any leeches in Lake Huron. You are quite ridiculous."  But guess what, British Friends I Don't Have Who Are Mocking Me?  I googled it, and according to Wikipedia, the most trusted name in information since Perez Hilton, Lake Huron is infested could possibly be home to some leeches.

Information from Wikipedia that is UNQUESTIONABLY TRUE:

"The majority of leeches live in freshwater environments"  (A.K.A. Lake Huron)

Wikipedia, what kind of leeches might I find in freshwater (like Lake Huron)?

Gnathobdela: In this order of "jawed" leeches, armed with teeth, is found the quintessential leech: the European medical (bloodsucking) leech, Hirudo medicinalis. It has a tripartite jaw filled with hundreds of tiny sharp teeth.  (WHEN DID LEECHES GET JAWS?  Like I needed another reason for the Jaws theme music to play in my head during the tri?  Also, leeches are "armed with hundreds of tiny sharp teeth".  Awesome.)

Rhynchobdellida are "jawless" leeches, armed with a muscular, straw-like proboscis puncturing organ in a retractable sheath. (This joke writes itself.)


Most leeches are hematophagous, as they are predominantly blood suckers that feed on blood from vertebrate and invertebrate animals. (Coincidentally, I am a vertebrate animal.  And apparently I am below leeches on the food chain.  Leeches are legitimately hunting me.)

Wikipedia, what should I do if, heaven forbid, I get a leech on me?
.
Common, but medically inadvisable, techniques to remove a leech are to apply a flame, a lit cigarette, salt, soap, or a chemical such as alcohol, vinegar, lemon juice, insect repellent, heat rub, or certain carbonated drinks. These will cause the leech to quickly detach; however, it will also regurgitate its stomach contents into the wound. The vomit may carry disease, and thus increase the risk of infection.^[24][25][26] (To recap, if a leech attack wasn't bad enough, if removed improperly, said leech could vomit into your open wound and infect you with Weird Leech Disease, which I'm pretty sure is how people turn into vampires.)

I never planned on being a vampire.  All I wanted was to stretch the limits of my physical endurance by competing in a triathlon.  This is suddenly becoming way more dangerous than I anticipated.  If my post on Monday seems all, "Hey Blog Friends, come over to my house so I can feed on your blood," you can probably assume I was hunted by armed leeches in Lake Huron during my triathlon and caught a Weird Leech Disease that turned me into a vampire.  Heads up.

Vitamin B is a Jerk

Facebook Status: ‎"Mama takes pills EVERYDAY to help her stay awake" -Esther to the lady at the bike shop. I should probably explain the Vitamin B and Iron supplements a bit differently.

I run in circles where kombucha, wheat grass, and Dr. Fuhrman are vocabulary words used in casual conversation.  However, I'm more of a foreign exchange student in these conversations, offering helpful tidbits like, "Dude, Burger King has sweet potato fries*!"

Since my diet is the very definition of balanced, imagine my surprise when, after baby #4, I was found to be anemic.  And crabby.  And tired.  And a titsch moody.  My doctor suggested an iron supplement and a supplement of "the B's" for good measure.

I realized I hate supplements.

It was supposed to take a while to feel the desired effects of the supplements.  Unfortunately the undesired effects were felt sooner.  In order to be a good steward to my body I would need to persevere and keep taking the pills ...

...but.

There's the crux of the matter.  Butt. Iron quickly works it's charm, and you are left desperately looking for an iron cure.

There is a delicate balance in formulating just how much fiber you need to combat all that supplemental iron.  Benefiber in your apple cider is probably overkill.  But only eating an apple - Mama might be a bit *cranky*.  And quite frankly, I'm not that patient.  Or that skilled at trial and error.  Or that ready to be my own 'finding a good formula for consistent pooping' guinea pig.

After much scientific hypothesizing, testing, and reflecting not thinking about it at all, this is the method for taking supplements I have decided works best.

I take the supplements with renewed commitment for as long as it takes me to become constipated. I stop taking them until Brian says, "Are you taking your supplements?" in response to my completely (un)reasonable tearfulness, incessant need to nap, and endless complaints about brittle fingernails.  So I start taking them again with renewed commitment ... this cycle goes on until the supplements expire, and I throw them away.

So far, this is a stellar plan.  And it doesn't waste money at all.

If all that drama weren't enough reason to personally hate supplements, here's one more you may not have thought about obvious one.
  

When you completely on accident pee in the group shower at the gym, supplements like Vitamin B and Iron turn what should have been a private faux pas into a literal neon stream trumpeting your blunder to the world.  (Now, I'm not saying this has ever happened to me, because it would be too mortifying to admit.) (Also? Gross and unsanitary.  Probably it's safe to also throw 'inconsiderate' in the mix even if it was completely out of your control.)  But I will say that if it ever happened to anyone else I wouldn't judge her.  Because I have been there, being a mom with incontinence issues, when you have absolutely no control over your bladder.  Especially in a warm shower.  But way to go, Vitamin B, for outing a girl.


So, yeah, in conclusion, Vitamin B is a jerk. 

*The BK sweet potato fries are totally a let down.  Huge.  But the brownie sundae?  Dude (say it like your mind's blown).

Picture Tutorial: Crap's about to get real.

Last Friday Night - Katy Perry

Friday was the end of my "two days in bed with the summer flu" good time.  My triathlon is July 21 (a.k.a. this Saturday), and this was supposed to be my peak training week. My body was all, "Good luck with that," as it skipped a 15 mile bike ride, an open water swim, and a 6 mile run over the span of three days.  But Friday afternoon found me feeling significantly better, albeit tired, and sufficiently freaked out about the lost training time.  

Sarah, yet again, became my Superwoman Training Partner sent from Heaven, and asked if I'd like to do a mini-sprint practice tri on Friday night.  We would go to the metropark around 6:00 p.m., do a short swim-bike-run, and practice timed transitions.  (Sounds just like a Friday night with Katy Perry, right?)

Lessons from the practice tri:

1. I still suck in the water.  Open water swim is so different from the pool,  primarily because I am convinced the Loch Ness Monster is lurking beneath the surface ready to eat my face off essentially blind once I start swimming. Someone forgot to mention to the Lord on the third day to add a visible lap line on the floor of bodies of water that might one day host triathlons, and consequently, I swim in a fantastically accurate zigzag pattern. (Fun fact not related at all to this post: I have two children who, on entirely separate occasions and completely independent of one another, have given themselves black eyes by walking into walls. Both times the child walked into the wall because she was pretending to be blind.)(We should probably stop renting The Miracle Worker.)

I also managed to swim into a recreational swimmer, and instead of being able to apologize, I inhaled a boatload (haha) of lake water and made a horrible gutteral gasping sound as I tried to inhale air where there was no room to inhale air.  I tried desperately to be able to cough so I could get a good breath, but my predominant thought was, "Keep moving; don't put your feet down because Nessie is waiting for a chance to kill you."

My new open water survival plan is to stealthily tether myself to a more experienced swimmer and have her act as my seeing eye dog.  This is probably against both the formal rules and the spirit of the triathlon, but would be horribly awesome if I got away with it.  My triathlon is on Lake Huron and since I don't have a valid passport, it's really a matter of national security I stay on course and far away from Canada.  So really, I'm just being a responsible citizen.  I'll let you know how that works out.

2. I'm really good fast at transition because I'm not a "details" person.  Sarah is really particular about sand between her toes and I'm all "there's my feet, Buuuuuuuddy" (in your best Pauly Shore voice).  My biggest concern has been with my hair (high ponytail for the swim, but that doesn't work well with my bike helmet, so low pony for the swim and bike, but low pony doesn't work with my running visor, so back to high pony, which is problematic for the bike, et cetera  ... *head explodes* no pony needed - problem solved).  Plus, I'm not one of those serious athletes that has bike shoes that clip on their pedals, so my bike to run transition is focused mainly on remembering to take off my bike helmet* and teaching my legs how to run after biking for an hour.

*Two weeks ago, during a brick workout (bike, then immediately run), I found myself running in that retardo "you thought your legs were controlled by your own brain but apparently they are listening to some voo-doo doctor brain that specializes in gait issues" way.  I was about a half mile from home when I realized I still had my helmet on.  Good thing I looked as though I needed it, or it may have been a bit embarrassing.

3.  Sarah's bike makes me feel like I'm flying.  She's offered to let me ride it during my tri, but I'm a bit intimidated.  It's like, a road bike.

4.  I should probably learn the hand signals to communicate with drivers when I'm riding my bike on the road.  However, no one really knows what these mean anyway, so when I put up a hand signal, I'm really just alerting anyone in the vicinity that I'm going to do something different than what I'm doing now.  For now, I just make up hand signals as I go along.  Usually I throw up an upside down "M", which is my gang sign for "Midwest."  I'm so street.

5. I talk incessantly.  This may be no surprise to someone who knows me, but I didn't realize until I was ready to die on the run portion and couldn't talk.  Sarah is a saint who has no other choice but to lets me ramble because I never shut up on our long bike rides, but this was our first run together, and dude, it was quiet.  One of us might have been struggling to finish, and therefore couldn't comment on every.single.thought. that graced her mind.

6.  I am incredibly hot in my tri shorts.  Like, "wow" hot.  Or "oh Dear Lord" hot - I forget which one.  If you are lucky, I'll post some pics* from the actual triathlon and you can witness this spectacle.
(* Who am I kidding?  I will be posting pics of this triathlon for years.)

Even though the circumstances weren't the best, I'm really glad I did a practice tri. And I'm super stoked for Saturday.  My goal is to finish with a smile, and I can't wait to post all about it.  Providing the Loch Ness Monster doesn't get me, that is.

"Mawwiage..." - Impressive Clergyman

The Fourth Facebook Friday and a coup, yet again, for alliteration.  The theme of this week is: marriage.  (Although had I planned better it would have been awesome to go with the theme of "friendship" which would have been insanely spot on in terms of alliteration.) (Fail on my part.) (But I could also call it the Fourth Facebook Friday Fail Edition on Marriage and still kind of hit my alliteration mark.)

I have been married to my better half for eleven years now.  We have survived college, student teaching, four kids, and a horrendous leopard print phase.  Brian is like my Edward Cullen, but with less sparkling and more Taco Bell consumption.  Here are some of my Facebook statuses involving the hubby.

On Our MAD Communication Skillz:

Brian: I'm sorry you're falling into an emotional shame spiral.

Kelly: (sniffs back the tears that are the result of a TOTALLY SAD commercial) I'm not. I just need some Nutella.

Kelly: What did we do for gas before 1987?

Brian:  What are you talking about?  We used regular gas.

Kelly: Yeah, but what kind?  The earliest the gas goes is 1987.

Brian:  What?

Kelly:  Every pump has three kinds of gas: 1987, 1989, and 1993.

Brian: ....

Kelly: Isn't that the year the gas was made?

Brian: You are retarded.  I love you.

Kelly: (Sobbing at the movie trailer of The Boys Are Back, in which a father loses the love of his life and is left to raise his boys alone.)

Brian:  Don't worry, honey.  He can always get remarried.

Kelly: Sorry, Babe.  I gave up being cool for Lent.

Brian: When, in 1989?

On Parenting Wins:

I gave the girlies all the scrapbooking stickers I had leftover from albums I've finished. This includes our wedding and honeymoon in San Francisco. Eve just made Brian and I a lovely card covered with about 40 stickers of brides, grooms, rings, and flowers to "celebrate our love." Inside the card? A giant sticker of Alcatraz.

From the Mr. Mom Files.  Scene: 4:30 a.m.
Child: Papa, I accidently wet the bed a little bit.
Brian:  Just throw down a towel, we'll deal with it later.  But don't turn on the light, you might wake up your sister.
Child: But how will I see?
Brian: Use a glo-stick.
I love when Dad is on duty.

On Spending Quality Time Together:

Know that when you watch a Rob Pattinson movie (even a non-Twilight one) with your husband you will be asked "Is he going to sparkle now?" about seven times.

When I thought I'd appreciate more of my husband's attention, "Honey, where did your ankles go?" wasn't what I had in mind.

Brian found my stash.  Worse, he chose not to confront me and instead ATE IT ALL.  My "sanity chocolate" is gone.

Serenaded Brian to sleep last night.  "Rocket" by Def Leopard.  While wearing my bite guard. "Ssssssssatelite of love!"  Who says there's no romance in marriage?

The Better Half.  Oh, and Brian, too.

Have a wonderful weekend! See y'all Monday!

They're My Bieber*

I took this pic at the March 2012 show.
I was close enough to get sweated upon.
Don't be too jealous.

"Hey, Kel, would you write a post about your undying love for Needtobreathe?" Of course.


For those of you who are suffering from ignorance over the existence of music legends Needtobreathe, sit back and prepare to meet greatness in the form of Southern ROCK.

Needtobreathe is a rock band from Seneca, South Carolina (Coincidentally?  My favorite kind of BBQ) and is comprised of four members: Bear Rinehart, Bo Rinehart, Joe Stillwell, and Seth Bolt.  Lyrically, they are stellar. Musically, they are downright inspired.  Their live show is cuh-razy good.  If the Navy Seals were a rock band, they would be Needtobreathe.

Me and NTB: Our first encounter.  They were in MI for two nights; one, a 20 minute drive away I had no tickets for, and the other a two-and-a-half hour drive I had tickets for, because I'm good at planning ahead.  The obvious thing to do in this situation is to go to the first venue (because it's so close to your house) and if you can't get in without tickets, listen outside like an addict in need of a fix at least try to meet the band.


The best way to do this is to go greet who you think is the bouncer, and be all, "Is the band on the bus?" The guy who is not the bouncer but really a roadie for NTB will shake your hand like a gentleman because he is Southern, Bless His Heart, and be all, "Yes."  So you will march purposefully towards the tour bus door, looking completely official because you obviously know Toby the Roadie (who will eventually turn into Toby the Touring Band Member) and because you look official, BEAR WILL OPEN THE BUS DOOR WHEN YOU KNOCK.

Now, don't panic when the very first words out of your mouth are, "Hi, I'm a stay at home mom" even though they are completely relevant to the reason you don't have tickets that night but plan on driving two and a half hours the following evening to witness history being made in the form of NTB performing.  "Hi, I'm a stay at home mom" might echo in your head throughout the entire exchange with the man who wrote the music that has changed your life, but whatever.  Put on your big girl panties and truck on. (Not a fat joke.)

Bear, who is also a Southern Gentleman, will treat you like a lady and agree that yes, you should be able to bring five teens from church to the show tomorrow night and have a private meet and greet with the band beforehand.  He will arrange that you talk with Tour Manager Tyler, who will attempt to give you his digits (strictly for the M&G, you're a married woman, Bless Your Heart) and since you are a bit technologically challenged, you will hand him your flip phone and confess you don't know how to add contacts.  Tyler will not make fun of you to your face and enter his contact information. He will then spend a few minutes giving you a quick tutorial on how cell phones from the turn of the century work.

The next night your Epic Personal Meet and Greet will be amazing, but you will forget that since you are taking all the pics, you won't be in any of them.

Hi there, the backs of Joe, Seth, and Bear.  You are signing my CD right now.  Thanks.  Also, the Green Room is really green.  Who knew?

*****

Another encounter:

"Hey, Kelly, tell us about the time you and Bear hung out."
"Okay, let me see if I can recall it."  (Haha, totally a joke because it is imprinted on my heart forever.)

NTB was playing my hometown, about 40 minutes from my current town.  I drove over really early so I could visit my parents, and then eat dinner with a high school buddy (What up, Carlo), which explains why I was driving past the venue four hours before doors opened and not because I'm super obsessive or anything.  It was then that I saw Bear just walking down the street.

What I wish happened was that I casually found a parking spot, parked the car, and strolled down the street, looking completely as if it were on accident that I ran into Bear, all "Oh, fancy meeting you here"-like.  What really happened is I about had a seizure in my station wagon, honked the horn like I was a woman in labor en route to the hospital, and made quite a show of waving maniacally. Bear just happened to notice me so I doubled parked illegally found a spot, threw open the car door, and ran over to greet him. 


"BEAR! OHMYGOSH! HowwastheEuropeantour?CanIgetapicturewithyou?Ican'twaitfortheshow! Youaremyfavoritebandever!"


"What's that smell?  Oh, it must be the verbal diarrhea coming from your mouth," said Bear as I continued my gibberish.*

*This never happened.  What really happened is actually awesome and made my day week year I'm obviously still talking about it two years later so let's just say it was meaningful to me.  In response to my I'm-not-a-crazy-stalker-but-you-wouldn't-know-it-from-this-encounter blathering, Bear said, "I remember you.  You knocked on our bus door," which I translated to mean, "You are our number one fan and we credit you alone with our success.  Here, let us dedicate our next album to you."

Here is the visual proof that I used to weigh 250 pounds Bear and I are best friends.

The best part of this picture is that I spent a fair amount of time on my hair that day.  Totally paid off.

"Wow, Kel, that's amazing!  Have you talked to him since?"  Why, yes.  Yes, I have.  Lauren and I were personally invited to sign up for the chance to win a meet and greet with 100 other people.  

"Kelly, is that Seth Bolt's HAND on your SHOULDER?"  "Yes, and chill out, I mean he's only the Bass Player of my FAVORITE BAND IN THE UNIVERSE." (Also? about 180 pounds here.  Me, not Seth's hand.)

"How about since then?  Any chance encounters?"  If "chance encounters" means Lauren and I went back to see them a few months later and stood on line for forever to get this spot:

View from the stage.  Ok, see the microphone?  Now see the indistinguishable woman on the other side of the mic?  She's wearing the exact same outfit you see I'm wearing in my profile picture, so that mushroom looking thing on her head is really a sweet hat.  Yep.  Totally me. 

...and then waited around for an hour after the show to get our tickets signed, we have another chance encounter.  And?  Since I'm now a svelte 105 pounds thinner, my best friends NTB no longer recognize me.  Whatever.  We'll meet again soon.  We're too good together to let this thing die.


Best 4:24 of your day?  Right here.  You are welcome.

*This entire post may have been written on copious amounts of Dayquil.  My brain is doing the backstroke through the goo in my head.  I don't even know what that means.

And Then My Head Exploded

(In the minivan with three little girlies)

Hosanna : Mama, what kind of car was that?

Kelly: It wasn't a car, it was a moped.

Hosanna: What's a moped?

Kelly: What you just saw.

Eve: What is it?

Kelly: A Moped.

Eve: What?

Kelly: A moped.

Eve: What?

Kelly: A moped.

Eve: What?

Kelly: A MOPED!

Eve: (dissolving into giggles) Oh, I thought you said a bunk bed!

Kelly: (silently glad we are done with this conversation)

Eve: So what is a bo-ped?

Kelly: A MO-ped.

Eve: What is a mo-ped?

Kelly: What you just saw. What we passed.

Eve : I didn't see it.

No one PLANS on growing up to be a Serial Killer

The last time I got in a physical fight was in sixth grade.  I had a pretty decent streak of about 21 years that were filled with non-violent conflict resolution.

Then Friday night happened.

I guess I should really start with the garbage can in the garage.  Somebody thought it would be brilliant to have a garbage can next to the door to the house, inside the garage.  This would serve as a visual reminder to get your darn apple juice boxes outta the flippin' minivan before I lose my mind take care of the things that need disposing before you come into the house.  This was an astute plan.  It mostly worked.  Then, summer came.  And with it, maggots.

Somebody Else was being resourceful and ghetto-rigged a piece of cardboard over the top of the garbage can to deter flies from filling the garbage with their demon spawn, but didn't tell Somebody the purpose of said cardboard, and so when she ran into it with her arm for the third time she was all, "not this junk again," and she removed the cardboard, placing it responsibly in the recycling bin.

The flies had a field day.  And since their maternity ward was directly adjacent to the door to our home, every few hours when we would open the door, they would politely accept in their annoying fly language, "Thank you.  We would LOVE to come in."

I hate flies.

One morning I awoke to ten of them on the kitchen window.  Dude.  Brian thinks the best method of fly control is to use the Dustbuster.  While this approach takes the least skill and effort, I am now convinced there is a little fly colony trapped inside my Dustbuster just waiting with bated breath for me to empty it.  I will crack it open and be attacked by the plotting masses of germ infested vermin.

Soon, I'd had enough.  It was time for flypaper.

It was really hard for me to buy flypaper, mainly because of the serial killer stigma flypaper evokes.  I mean, I have seen Silence of the Lambs.

(A tangent just for fun? The main lesson I took away from Silence of the Lambs was: don't be fat. Only fat girls get kidnapped, thrown in a hole, and starved so a serial killer can make a dress from their skin.  Yeah, Hollywood, the message isn't so subtle after all.)

But I digress.  Silence of the Lambs?  Oh yeah.  When Clarice entered Buffalo Bill's (totally a fictional serial killer) house, I thought, "This guy needs some flypaper."  And?  He puts moths down his victims throats, so, not anything like just like flies. (See the connection?)

To recap, flypaper = serial killer.

I was hoping the people at Lowe's knew I wasn't a serial killer as I was buying flypaper, but I wore a twinset and pearls and took my kids just in case.  Then I caved to non-existent peer pressure and went through self-checkout so no one would have to aid me in my serial killer paraphernalia purchase.

If purchasing flypaper isn't gross enough, you have to open it, which is a sick process I will save for Brian in the future.  Thankfully, even though the flypaper remains 100% fly-free, I'm pretty sure it worked as a deterrent because the flies have vacated our home.  They probably had a little fly meeting that went:"It's serious fellas.  Girlfriend bought flypaper."  And then all the little flies murmured to one another in distress.  And got the heck out of Dodge.

...except...

Girlfriend got pwned.

The flies, in an effort to escape the horrendous heat wave, had really moved to the basement, where I never spend any time unless it happens to be Hosanna's birthday in a few days and I am refinishing a piece of furniture for her (shh, still a secret).  This is where I discovered I got played.  Flypaper? These flies are playing on a whole 'nother level.  Specifically, the basement.

It is rough trying to paint with flies buzzing around your head and landing on your freshly painted surfaces.  I just know that if I got out a magnifying glass I would be able to see little tiny fly foot prints jacking up what was, admittedly, an awesomely sanded desk top.

I could feel my anger simmering, but was trying to keep it in check.  I may have spoken out loud to the flies, but apparently they don't understand that a disgruntled, "Dude.  FLY.",  means "get out of my house or die."

When a fly landed in my can of paint, I responded in exasperation, "Ok, Dude, whatever.  Stay there. I hope you drown."  But then I had to fish the fly out of the paint.  And I was tired of painting.  And Burger King just introduced sweet potato fries and a brownie sundae which I am taking as a personal attack on my quest to lose those five pounds.  And, seriously, do I really need any more reasons?


The next poor fly that gave me opportunity was going to pay for my frustration.  It didn't take long before a fly landed five inches from my foot, mocking me as his brothers plotted elsewhere to take over the paint stirrer.

Out of nowhere, the Beastie Boys started playing Sabotage (in my head) and my body switched to slow motion.  I (slooooowly) brought my knee up, making a face that was all

"This is the face of a Killer, Bella." - Edward Cullen

and then (still in slow motion) I stomped the crap out of that fly.  (I resumed normal motion, breathing hard because I was angry and from DETROIT the suburbs.)  Then I chanted "Whose house?  MY HOUSE, FLIES," at the other flies who where staring in horror at my ruthlessness. 

So?  In conclusion, don't mess with me.  I may not be a serial killer, but I can take care of myself.