Not your average suburban mom. I’m more your typical, normal, commonplace, everyday, garden-variety suburban mom. With a thesaurus.

Friday, June 29, 2012

If Mick Jagger and Napoleon Dynamite Had a Love Child

I did a google image search for
Napoleon Dynamite and Mick
Jagger's Love Child and no freaking
- Dwight Schrute came up.
Since the Internet knows everything
the secret is fully out.

I have always been known for my keen fashion sense repertoire of Disney songs extreme gracefulness. It's like there's a ballerina trapped inside my body, stumbling around trying to break free.  It's ironic that even my inner ballerina is stumbling.  Well, maybe in an Alanis kind of way,  in which "ironic" means "a big bummer."  Since it's Facebook Friday (two weeks in a row!) I have collected the Facebook Statuses I have posted about my *sweet moves* (say it like you are Napoleon Dynamite) through the years.

On being awesome at home:

Accidently macing yourself with non-stick cooking spray pretty much sets the tone for the day.

Always wear your glasses (and your shoes) when attempting to show a pine cone your "mad" (i.e. non-existent) soccer skills.  If you don't you might discover that pine cone is really poop.

25,000 Awesome Points for wedging the colander in the sink at the perfect angle so that my freshly cooked pasta could move seamlessly from pot to colander to garbage disposal.

If cleaning the bathroom wasn't fun enough, I just plated a quick game of Catch the Brand New Roll of Paper Towel Before it Falls into the Toilet, and lost.

On being awesome in public:

The correct order to exiting the fitting room at JC Penney is: shirt on, coat on, open door.  A slight deviation in that order and you have to add the step: freak out as you make a sound that is a cross between a yelp of horror and the words, "I forgot my shirt!"  P.S. In spite of my peep show, the doorbusters were awesome.

The best way to handle the Crazy Psycho Woman coming straight at you with her cart as you enter Target is to realize she is your reflection in the automatic doors.

In my defense, in the Walmart by my house the WOMEN'S bathroom is on the left.

Don't assume you can bully the automatic door to open faster by charging purposefully toward it. You will end up smashing forcefully chest first and making a cool noise that sounds like, "Ugh-huh," and conceding the automatic door is superior, while glancing around to see how many have witnessed your shame.

You know when it's raining, and you've finally loaded all the groceries into your car, and you just want to get home, but the trunk won't shut because the toilet paper is in the way, so you get all, "Idon'thaveTIMEforthisit'srainingandI'mtired" and you use brute force to close the trunk because YOU are the BOSS of the toilet paper? Yeah, well, it wasn't the toilet paper.  It was the grapes.


"Oh, Kelly.  You are a disaster.  How do you have any friends self-esteem?"
To answer your question, "Um, it's called swag and it's how you remain *flippin' sweet* (say it like you are Napoleon Dynamite) as you pull all this off."

One time I was on the phone with AT&T for eight and a half hours.  Straight.   My internet wasn't working and an awesome computer support person in California was working diligently with me to resolve the issue.  Which meant I had eight and a half hours to be wedged under my computer desk with the phone glued to my ear as I tried to implement the solutions suggested.  My second favorite part of this phone call was when computer support asked me if I had a Mac or a PC.  My answer?  "Um, it's black,"  like she had just asked me what kind of car I drove.  ("Um, it's silver.  And AMERICAN, because I'm from MICHIGAN.  And I DON'T HATE FREEDOM."  For the unions.  You're welcome.  Support my blog.)  My absolute favorite part of this eight and a half hour phone call?  When we exhausted our "fixing it" options and realized it was a billing issue.  So, five minutes later I had the correct credit card on file and my internet was back.  True story. 

Happy Friday!  See y'all Monday.*

*Which?  Fourth of July is Wednesday, only a mere two days after the weekend, so isn't it simply prudent to take a five six day weekend?  Thinkaboutit.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

I was going to pin this on Pinterest, but that's like, Pinception. Or something.

Um, I think this is USA Triathlon sanctioned.
Or totally should be.
Another Saturday, another long bike ride. This one was scheduled to be 15 miles followed by a 20 minute run.  I also knew Sarah and I were headed to the lake later that day to attempt my first ever OPEN WATER SWIM!, so I was totally ready to justify eating that Big Mac dominate the way triathletes do, by rocking all three sports in one day.

I thought I would take advantage of my close proximity to the recently renovated four million dollar bike path, allowing me access to 44 miles of trail designated for cyclists and runners alike.  Except that the State of Michigan is really intent on keeping me off the trail, because they have chosen prime cycling season to attack all the bridge work over the trail, making entrance to the path tricky.  But I persevered (i.e. went to mapmyride), and discovered a secret batman route onto the path. (Which?  Probably should have stayed secret until I got shocks for a certain body part that rhymes with "China".)

Let me say:  The path is awesome.  Not as awesome as the hardcore, X-Games, secluded woods trail.  But fully paved, moderately empty, and only a slight creepoid factor as you trek behind a rest stop. (Really, State of MI?  Are you not fully up on your urban legends?)

Since it was along a major highway (for all you stalkers it totally wasn't 275) there was a fair amount of litter, and I noticed a really disturbing trend as my ride continued.  I would see this:

and think, "Oh my gosh, that could totally be a super cute vase/necklace/aluminum bouquet of flowers/uprecycled reusable handmade bag!"

I should have thought, "SICK!  Who knows where that nasty GARBAGE has been?  I should wear gloves to throw it out, and not even consider covering it in hot glue and burlap/twine/ribbon and sticking it on my kitchen table!"  This is when I knew I have been grievously affected by Pinterest. And not only was Pinterest making me environmentally friendly absolutely delusional, but I have no idea where to go to get help.

You see, there is no such thing as a Pinterest Support Group.  I'm sure, once upon a time, someone tried to initiate one, but it was doomed from conception.  I don't know a lot about support groups, but I'm pretty sure you need to have meetings.  And a group of Pinterest junkies organizing a meeting would only further their problems.

A Pinterest Support Group meeting would have SNACKS

And a PLACE to talk about ADDICTION

and I'm pretty sure you need a MODERATOR, someone who is in recovery from the addiction.  Here are all the images in the entire Internet of people who have recovered from Pinterest.

*insert sound of crickets*

So, today, I'm taking matters into my own hand.  I declare I will not pull that (perfectly sized) waterlogged cork board from the drainage ditch.  It may only need some fabric, a cute frame, and fumigation to make it usable, but I will bravely ride past, and not spend two more miles wondering exactly how I could have gotten it home on my bike.

All the beads, wire, and jewelry making tools I bought to make these necklaces?  They are going to hang out on my dresser until they spontaneously turn into bird's nests, until the end of time for another four months.  Then I will reassess.  (Because technically I could have bought one necklace on Etsy for less the price of buying all the materials to make one myself, but if you factor in that I could now make bird's nest necklaces for everyone I know, it's now way more economical to own the stuff.) (*Spoiler* - once I nail this, Everyone I Know, this is totally your Christmas/birthday gift for 2012 2013 let's not ruin the surprise.)

IN CONCLUSION, it's really late and I need to check Pinterest go to bed.  Good night.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

My Siamese Twin and I have a Special Connection

Me and Ezra.  If we were elephants.
I'm pretty sure I'm a Siamese Twin.  I know this is the sort of thing you usually discover before you are 33.  It's not like being adopted.  Or a werewolf. Those things can be kept from you your whole life and BAM! the Cullens move to town and your whole identity is different.  I think my Siamese Twinism is like that.  Life was totally cool and BAM! two years ago I gave birth to a little boy who never.detaches.himself. from my body.  The only logical explanation is, of course,  that we are Siamese Twins separated by thirty-one years.

I know what you are thinking, "Why isn't there a made for t.v. movie about your life yet?"  I know. I'm a little disturbed myself.  I guess more people care about the Bachelorette (*spoiler* - they don't stay together - I have this on good authority based solely upon COMMON SENSE) than a modern day medical miracle.

The weird thing?  We are not connected at any specific point.  We don't share any major organs, veins, or appendages.  We often do, however, share my meals.  We have Roving Siamese Twinism, which I just made up and does not exist but I bet I could find on Wikipedia if I put it there.

One time we are consistently separated is when I (think I) sneak out the back door to grill our dinner. I slide closed the glass doorwall, feeling like a stealth ninja, and do my business.  Alone. (Not that business.  I never do that business alone.)

This is incredibly awesome and freeing until I try to reenter the house and realize my Siamese Twin is sitting on the floor behind the now closed and locked doorwall, laughing hysterically because he is 23 and 3/4 months old and knows how to lock and deadbolt Mama outside.

This is when I usually question my life decisions that have brought me to the point where I am saying, "Ha-ha, Dude, you're hysterical.  Now let Mama in.  Ezra, honey, unlock the door.  (Enter logic/reasoning with an almost 2 year old) Dude, your hot dog* is getting cold, Buddy.  (He totally doesn't care.  Hot dog?  He holds the power.)  Let Mama in, Bud.  (Switching tactics)  Go get Eve, Dude. (Because he obviously wants to let me in, he just doesn't remember how locks work and needs help from an older sibling) Bud! Open. the. door. (He is still giggling because maybe he didn't hear me.)  EZRA, DUDE.  UNLOCK THE DOOR AND LET MAMA IN!"

We make awesome neighbors.

*Don't judge me.  I grilled it.  It's practically health food now.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

"Seaweave" - Dr. Gelato

Facebook Status: Pretending I was a mermaid trapped in a fisherman's net did nothing to change the gross out that was swimming and getting tangled in someone's detached weave.

(Best response to this status?  "Seaweave" -Dr. Gelato.  Niiiiiiiiiice.)

I have sort of a love/hate relationship with the pool.

I naively thought, having honed my body into the prime running machine you see before you, that I was completely ready to dominate the lap lanes. And I was mostly kind of right.  I ended up dominating the end of the lap lane.  As I held on for dear life, gasping for breath, praying that time would magically speed up and I would find myself at the end of an hour long swim workout, rather than 57 seconds into the beginning, I realized triathlon might be more work than I counted on.

I've always been a swimmer in that I've never been part of any organized team but I don't drown when I'm in the water.  (For you, Amy V.) But, in a moment of humility, I thought it would be wise to acquire hone a proper swimming technique before committing to go the distance of 500 yards in open water.

I talked to the aquatic director at my gym who encouraged me to sign up for "the new triathlon class on Thursday nights" because it dealt with "beginner triathletes" looking to "learn proper stroke technique."  Perfect!

He's a big fat liar.

I showed up ten minutes early (because that's how I roll) which is exactly how much time you need to give yourself a panic attack after learning that class Mr. Aquatic Director steered you towards is called "Elite Training for the Competitive Swimmer."  Ten minutes is a long time to ruminate on your trumpted up skill set that is nowhere near ready to tackle "elite training."

I thought I was totally prepared for this class.  I bought a real bathing suit.  It was a horrendously unflattering one piece by TYR, which is a fancy way to say it was more money than I wanted to spend.  I also bought my first ever pair of goggles, chosen because they were the prettiest.  (All you real swimmers out there can feel free to giggle.)

Our instructors could not have been older than 21.  Soren and Jeanette told us to get the in water and do a "quick 200 freestyle" to warm up.  That was the first time I raised my hand.

Kelly: What's "200"?
Soren: Four laps.
Kelly: Like, four times there and back?
Soren: Yes.
Kelly:  What's "freestyle"?  Is it this one?  (Pantomimes windmilling at the air in front of me.)
Soren:  Kind of.

I thought, cool.  I can do this.  Having already done the math, my triathlon distance was ten "there and backs" so doing four in the warm up was no big deal.

I got there.  And back had to wait for me to catch find pray for my breath to return and my heart rate to get out of the "pretty sure you're about to have a heart attack" range.

After many halting "there and backs" of assessment, Jeanette and Soren diagnosed me with one simple problem.  I was swimming too fast.  This was probably the best problem I could have had, as it made me even more like a Navy Seal, if Navy Seals ever had any problems. Which they don't.  The solution for swimming too fast is to do eleventy billion laps behind Soren who is going at a pace I would generously call Bed-Ridden Geriatric.  I focused on not sinking and not getting too close to Soren, who didn't know me and couldn't trust that I wasn't getting fresh.  (I totally wasn't.  If you were wondering.)

It turns out that the first three weeks of triathlon training are dedicated to swimming sloooooooowly behind Soren.  Or maybe that's just for me.  Turns out this is actually effective, as I am now slower than your Grandma.  Look out, Triathlon.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Apparently "clean eating" has nothing to do with the Five Second Rule

This is hilarious if you know
Bear Grylls.  If not, it's probably
disturbing in view of
 my SuperNanny post.
Google Bear Grylls immediately.

Which is both disappointing and embarrassing, as I have been liberally applying the rule and claiming to "eat clean" for years.

It's all the rage for triathletes (well, I'm pretty sure all athletes, but triathletes are the people whose blogs I am currently stalking) and after about 20 billion references to "clean eating", I decided to do some research (i.e. Goggle it) and truly define what it is.

Turns out no one knows.

There are so many different ideas about clean eating my head started to spin after visiting just two pages.  Like with any idea that is simple in theory (eat only things found in nature) but hard to apply (because Nutella is delicious) people have added rules and amendments to make their struggle seem more legit.*

*which is fine, I'm not judging.  I'm all about justification and Lord knows I have eaten dozens my share of cider mill donuts on the premise that I can't let them sit on the counter and get stale. Because that would be morally wrong.

With clean eating some people focus more on unprocessed foods, some mostly on the way you view food and how and when you feed your body, some on avoiding preservatives and artificial ingredients.  The hardcore people do all three.  And more, maybe.  As I said, I actually know nothing about this.  Some tout* the benefits of veganism, while others wouldn't dream of cutting out fish, chicken, or eggs.

*random linguistic fact not at all related to this post:  "tout" actually has connotations with horse racing (like to solicit bets on a race horse) so it's kind of the most inappropriate word to use when applied to the benefits of veganism.  Which is both ironic and useful information.  BAM! - you're smarter.

I have dabbled in the thought of trying to eat clean.  And by dabbled I mean I thought, "That would be a lot healthier," as I noshed on Cracker Jack.  Also, every morning I vow to drink all eight glasses of water I'm supposed to be drinking, so there's that.  I also own wheat germ.  I'm practically the poster child for the Food Pyramid.  Not that I trust/believe in the Food Pyramid;  we all know it's totally the secret love child of Big Food and the U.S. Government.  (And THAT'S how you get put on watch lists.)

If I designed the food pyramid it would look a lot different. Like 30 40 45 percent would be International Delight Mocha Iced Coffee, 10 percent would be refrigerator oatmeal and/or Special K with red berries, and the rest would be Eat Whatever You Want because I Am Not Your Mama. (UPDATE: hubby just informed me they've gotten rid of the Food Pyramid, and it's now a plate.  As a child of the '90's, I have to say the Food Pyramid is a part of my youth of which I can not easily let go.  It's like asking me to picture Michelangelo of Sistine Chapel fame without thinking of the Ninja Turtles.)

I think my main problem with eating clean is that sometimes you just need chocolate.  And not a small square of dark chocolate filled with antioxidants.  You need a big piece of sugary milk chocolate filled with peanut butter.  Or caramel.  Or some sort of nougaty goodness.

Also?  Fast food.  Anyone who has experienced the blessed silence that descends upon the minivan after the drive-thru meal has been handed out  smell of french fries promises a delectable meal served around the kitchen table at home because we are not savages who eat in the car, understands the power of the McNugget. Fast food is not very clean.  By any definition.

So, to hijack a potentially helpful and encouraging blog entry about clean eating and healthy living from a woman who has lost some weight, let me say, thank God for processed/unclean/junk food. Because some of us are premenstrual.  Still. 

P.S. As far as the "eating foods found only in nature" part of eating clean, I'm pretty sure the Lord meant to create a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Bush, he just got distracted with kudzu, and that's why it is so out of hand today.  Which is why all you clean eaters can now add Peanut Butter Cups to your diet.  You're welcome.

Kelly's guide to Clean Eating.
I will add that anything chocolate gets an extra 5 seconds when dropped.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Facebook Friday: The "I Rule at Parenting" Edition

"Hey, Kel, that hole in the wall looks a lot like your foot."
What could have caused that hole?

I am so thankful for my precious kiddos who continually drive me insane, make me laugh, and help me grow.  Like, literally.  I grew 55 pounds with Hosanna alone.

Facebook has recorded some of my best parenting moments in history the last few years.  I've decided to highlight a few of them in a segment I'm calling Facebook Friday/ Photographic Evidence Friday. Completely original and alliterate(d).* (Also a bit like an episode of CSI focused on a Facebook serial killer.) (But this is nothing like that.) (There is way less blood.) I also don't know if I can call this a true segment because it might never reappear. But it also might. Because I've obviously spent a lot of time planning out my blog and staying consistent to a true form.  Here are some of my Facebook Statuses involving my poor kiddos and the parenting they will describe in therapy with loving memory someday.

On nutrition:

"No chocolate cake until you finish your hot dog."  Yet another merit badge on my Mom-of-the-Year sash.  It's next to the badge for "Ketchup is a fruit."

A recent (and VERY scientific) study has concluded that you can feed your children Kashi and fresh fruit for a month straight, but no one will ask, "What did you have for breakfast?" until your child can answer truthfully, "Chocolate milk and a Pop Tart."

On behavior:

Took the kids to Walmart this morning.  In their jammies.  Clutching McDonald's apple juice boxes. And gave out gum to stop a tantrum.  Don't judge me.

A very angry toddler just threw a book at my head.  The title?  For Kids Only: A Daily Devotional on Self-Control.

I've decided today that any parenting refereeing will be decided based solely on the outcome of a cage match. (Best response: "I've got $5 on Hosanna." - Cassie)

On teachable moments:

Warning:  Over-sharing to your toddler may lead to your toddler over-sharing to complete strangers at the grocery store.  This includes any information you may think your child will need at some point of their life - like the occurrence and definition of a "verp."

All day we've been practicing, "What does Esther say?"  "Yes, Ma'am!"  and now to show Papa. "Esther, what does a cow say?"  "Moo."  "What does a frog say?"  "Ribbit."  "What does Esther say?"  "Not d*mn it!"  Training time well spent.

Eve, looking at the Statue of Liberty. "Is that the American Idol?"

On provision:

Just added to the list of Conversations I Never Thought I'd Initiate:  "Honey, when your underpants are this tight, let Mama know so I can buy you a bigger pair."  (Best response?  "If only Richard Simmons mother had the foresight to have that same conversation." - Erin)

But thankfully, just when I start to feel like the worst.parent.ever (like the time I made Hosanna go on the Iron Dragon even though she begged not to ride for the 45 minutes we were on line and cried during and after the ride) I just go visit the internet.  And the internet tells me I doing better than some.  So thank you, Internet.

Have a great weekend and I'll see you Monday!

*I keep going back and forth with this one.  "Alliterate" - do I go for the easy joke about you wondering if I really meant to write "illiterate" which would be a totally ironic mistake, or should I just leave it alone and have you blown away by my vocabulary skillz?  Asterisk = best of both worlds.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

"This ain't a song for the broken-hearted" - Bon Jovi

If anyone out there is involved in a scavenger hunt and you still need to find

1. A little old Asian lady showering naked in the group shower and singing opera while soaping up because, let's face it, the acoustics in the shower are sublime

then come to my gym. I've got her.

And I'm so jealous of her.

I want to be her. Not the whole "little old Asian lady" part because it's impossible. You know, genetics. Not even the "showering naked in the group shower" part because I'm a BAM* who already does this.

*this may be a bit overstated. I might shower naked in the group showers because on the first day of swim class everyone else was doing it and I couldn't figure out a way not to disrobe without being the weird "dressed while everyone else is naked girl".

It's the "singing opera while soaping up" part that gets me. As a former music major, I sing opera frequently at home. I sing it in my car. I sing it to my husband whenever I want to stealthily pick a fight. My four year old even acts out a character she calls "Opera Mom." But I do not have the balls to sing opera in public while naked.

But the little old Asian lady has 'em. (Figuratively, I mean. It is the women's locker room.)

Singing opera in a place reserved for downward cast eyes and private toweling off is a bold move. It says, "I don't care. Look at me. I look nothing like a super model and I'm totally okay with being naked and having you look at me.  I'm all about having fun and enjoying the moment when I want to. In fact, if the floor wasn't a bit slippery I might skip to my locker. Because I'm that carefree."

I want that.

So today I'm going to discover my inner Naked Opera Star. 

(This next part is best read while having Bon Jovi's It's My Life stuck in your head.)

I'll start by owning it when I forget I'm riding a stationary bike at the gym and air drum the heck out of the handlebars.  No more staring intensely at the odometer in shame, hoping no one caught me out of the corner of their eye.  I will meet the gaze of College Muscle Man in the mirror and even invite him to play air guitar.  Because I'm not into Musical Exclusivity.

In a completely clear, super wide grocery aisle?  I will get a running start and ride the shopping cart.  

When I am alone in my minivan and at a particularly poignant moment in my interview with David Letterman, I will soldier on even at a stop light next to a car filled with people who can see I am talking to myself/Imaginary Dave.  Clearly.

Today I will embrace that I sing the talk box parts in Livin' on a Prayer, because honestly, how can you have any kind of soul and not want to imitate that sound?  And while we are on the subject of Bon Jovi (you're welcome) I'm going to go ahead and cry while I'm singing because I'm still premenstrual I really feel for Tommy and Gina and I'm just so proud of them that life is so hard but they are going to make it.  

When I finish my workout and go straight to Burger King to order a Hershey Sundae Pie, I will never pretend to be on the phone when I get to the window and say, "I'm coming honey, they are literally putting it in my hand right now," because I want the teenage BK worker to think that obviously my husband has some dude version of a pregnancy craving, and I, the devoted wife, am lovingly fulfilling it for him. Because of course this Hershey Sundae Pie is not for me.*

*I'm not committing to it that I've actually done this.  Definitely not more than once.  Twice tops.

NO MORE!  If Naked Opera Star wants Hershey Sundae Pie (and has worked out and responsibly fit it into her meal plan) she will eat it without disgrace! (But maybe with some chagrin if she's in her workout clothes.  A tinge of chagrin is okay.)

Today I will discover my inner Naked Opera Star.  And embrace her, soap and all.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

"If you can't be an athlete be an athletic supporter."

Goin' retro - written November 2010, a few weeks into the Couch to 5K training program.

Lesson of the day? No matter how many miles you have just run, it is impossible to feel healthy when you've just burped donut. Or bacon. Especially in succession. 

Another thing I've learned; "sweat stinging the eyes" is not merely a poetic description. Getting sweat in your eye literally hurts. Am I a little disturbed this revelation took 31 years to occur? Maybe. But I am not surprised, given that I hate to sweat.

Sweating has been the primary deterrent for my participation in well, pretty much every activity I don't participate in. Most of the recreational activities I choose rest comfortably (ha-ha) in the "stay nice and dry and sweet smelling while drinking a coke" category. I don't even like to sweat when I exercise because (are you ready for this?) it makes me feel fat.

I know, okay?

I was never that kid. You know, the one who excelled at anything physical. I was never the one picked first (or tenth) in gym class. I was never the kid who had even a hint of natural athletic ability. To this day I am surprised when I actually catch something someone has tossed casually in my direction (although at least I've stopped flinching in anticipation of impact). But I think I always wanted to be that kid.

Enter my sports legacy - the exhaustive version. By exhaustive I mean I'm not leaving anything out. It's not condensed in the interest of time. This is the complete, extended history of all my athletic experience.

Soccer - first grade. I was the only girl on the team but somewhat mollified by our purple shirts. The season is spent kicking dirt in the position known as "defense", not knowing I was allowed to leave the two foot diameter area to, I don't know, PLAY SOCCER.

Tennis Team Tryouts - ninth grade. Because I'm about to start high school. And I'm supposed to be "getting involved". And tennis tryouts are the first opportunity to do so ... but having NEVER PLAYED TENNIS IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, who knew you were supposed to bring a racquet?

Black Friday Shopping - it's a pity I only discovered this sport two years ago. Not only do I enjoy it, I excel at it as well. However, 2009's go of it produced major shin splints. Rookie mistake; it won't happen again. (Black Friday just happens to be the day after my first 5K. So now, mid-run, when I want to quit I think to myself, "Kelly, you are DUAL TRAINING here. It's not just about your 5K time. How fast do you want to get to that $30 Wii?)

Weight and Body - tenth grade. I know this is out of chronological order, but my memories of Weight and Body have been repressed. Purposefully. In the interest of full disclosure I've had to dig deep to unearth these memories. I took Weight and Body as an elective sophomore year. (i.e. I SIGNED UP INDEPENDENTLY for this class. Without coercion.) An elective gym class is full of students (boys) who are predominantly that kid. The pinnacle of W&B was getting weighed and then hooked up to a machine in front of the entire class (yes, the entire class, did I stutter?), at which point you learned the physiological make up of your body. I think every teenage girl should know the comfort of her 26 year old male football coach asking her if she knew she was retaining so much water, she's probably in the midst of her cycle, right? Our grade in W&B was determinded by an improvement in our overall body fat. I lost seven pounds and 1% body fat, only earning a "C" in the class, which meant I had to do extra credit. For an elective gym class. What does one do for extra credit in a class like W&B? Well, as it is taught by the football coach, one probably videotapes all the JV football games and then gets invited to the Football Banquet to receive a letter in "Football Videographing." (Welcome to my life. HOW could I make this up?!?!)

Taking a class called "Your First 5K" is not only a physical challenge, but it tugs at the roots of a dream to finally be that kid. It is a chance to become different than "who I am" - or as Switchfoot puts it - the difference between "how you are and how you should be." (From a song called Dare You to Move. Perfect, right?) The thing is, as much as I hate running, I um, really like running. I'm at the point that I know I can do it. I want to do it. And I might be so slow that elderly power walkers lap me, but that's okay. At our last class Trainer Cathy pulled me aside and said, "It looks like there might be a runner in you."

I felt like I'd been knighted.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Stalkers Make Great Friends Because They're Both Loyal and Committed

Weirdest trail ride ever.

To be fair, I've only been on two trail rides, which considerably ups the odds for bypassing the current slot holder with the most bizarre happenings gone down.  The last one, where I won the X-Games, now pulls a distant second after a ride that had it's route diverted by 1500 Statues of Liberty and ended with a confrontation with the police.*

*I am probably being a bit melodramatic.  Although I was technically yelling, it was all in context.  And maybe it's completely inaccurate a bit of a stretch to imply I was yelling at the police when it was more in their general direction.

A 15 mile bike ride seems like a grand accomplishment, but I'm realizing that if it's a leisurely ride it's not that big of a deal. (Until the next morning when you sit down and your tush says, "Dude, careful.  You biked 15 miles yesterday.  And if you've forgotten I will remind you every time you try to sit down.") 

But Kelly, you must be thinking, you are such a hardcore athlete.  Why would you ruin a long bike ride with mediocre effort?  Good question.  I blame it specifically on the fact that I had to dismount no less than seven times to duck under all the caution tape that blocked off the trail. 

This is a good time to ponder that I never thought of actually heeding the caution tape.  I saw it and was like, "That's where I need to go.  I mapped it."  Plus? Caution tape is like a mall cop; visual authority but no firearm to back it.  Also? Navy Seals vs. Caution Tape? (DID I EVEN JUST WRITE THAT?)

"Um, Kelly, why was there so much caution tape on the back woods secluded trails? Weren't you concerned about the hideous murder spree crime scene it was surely containing?" Great question that I never asked myself because I was in such a bad mood  so focused on getting the job done. Because I'm an athlete.  Possible death and dismemberment from the psychopath still hiding in the woods never even crossed my mind.  Instead I just took the blocked trails as a personal offense and grumbled about the inconvenience.  The most I questioned the first set of caution tape was, "Dude, THE HECK?"   (Street smarts - I have them.) 

Around mile three I came upon a golf cart and my new best friends.  They were two city workers, who, at 6:30 a.m. were already a little in the bag.  Maybe.  Or they were just some of those perpetually giddy/slaphappy people that ride around on golf carts yelling to anyone crushing it on the trails.

City Worker: GOOD MORNING!
Kelly: HEY! (I'm really quick first thing in the morning) (Also I yelled it a bit flamboyantly.  I don't know why.) Then, realizing they were setting up giant mile marker flags, I remembered, "Duh - it's the local town's 5K and 10K today.  And I'm riding on the course. The caution tape totally makes sense now."

I decided to detour from the trail to hurry and do the part of my ride mapped around the start of the run so I could be clear of all the running traffic later on.  It was about 2 miles away.  There, far from the scene of the first meeting, I was greeted by my new best friends who, still in their golf cart, guffawed at me.

Kelly: NOPE. (Still quick, not as flamboyant.)

We proceeded to cross paths twice more, each meeting more exuberant but still as witty as before. They yelled things like, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER HERE?" and "AREN'T YOU DONE YET?" (I dropped a "HA-HA" which is like a real life version of lol, and a "DUDE!" which shouldn't surprise anyone.  I'm like the most boring new best friend these guys have ever had.)  But the final meeting went down like this:

My new best friends were in their golf cart stopped at an intersection, talking to a cop where he was busy shutting down the road for the races.  When I came near, they both stood up in the golf cart and cheered. (Did you catch that, X-Games Trail Ride with your imaginary fans and imaginary cheering?)


And then we all laughed, because, well, you kinda had to be there.  But I felt a bit redeemed.

At that point all I had to do was bike home, but I was greeted by a glorious sight.  It was like Bonus Weirdness, a gift that I will never take for granted.  Because just when you've been blessed by golf cart best friends, you will look up and see 1500 people dressed as the Statue of Liberty gathering to begin a foot race.  And you might tear up a bit because you are premenstrual liberty is a beautiful thing.
LIBERTY, y'all.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Because Tampering With the Mail is a Federal Offense

Sometimes you're just hanging out, sitting in your minivan, not even *thinking* about committing a crime, and then your hand gets stuck in the drive up mail chute at the post office.

(I might interject briefly that you are not so fat that your hand gets stuck, but you probably are wearing a wrist brace from last night's set of pushups which were painful, and not in a "Work it, G.I. Jane" sort of way. It was more "Your wrist might possibly snap in two if you continue" sort of way. So you made yourself do seventeen, primarily because it's what a Navy Seal would have done, minus 200.)

So, hand stuck firmly in the mail chute. You might panic at this point. After all, here you are trapped in a federal post office mail chute, all suspicious like, one arm reaching inside for far passed any polite time frame. There are no cars behind you yet, but anyone could see you and call the cops because tampering with the mail is a federal offense, dude. To any passersby you could be stealing rent checks, or disposing of your unfinished slurpee, or unleashing a cat or ANTHRAX - WHO COULD FORGET ANTHRAX?!?! In fact, Jack Bauer is probably already onto you. (But only seasons 1-5ish Jack Bauer, because we can all agree that seasons 6+ were a complete.waste.of.time.)

You have to escape. You can't go to prison. You have a husband. You have children. You don't even *like* bologna. (In fact, you take a second in Mommy Judgement and SuperiorityVille to congratulate yourself that your children don't eat bologna. This congrats will be diverted by the memory of a recent lunch where your children dined exclusively on m&m's and cheese nips.) Children need their mothers. And not in prison.

You come up with a plan reminiscent of James Franco in 127 Hours (because you are that committed to staying out of prison), minus the drinking your own pee part (because you are not that committed to staying out of prison). But the blood would surely lead to you, especially because you have a pretty rare blood type and DNA testing is kind of specific. The next obvious part of the plan is to employ vampires to clean up the blood but remember they don't exist (except for Edward and the rest of the Cullens - don't spoil it for the kids, kay?) So, in a moment of brilliance you think, "LEECHES! Leeches TOTALLY exist!"

You are trapped inside this minivan and mail chute. Thankfully, you have four children with you, three of whom routinely find disgusting nature like stuff outside and bring it two inches from your nose for you to examine. There is a pond a half mile away. You could send them to gather some leeches ...

...but then they would be ACCESSORIES and they would go to jail.

At this point you will tug really hard in desperation, and your hand will come free.

This entire thought sequence will take place in approximately SEVEN SECONDS. So, go you for your quick and logical problem solving ability.

Friday, June 15, 2012

And THAT'S How I Won the X-Games

I totally stole this image.
That's why it says "masterfile".
Facebook Status: It may be all Zen to you to practice your flute in the middle of the woods at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, but to me, on my first trail ride, coming around a bend and hearing faint strains of Bach's Partita in A minor only reminds me a bit of a whacked out suburban version of Deliverance. And I'm already peddling as fast as I can.

Yep. My first trail ride.

I left the house at around 6:15 a.m. after mapping and remapping my route obsessively via I had 12 miles scheduled and I've been spoiled by Sarah planning our routes. But she couldn't bike that day so I decided to Navy Seal it and do some trail riding. (Because if Navy Seals rode their bikes to train for a sprint triathlon they would totally go trail. Blindfolded.  While being chased by rabid squirrels.) Also, major roads (the kinds my neighborhood is surrounded by) still freak me out (maybe because Brian, in his deep seeded love for cyclists, mentions taking them out with his car how much he hates sharing the road with them whenever cycling enters the conversation).  So hitting up a place that dubbed me the biggest threat had a certain appeal.

I spent most of the ride pretending I was in the X-Games. I made sure I had my hardcore face on, and skidded on the gravel as much as possible because I have poor balance and limited overall control of my ride.  There were a ton of (imaginary and consequently invisible) fans cheering me on, and I mugged for the (again, imaginary and invisible) cameras and enjoyed a few voice-over commentary moments.  Like,

"Kelly, tell us about that last turn, where it looked as if you were going to attempt a full pirouetting dismount."
"Well, John, it got dicey out there.  I was going so fast and misjudged the angle.  (Insert dramatic pause to catch my breath because I had just finished the event and won.)  I thought I was going to have to bail and didn't want to eat it on those tiny bits of gravel huge rocks, but thanks to my extensive ballet training (i.e. my best friend is a ballerina and uses terms like pirouette in casual conversation) I knew it would be the best way to get outta there.  Thankfully I recovered without any dance moves."


"Kelly, on bridge number four you made this fantastic face - tell us what you were thinking."
"Are you referring to when I came out of the saddle, John?  I was thinking, "I'm totally riding out of the saddle.  In the middle of the woods.  And it's gorgeous out. And since I'm standing up I can see the stream raging river below the bridge.  And at the next games I'm going to suggest we ditch the bridges and ride through the rapids.  Because this is the X-Games, not a tea party*."

*not a political statement.  It's simply that I have a gaggle of girlies and have partaken in my fair share of actual tea parties.  And they are nothing like the X-Games.  But now that I'm on a tangent, I remember my children frequently wear their bathing suits and jump off the couch into a blue comforter. They also paddle board, surf, and barefoot ski on the same blue comforter, so, yeah, my house is pretty much like a year round X-Games.

Miles 8-9 took place on a paved trail where I experienced my first X-Games medal ceremony.  And really, it was almost embarrassing to win so many of the gold.  I also saw a group of deer, which was cool but completely unexpected as I was really close to a major highway.  Because I was going so fast (have I mentioned that yet?) I came upon them suddenly, and they were only a few feet away before they took off.

Also?  I've seen a number of sweet neighborhood rabbits on my morning runs.  They generally slowly hop away as I approach.  But I have a different effect on rabbits while on my bike.  They freak the heck out.  I wanted to be all, "Dude, rabbits, I'm cool.  I wouldn't run you over or hunt you.  Even if it was the end of the world.  Or the Hunger Games.  Probably."  But then I thought about it and knew I was lying in my head to those poor rabbits.  But maybe not.  Because although I would totally eat them during the Hunger Games, I would let someone else hunt them.  So, semantics = not a liar. Awesome.

I have another trail ride tomorrow - a scheduled 15 miles.  And in honor of the summer Olympics,  I might take a break from the X-Games, and enter a few cycling events there.  So I'll probably pass Michael Phelps as the most successful athlete in history.  Better call Guinness. (The World Records, not the beer.) (Heathen.)

Thursday, June 14, 2012

"Second place is FIRST LOSER." - the Navy Seals

Memory Lane: Written in November, 2010, a few weeks into Couch to 5K training.

Because I don't want you to think I am TOO cool, let me be clear: I don't think about Milli Vanilli often. (At least not when I'm running.) Mainly, when I'm running, I think one thing.

Do. Not. Stop.

Okay, actually I think many other things as well (as demonstrated in previous entries). But most of the other things I think about are imperative to distracting me from the other thing I could think about - why I should stop. I've noticed the rest of my thoughts fall into four main categories.

1. Extremely difficult (junior high level) algebraic math calculations focusing mostly on the variables of time, speed, and distance run. The majority of this time is spent correcting original calculations and panicking when I forget or change a number in the equation that could affect my running. Specifically, by adding more time to my running. Within this category exists a sub-category called "Bargaining", which involves me making deals with myself. These deals are comprised of rewards that in Real Life are wholly unrewarding (i.e. "just make it to the bridge and you get to CHECK YOUR STOPWATCH") but in Running Life are equivalent to getting ice cream from the ice cream truck. In other words, it's kinda the BEST THING that happens all day ... until you eat your treat and realize you paid $4.00 for a popsicle with a gumball stuck on the top. (Or get to the bridge, check your stopwatch, and see you have four more minutes to run.)

2. Assumptions about what other people are thinking (about me). I actually have way too much to write about this subject to share it here, so stay tuned for future notes for more detail about this category. But as a teaser, know that just because you are convinced that the teenage girl who is laughing hysterically as you approach (from having just run up The Hill) is laughing hysterically AT YOU, she might be laughing because a duck is chewing on her shoelace.

3. Air drumming. I am forever grateful for the invention of the iPod armband simply because, if for no other reason, it allows me the freedom to fully commit to air drumming when I run. (Bonus Fun Fact: I think Rage Against the Machine actually uses cowbell. When's the last time you played air cowbell?)

4. Amazingly awesome hormone driven fantasies centered around egomaniacal grandiose achievements that have not occurred. An example of this is when David Letterman or Ellen Degeneres invite me on their shows to marvel at how I've cured cancer, stopped war, or rescued Brittany and/or Lindsey from the depths of their personal ruin. Other times I'm invited as a motivation speaker to the Navy Seals; my visit ends with observing the Seals jog on the beach, each yolked with a 400 lb log. They stumble to the end of their run and tearfully exclaim, (with MAN tears) "If Kelly can finish her run, SO CAN I." To which I reply, "Sailor, second place is first loser. Man up."

Tomorrow I run 14 minutes/walk two minute cycles. Hoo-Rah!

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

"Super Nanny? Nailed it." - Me

Facebook Status: You know those days when the kids are all, "No, let MY SISTER have the last bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch" and the baby is all, "My tooth totally came in while you were sleeping and it didn't hurt AT ALL" and the maid is all, "I cleaned everything else and the only thing left was to clean out the screen door tracks, so I did it" and the chef is all "Are risotto cakes an okay side with your filet tonight?" ... Yeah, I think I saw that episode of the Brady Bunch too.

So. This happened.

It was one of those days. I don't know how I managed it, but according to my children, I made every conceivable mistake known to the human race over the span of 8 hours. Meals were too gross, too short, not enough, not fair. Chores (the ones done every single day for years) prompted, "You never told me I had to make my bed!" School was torturous and I had been doing laundry

Scene: It was around 3:00 and nap time ended way too early. The older girlies were at the kitchen table acting like they were being stabbed by the blades of 10,000 knives diligently working on math, Ezra was exploring his passion for laundry by kicking over the freshly folded piles as I trudged my way through eight loads, and Esther ... sweet, darling, non-dramatic Esther was bored.

Me: (Handing Esther one clean and folded dust rag out of eight loads of laundry I washed and folded.) Esther, please put this away.
Esther: (Immediately falling to the ground, actually flailing) YOU ALWAYS MAKE ME YOUR SLAAAAAAVE!
Me: (Looking around to see if she is pretending to be in a movie. Really.) ...? Seriously? Esther, dude, put away the dust rag.
Esther: (Still flailing) I DON'T KNOW WHERE IT GOES!

Because I am a sweet, even tempered Mama who never goes ballistic when my kiddos pull stuff like this, this slight aberration was dealt with quickly, peacefully, and effectively. (I also saw that episode of the Brady Bunch.) (For the record, my house would be more awesome if I had an Alice around too, Mrs. Brady.)

What really happened is I spent almost 20 minutes determined not to go postal while Esther argued "IT'S TOO HEAVY" "I DON'T WANT TO" "WHY CAN'T THE GIRLIES/EZRA/THE MAILMAN/EVERYONE ELSE WE'VE EVER MET HELP YOU TOO?" "I'M TOO TIRED" Three other children watched in silent awe as my face revealed how close to the edge I was getting. Finally I stood up, handed Esther the dust rag, and walked her to the cleaning supply closet*.

*This is actually the hall closet. It holds wrapping paper, small kitchen appliances that rarely get used but are essential to my culinary mastery, batteries, light bulbs, vases, an Easy Bake Oven (essential to Eve's culinary mastery), and cleaning supplies. But for this blog entry I am calling it the cleaning supply closet in the hopes that Pinterest has helped you picture a Martha Stewart Mecca of organized, color-coordinated cleaning supplies. Esther used to routinely visit the cleaning closet to sneak in and spray the dust spray because it "smells nice". I got over the horror of raising a 4 year old huffer and moved those sweet chemicals (all natural, totally green of course) out of reach, but the dust rag spot remains unchanged. I tell you this to inform you she totally knows where the dust rag goes.

Me: (Standing with Esther at the cleaning closet) Esther, put. it. away.
Me: .... (firm Mama "Seriously" look)
Esther: I CAN'T. (Insert crying. The hysterical kind that stems from investing 25 minutes in an argument that is about to become invalid when someone pulls rank. The way they should have 25 minutes ago.)
Me: You will. (Insert heavy breathing that stems from the Mommy Mantra "I will not lose my sh*t.")

Then this happened. (And it's also why we call her the Queen.)

Me: Fine, set the dust rag on the dust rag pile (6 inches from your hand) and then go.
Me: DUDE! Put the dust rag away and go.
Esther: I'M PEEING!!!!!!

Yep. After a 30 minute standoff, my four year old, who has been potty trained for almost 2 years, PEED ON THE FLOOR SO SHE WOULDN'T HAVE TO PUT AWAY THE DUST RAG. Even I didn't see that coming.

So what's a Mama to do?

This Mama kicked the wall. And my foot went through.

First thought? I'm totally getting stronger. All those squats and lunges are paying off.
Second thought? I'm hosting a Bible Study Luncheon in four days. How am I going to hide this? (Kicking the wall isn't very Proverbs 31.)
Third thought? Brian is going to kill me.
Fourth thought? All the kiddos are watching and I'm going to have to apologize for breaking every house rule we have, but I'm still mad.

Eve and Hosanna hustled Ezra into their bedroom while I cleaned up Esther.  (Good thing I'd done all that laundry and had all those clean towels to clean up the pee on the floor.  And her body.  And good thing she had all those clean clothes to choose from since she peed through her old ones.)

Once Esther got cleaned up I sent her to her room, mostly so I could cool off and call Brian and tell him what I did.  This may or may not have occurred while I sobbed and told him if he got mad at me I was moving to California where apparently children don't pee on the floor to get out of chores.  Then I taped a big piece of paper over the hole so Ezra wouldn't continue to pick at the drywall.

Then I realized that while cleaning up the pee, I put the dust rag away myself.

Well played Esther.  Well played.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

"I was running." - Forrest Gump (Part Two)

Another blast from the past: Written October 17, 2010. Mommies with um, incontinence issues - you're welcome.

If you missed the last blog entry, let me catch you up to speed: I'm at my running class attempting to run two miles for the third time, it's raining, and I just ate a bug. Lest you think eating a bug was the low point of the run, I'm going to bring you into the monologue of my thought life during the rest of that run.

Dude. Seriously. A bug? I've got to keep my mouth closed. But how can I breathe with my mouth closed? Dude. Seriously. (Yes, I realize this is my personal verbal tic and it makes me sound like a frat boy, but just be glad it's not a line from The Office, or worse, a Jim Carrey impression.) At least this side of the pond is relatively "bug free." I'm keeping my eyes OPEN from now- (thought is interrupted as I sneeze)

OH MY GOSH. I think I just peed a little.

(Panic setting in as I assess the situation) I TOTALLY just peed. I wonder if it's showing. Should I stop running to check? No, then they would know why I'm stopping. (Then, feeling SUPER defensive) Well, I just had a BABY, they can cut me some slack. (At this point we can acknowledge I have no idea who "they" are.) (Still defensive, monologue continues) I should be given major points just for being here. I'm still wearing my Maternity Sweatpants* for crying out loud.

(*this is not true. My "Maternity Sweatpants" are really just the pair of "Fat Sweatpants" that every normal woman owns and wears once a month, with the exception of December, at which they are worn with increased frequency until January 1, when a vow is made never to wear them again. Calling my "Fat Sweatpants" "Maternity Sweatpants" simply justifies them as a viable wardrobe option for several consecutive months. If you do not own "Fat Sweatpants" you need to hit up Target. If it makes you feel better you may purchase "Fat Yoga Pants" which seem much hipper but serve the same purpose.)

Okay, so I tinkled. A Navy Seal would keep going. A Navy Seal could LOSE A LEG and keep going. I'm like a baby Navy Seal. (You can go ahead and laugh, but I was completely serious, and the thought totally cheered me up.) At least the rain stopped. Although running in the rain IS pretty hardcore and Navy Seal-ish. If my *accident* shows I can always blame it on the rain.

This is where my head turns into an episode of Glee and my thoughts are filled with me, in Hammer pants, singing my own Milli Vanilli medley beginning with, you guessed it, Blame it on the Rain.

Blame it on the rain, yeah, yeah. Whatever you do, don't put the blame on you. Blame it on the rain, yeah, yeah. (switching songs, stay with me) So in love girl. And this is true. Girl you know it's true. G-G-G-Girl. (song abruptly ends) I wonder what happened to my New Kids on the Block peace sign necklace? The last time I had it was in the first Royal Oak house. Oh, Dude. Here comes THE HILL. I wonder if there is a way to get to run down the hill without having to run up it first. What I really need is a Teleporter for running. Then I could be teleported to the top of the hill. That would be awesome. Actually I think all of running should get to be an out of body experience. That way you could enjoy the fruit of running without actually having to feel any of it. Genius.

I realized this thought pretty much sums up my current feelings about running. Some people really LOVE running. I'm finding I really LOVE being finished with a run. Until the invention of Runner Teleportation I'm going to have to be content to run with just me and my thoughts.

"I was running." - Forrest Gump (Part One)

This gem was originally written on October 14, 2010. It showcases the Herculean beginnings of the elite athlete I am today. *giggle*

Why shouldn't you train for your first 5k seven weeks after a C-section? This is a question I never asked myself because, honestly, I'm a bit of an idealist. In my ideal world everyone can run a 5K. In under 20 minutes. Without sweating. So when I got clearance from my doctor to "resume normal activity" I knew this was code for "begin training for the hardest physical activity you have ever personally attempted."

I registered for a class called "Your First 5K" that meets every Monday night at Heritage Park. (Enter first non-runner thought: Outside? Where do we have class if it rains?) "Your First 5K" is taught by two personal trainers/marathon runners named Tom and Cathy, who probably look exactly as you are picturing. They are young, healthy, and full of enthusiasm for running. Cathy is currently training for a full marathon, but Tom is busy and "only" doing "the half."

Can we take a minute to ponder the marathon? A marathon is a foot race for the distance of 26.2 miles. If you didn't understand that, it's like waking up in Canton and thinking, "I'd really like to eat dinner in DETROIT tonight. Good thing I've got these trusty feet to get me there." It's a long.freaking.way. For more perspective, get in your car and drive until you use about a gallon of gas.

I'm not gonna lie. There's a certain level of crazy my body will never hope to reach ... and that level of crazy is called Marathon Runner.

The class has sixteen people registered (although Tom cheerfully informs us that in three weeks only five or six will remain, reinforcing my Navy Seal fantasies and cementing the inner vow that I, alone, will persevere). We are given a training schedule (non-runner thought #2: We have to do this more than once a week?) that include 4 runs a week of increasing length, and cross-training on the off days. Today's run will consist of one minute run/two minute walk intervals, repeated for thirty minutes. We will run the .44 mile path that encircles the pond, hopefully five or six times. (I'll save you the math. 5x = 2.2 miles. Awesome.)

I could say a lot about my experiences that first class, but I'll suffice to say it began in optimism and ended in vomit. Specifically, mine.

I promised my sick husband I'd swing by Meijer after class and buy him some immunity boosting juice. That's an easy promise to make when you are not drawing concerned stares from complete strangers who are watching your red face with cell phone in hand, ready to dial 911 and rescue you from the passing out that should occur any minute now.

The next week we all meet up and lie about how great the previous weeks runs felt. I have shin splints and my hips and tummy hurt, but everyone else says that their running was almost downright euphoric, so of course I smile and nod along. Today is a four minute run/two minute walk around the pond. Tom and Cathy station themselves on opposite sides of the pond so they can encourage us midway through each lap. This initially causes me nothing but panic as I have .22 mile to come up with something witty and endearing to say EACH TIME I PASS one of them. I'm also concentrating on looking completely at ease and not like I'm about to die, which is how I feel. The second lap brings a light sprinkle. Inspired, I come up with this gem. "I'm running ... in the rain!" with arms raised the way I imagine star athletes celebrate a win. Tom laughs and responds, "Imagine how great it feels in the snow." This new thought (non-runner thought #3 - We could possibly run in the SNOW?) sidetracks me so fully that before I am prepared I see Cathy five yards away. I open my mouth to greet her, and inhale a bug.

Oh.My.Word. I officially hate running.

I make a variety of faces I'm sure display my (well-deserved) feelings of horror and Cathy says, "Doing OK?" I say, "I just ate a bug." Now, when someone says "I just ate a bug" there are a variety of responses I might expect. "Gross," for example. "I'm sorry," or even "Why don't you stop running and rinse out your mouth?" (which I'm kinda hoping for). Cathy chooses none of them. "It happens," she replies. I sputter some nonsense about needing more protein anyway as I keep running, absolutely appalled that swallowing an INSECT is par for the course in this strange new running culture.

Monday, June 11, 2012

"Can you hear me now?" - the Verizon Guy

And so it begins. 

I've been wondering how to start this. Do I plunge ahead mid-life and hope you fill in the gaps by making up all the relevant information as you read? Do I give you the back story and details that only I think are really important? Let's compromise, shall we?

Here are the basics:

1. The older I get, the less I know I Know.

2. I can't dance. At all. My signature move is a weird sway thing. And clapping. Lots of clapping.

3. My favorite color is yellow, although I buy everything in sage green. I had a third grade teacher who said her favorite color was "clear", and I thought that was so cool and deep at the time that I decided my favorite color was "invisible". Here's to third graders (and their teachers) who thought way outside the (crayola) box.

4. The older I get the more confident I get, which is strange in view of #1. 

5. I bake some mean vegan banana bread. Ditto for my vegan chocolate cake.

6. Sometimes I pretend interview myself on David Letterman. 

7. John Steinbeck - not a fan. 

8. My favorite people make me laugh. I am thinking of my husband. He is hilarious.

9. So is the E-Trade baby. 

10. My husband, the financial guru, taught me that liquid is more than a state of matter. 

11.I have four kiddos. Three girlies and a boy. They are awesome and drive me FREAKING INSANE.

12. I homeschool them. (For questions regarding homeschool, see #11)

13. In Heaven bagpipes don't exist. But the Crunchwrap Supreme does.

14. I really, really, really want dread locks. 

15. I gave myself plantar faciitis living out my Navy Seal dreams at the gym. "Second place is first loser!"

16. I wear a bite guard to bed. It's connected to a string I wear around my neck so I don't swallow it. HOT. 

17. I'm tongue-tied. Literally. I'm also double-jointed.

18. After baby #4 I lost 105 pounds. I've kept it off for a year. I am training for my first triathlon in July 2012.

19. I am a compulsive list maker. 

20. Sometimes I have diet pop for breakfast. I justify this because it is diet ORANGE pop. 

21. I majored in music, but have really bad coordination. Luckily I also have carpal tunnel which gives me a medical excuse to forgo the tambourine. 

22. I also secretly wish I could be a person that enjoys camping and not showering. 

23. I really like to take showers. It is usually where David Letterman interviews me.

24. I said the basics, so I think we're okay now.

Thanks for making it through this. I hope you like my blog enough to constantly stalk me follow it.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...