Housekeeping!

"How did she master the over the shoulder
pose at such a young age?"
Don't question genius, y'all.
Kelly@Sublurban Mama, class of '97

If you look up a little you may notice a new tab on my blog. For those of you that haven't been around for the whole ride, you may wonder "Who the heck is Kemper?" every time you read a post. Well, click on that tab and there is your answer. (Or, just click here.) I've included lots of pictures that I stole re-purposed from Kemper's personal Facebook account*, so there will finally be a face to put with the name for all you visual people out there.

*I guess I'd never truly Facebook-stalked Kemper before. I know, I'm a bit disappointed in me, too. I spent about an hour this weekend going through Kemper's photos to find some to use for this post and ohmylanta, what an education. Since he is 22 precious years old, high school was literally less than five years ago. People mature a lot** in that time, and Kemper is no exception.

(**For your viewing pleasure, and since this is a throw-away post that's really about another real post I'm sharing, here are some lovely high school pics of yours truly. Please, take a moment to enjoy the 90's in all their none- of-us-had-cell-phones-but-we-did-have-pagers glory.

CROSS. FREAKING. COLOURS, YO.

Kristen, Corrie Beth, and me. And we are totally just posing like this, not dancing (this was way before teenage girls danced like they are starring in porn)
Homecoming circa 95(?)

If only I could find an outfit that summarized the 90's ... pffft, I'd probably need to find white denim overalls and then cut them off. Sibling love, y'all. Dressing alike, it's not just for toddlers.

This picture is really an accusation. All my friends and family = DOES NO ONE LOVE ME?!?! You all let me keep that haircut for YEARS. Also, holy weight gain, batman.
(Please note the dog tag necklace and gaged earrings as I was trying to stretch my ears)(Because I was sooooooooooo hardcore.)

There you have it, folks. For this week I'm working on another new tab with all the info about what I've changed in my diet and exercise since I wrote the "How to Lose 100 Pounds" tab, and a few other posts about assorted general awesomeness (totally a word). My friend Rachel Who Looks Like Meg Ryan is coming to the gym with me tonight which means two things: one, I'll have a bench press spotter!!!! and two, two hot mama's will be getting STRONGER tonight. Hoorah.

Happy Monday!

"I'm Brian, the Other White Meat."

A totally cropped, scrapbooked, un-scrapbooked, and scanned wedding pic.  Keepin' it professional up in here.
Also, tru luv.

The hubs and I are celebrating twelve years of wedded bliss on Sunday.  Twelve years!  We are officially "tweens".  So I suppose we should buy some Bieber bedding. Here is our story.

Shawn - Rock Star Extraordinaire
and Super Cute Boy who is now
married to a gorgeous woman and
has two gorgeous kiddos. Sorry, ladies.

Once upon a time, an awesome teenager named Kelly went to a club to hear bad punk rock.  She was fickle and boy crazy (and had a horrendous haircut) and saw a Super Cute Boy over by the stage.  She made her way over and started talking to this boy.  His name was Shawn and he was pleased to make her acquaintance and oh, she studied music at Wayne State University in Detroit? How funny - his best friend Brian was going there in the fall to study music!

In the fall, Kelly could not wait to meet Brian because he was the gateway to Shawn. In fact, she included, "You're Shawn's friend!" in their very first conversation.  Brian indeed was Shawn's friend, and he was funny and liked good music except when it comes to Needtobreathe but that's mostly because he's jealous of Bear.

1998, y'all.

One day, after having discussed their mutual love for the band Sunny Day Real Estate and the upcoming sold out show to which Brian had a ticket and Kelly did not, Brian turned to Kelly and handed her his concert ticket.  He said, "The Lord told me to give this to you."  Kelly, thinking he said "Laura told me ..." answered back, "Well, does she want any money for it?" (This would foreshadow years of amazing communication skills and Kelly's bat-like sense of hearing.) Upon learning the origin of the gift was a suggestion of Jesus and not Laura, Kelly's first thought was, "The Lord talks to you? Whatever, Psycho." (This did not stop her from accepting the gift and has fully cemented the life long philosophy that if people offer you free stuff you want, you should undoubtedly take it, because it might just lead to love, marriage, and a baby (or four) in a baby carriage.)

Kelly went to the concert and, more importantly, learned the Lord actually talks to everyone. She eventually learned to listen.

Brian wooed Kelly with pick up line gems like, "I'm Brian, the Other White Meat."  This was the height of the Great Pork Campaign (editor note: I don't remember that being a *thing* either) and was delivered with just enough ridiculousness to make it awesome and win her heart.

Brian and Kelly were engaged in June of 1999 and would rather die a thousand deaths than plan a wedding again.  If either of them kicks the bucket, the other solemnly swears to remarry only by eloping.  (But only the kind of eloping to which everyone is invited.)(But with no planning involved.)(Like, "Hey, what are you doing right now? Come watch us get married.  Then maybe we'll all go to Taco Bell.")(Because they are classy.)

Shower #1

Shower #2

Kelly enjoyed three wedding showers, while poor Brian only got to show up at the end and collect the gifts to transport home.  He did make out pretty well at the second shower, where his parents gave them a weedwacker, garbage cans, and a grill. And also maybe at the bachelorette party because, let's be real, most of those gifts were really for him anyway.

The wedding was beautiful mainly because Kelly's mom is an Ebay Master.  It rained, but hey, you can't buy everything on Ebay. To this day Brian can not tell you one detail about his wedding ceremony or the reception that followed, but since that is obviously a result of him being beyond in love with his bride, he is given a pass on the memories of the Day That Changed Bettered His Life Forever. Good thing there are so many pictures to jog that memory.

From left: Jackie, Lisa, Eboni, Ringbearer Grifin, MOH/sister Cassie, Kelly, Brian, BM Kevin, Super Cute Boy Shawn (isn't it ironic?)(don'tcha think?), Lauren's Hubby David, and little brother Steve. (And dude, it was totally 2001.)

Twelve years in pictures: (don't worry; it's greatly summarized)

July 1999 Engaged
"Awwww"

Eve is born and Hosanna is due to arrive in less than two months.
2004

Hosanna is born with a dainty birth weight of eleven pounds, three ounces.
2004 

Esther joins the family.
2007

A boy?! Ezra joins the brood.
Brian hates this picture.
Maybe because Kelly made him wear that shirt.
Probably.
2010

The whole family at Disney World.
2012

And they lived happily ever after.

It's a sad day when Paula Abdul seems to adequately sum up my life.

Smells like R.Kelly's sheets ... but it was 99 cents!

Lately my gym seems to be going out of their way to play music that sucks. And not just any sucky music - the Greats.  You know, like Billy Joel's "River of Dreams" and Paula Abdul's "Opposites Attract."  Normally this wouldn't bother me as I usually plug myself into my iPod, but I've been going au natural due to (ready for it?) double ear infections.  (Although, yes, a doctor already told me it probably wouldn't make a difference if I continued to wear them, but I know how much I sweat when I work out and my ear buds have a tendency to collect the fruit of all my hard work.)(Gross.)(Fun fact for free?  I am the stinkiest sweat-er.)(And not in a Macklemore "Thrift Shop" kind of way.)(The kind of way that's like "guuuuurl, you need to Febreeze yo'self now 'cuz my eyes are waterin' standin' next to you.")(That's why I used to rush through stretching.)(Because it was rude to make someone stand next to me post-workout as I contorted my body into positions that encouraged the stink to permeate further.)(Then I pulled my calf and really value stretching so now I'm all, "Dude, suck it up and just be a mouth breather for a few minutes.  My entire athletic future depends on downward dog.)(Woof.)

Where was I?  Oh, yes.  At my gym, kicking out the late '80's jamz.

(I do a really mean impression of Billy Joel's falsetto part in River of Dreams*.  Not that it's good; it's literally mean/mean-spirited.  It sounds best while I'm in the shower and has caused Brian to rush into the bathroom asking, "Are you okay?  Do you need medical intervention?" and me to reply, "Dude, I'm performing here.")

(*The reason I am so familiar with Billy Joel's "River of Dreams" is because we sang it in my high school choir.  Also? My high school choir was nothing like Glee; I didn't even know being in choir was something most people were embarrassed about until I got to college and majored in ... choir.  Well, I majored in music but was required to be in a choir that met everyday for all four years I was on campus, so yeah, I majored in choir.  In my high school the choir director knew about marketing so she made a lot of the popular kids into choir stars (genius) which made the teenage masses also want to be choir stars.  So our choral program was pretty big.  And not nerdy.  I'm pretty sure.)(I realize this description does nothing to help my case that our choir wasn't for lew-sers.)

I think my glasses and choir uniform are proof enough that choir was *a pretty big deal* in 1991, but just in case you weren't convinced of the level of cool required to sing with a group of 8th graders, please draw your attention to my golden-ish heart necklace with "Kelly" scrawled in wire inside.

Further proof?  Yes.  That *is* a renaissance festival gown I'm wearing because we performed a dinner/concert thing every fall called Wassail Festival.  I was totally on the Royal Court.  Which?  Was awesome.
(And look at me werking it - rocking the over the shoulder pose at 16?  A true prodigy.)

This is probably my greatest moment in performance history (not even being sarcastic now, this is truly my high school legacy - that shizz was GOLD).  We are doing "Love Shack" by the B-52's. I am so, so mad I can't find a picture with Corrie Beth as well.  We were quite the trio.

(Also not loser-y?  I went to music camp the summer before my junior year.  I spent two weeks at Interlochen Center for the Arts wearing the required navy blue shorts, powder blue polo shirt, and yellow socks.)(I lost seven pounds while I was there because I was scared to poop so I didn't eat.)(The bathroom in our cabin had two toilets in the same partition-offed area "room" behind a swinging door that had no latching mechanism.  These two toilets were separated by a single piece of chest high plywood.  You could literally touch knees with the person *going* next to you if you were relaxed enough to actually be able to do any of your business at this point.)

Ok, that was probably the greatest tangent in Sublurban Mama history.  Back to the gym.

I was on the treadmill trying to run five miserable miles while listening to sweet young Paula describe her relationship with MC Skat Kat.  I was suffering.  And not just because of the music it was also because I had runner's trots and you already know how I feel about pooping in public. I was looking at the treadmill every fourteen seconds thinking it had been at least a minute and a half each time and realizing about a mile and a half in that I was not going to be able to finish my run.  My ears hurt.  My chest ached from last week's chest cold.  And darn it, I was just.plain.tired.

I started whining thinking about my upcoming 10k.  I wanted to PR this race because isn't that the goal of every race?  I did my last 10k at the end of triathlon season; I was in my best shape ever.  Now it seems like every time I get some momentum going I get knocked down again.  Pulled calf, no training for five weeks.  Three solid weeks of training, then the flu.  Another solid few weeks and a chest cold and ear infections. "Two steps forward, two steps back."  Dude, Paula, it's like you know me. (Or are mocking me, I haven't decided yet.)

I hobbled through four miles. I incorporated three walk breaks.  It took about 45 minutes to conquer those miles.  I will not be setting a PR at this race.

So, Imma do this 10k even though I don't feel ready mostly because I already paid for it.  It's going to be ugly and not fun, but I heard a rumor there is a medal for finishers and I'm all over that.  My new goal is to finish without walking.  Even if I have to move sloooooooowly. Just keep running.

In closing, to celebrate the most disjointed post I've ever written, I've decided to get imaginary paid for every parenthesis I use.  I'm an imaginary millionaire from this post alone.

The Beat Goes On

Aaaaand now you're singing this.
I posted this because I am a trained
music educator and I know how to
get others to tap into their own
musical potential.  You're welcome.

I majored in music.  This is an actual thing you can do. It's kind of like majoring in philosophy, but with less chance of a Jay Oh Bee once you have a diploma in hand.  (Unless, of course, you are going to teach.)(And if you are going to teach music you are constantly plagued by 1. Performance majors who snidely remark that "those who can't, teach" and 2. the knowledge that your department is the first cut when funds are tight. So, yay job security.)  That's why I'm using my four and a half year music education degree as a SAHM; if my funding gets cut, at the very least I still get to show up everyday.  Making myself indispensable = win.

What being a music major really means is that now I can do some fantastic impressions of other music students.  And vocal coaches.  And especially conductors. (In fact, Esther can do some fantastic impressions of conductors, which I'm pretty sure means I have succeeded at parenting.)

The integrity of this piece depends solely on how exuberantly I can portray this crescendo using my body and facial expressions and hair.

I also spent all day being surrounded by what the rest of the world describes as "those artistic type personalities."

Like the really quiet organ performance major (think church organ, not like your pancreas) who never talked to anyone but would occasionally don a Superman costume and run through the super creepy basement hallways of the music building because ... why not?

Or singers vocalists who insisted upon wearing scarves all the time to protect their throats (this was the 90's, way before the scarf fad exploded) from weird vocal strain that is apparently brought on by cold necks.

Or kids who are still legit pissed about that line from Goonies when Andi has to play the bones and she's trying to read the music and says, "I can't tell if it's an A sharp or a B flat", which is totally the same thing.  (Didn't the writers have any musicians on staff?  Or at least a freaking FACT checker?)

Or the guitar player who sat in the hallway playing the same opening verse and chorus of "More Than Words" a millionandfourtimes to the same three groupies for two solid years. #getsomenewmaterialamiright?

Not everyone was a WEIRDO.  I met awesome people who became great friends, many of whom have succeeded in the music industry and I will call on them if I'm ever in some kind of radio contest for Six Degrees of Famous People*.  (*Six Degrees of Famous People is a radio contest where listeners are challenged to get the most famous person they know to call in for them so they win a prize.  I don't know what the prize is; I'm sure bragging rights would suffice.  I'm actually quite prepared for this if it ever happens.  Antea, my favorite writer/music producer in the history of the world,  I'm banking on you to get me Jennifer Lopez or Justin Bieber. Or Beyonce.  Whatevs, I'm not picky.  I have faith in you.  Kris, touring/studio musician and producer extraordinaire, you are in the bag to connect me with Gwen Stefani or Billy Corgan.  (Because remember when you played at my wedding and I payed you in chicken fingers from Red Robin?) And since I personally know* rock legends NEEDTOBREATHE, I can always contact them via Twitter or their webpage personally.  And NTB obviously knows a TON of famous people, having opened for Taylor Swift.)(Daaaang, it's like I totally know Taylor Swift.)

*personally know = I've met them a few times.  Spread over a few years.  I am their muse in my head only.

Another awesome person was my piano teacher of three years.  This man was a Chinese citizen who trained in the Russian Conservatory of Music.  (One thing we did luck out with at my college is that since we were in the heart of Detroit, we attracted a lot of great musicians who played with the DSO and sang with MOT.)  He scared the bejeebers out of me.  He was the nicest man in the world (who would occasionally slap my hands when I made the same mistake too many times) but he was so talented I was beyond intimidated. He did not speak a lot of discernible English, but he tried valiantly to connect with me, his silly American teenage student.

"KELLY!  HOW IS YOUR BOYFRIENNNNN?"  He asked me this every.single.lesson.  At the time I was dating a guitar major named Brian, and my teacher was so tickled at this relationship I didn't have the heart to tell him when we broke up.  Thankfully my very next relationship was with another guitar major named Brian (yes, my Brian that I eventually married) so I just pretended it was the same relationship the whole time.  (Me, saving face through a big fat lie.) (Kids, don't try this at home.) (But Mr. Li was thrilled about the engagement.)

(Other fun piano teacher facts:  He made me wear red to juries, which are like final exams for private lessons.  Juries are judged performances in front of other faculty members that also play your instrument.  Red symbolizes good fortune and joy which apparently I don't possess on my own.  He also made me cut my fingernails, claiming, "I want you to play majestically, not have majestic fingernails." I truly miss this man.)

Mostly what music school taught me is that I never want to go into music again.  Until, of course, I become a rock star and tour the world performing for the masses that understandably know unmatched talent when they see it.  The End.

The Vicodin Diaries

"Hey Kelly, do you have any super embarrassing "first day of school" stories to share?"

Yep.

I don't know how college is for most people, since I went to Wayne State University, which was primarily a commuter school.  I missed the whole dorms/sorority/party thing, and lived the dream with my parents.  (Who still did my laundry.)(And bought my food.)(And paid my car insurance.)  It was rough.

I also majored in music.  Majoring in music is not the 24 hour jam session I imagined it to be.  There is music theory.  And music history.  And practicing music you don't particularly care for.  And conductors. (*shudder*) Also, the music school is a tiny society unto itself.  The same 75 people have the same classes together Monday through Friday.  They perform together on the evenings and weekends.  Even Gen Ed classes (where you might chance to meet someone outside the realm of melody and harmony) are taken with other music majors because you have the same breaks in your schedule.  To summarize, being a music major is exactly like being in high school.

Imagine my surprise when I showed up junior year to an evening class and didn't know anyone in the entire class.

Let me back it up a smidgen.

I spent the prior evening at work feeling really ill.  So ill, I left work and made my way to Urgent Care around 11:00 p.m.  I had a condition called PCOS that caused painful cysts to form and I just wanted some drugs to make it better the pain to stop.  The Urgent Care doctors were incredibly accommodating, and solely based on my complaint of pain sent me off with a ton of Vicodin.  (Message me for directions to the clinic.)(Just kidding.)(I'm not a middleman but could be for enough money.)(Sheesh - IT'S A JOKE, MOM.)

The funny part of this is that I was straight-edge.  Does anyone remember straight-edge?  It's what hardcore teenagers were before they turned 21.  So I was totally prepared to be handed a ton of Vicodin without any instruction. 

The next morning was the first day of classes and I had the usual music courses in the usual music building, but also the evening class.  It was held on the other side of campus in a building new to me. I was excited.  New people!  New building!  VICODIN!

I took my medicine that day when I thought I should as directed.  I started feeling nauseous late afternoon, which was a different kind of sick than the "shooting pains in my uterus" that initially led me to Urgent Care.  I am a start-to-finish kind of girl, and I really didn't want to miss the first day of class, so I decided to tough it out and attend this New Class!  with New People!  in a New Building!

The class was filled with first/second year teachers that needed continuing ed credits for their professional development requirements.  I was a lowly aspiring music teacher and the only undergrad in the class.  I settled myself firmly in the middle of the classroom.  

This class had way too many desks for the size of the room.  As people trickled in to find a seat, desks got shoved around, and when class finally started, I was wedged in pretty solidly.  I knew after class I would have to free myself from the jumble of desks, much like an icebreaker. (The ship, not the party game.)

My teacher was a no-nonsense kind of woman, the type I immediately want approval from.  She was making it a point to remember our names, paying close attention to our demeanor in class (even as we just went over the syllabus), so I made sure I was attentive and wearing my Pleasant Face.  This was getting more and more difficult as I felt worse.  Class draaaaaaaaaaaaagged on.  With 30 minutes left in class I started looking around to see if I could make a discreet exit.  There were none to be had.  At fifteen minutes left I considered jumping over desks to get the heck out of the room. At three minutes left my teeth started to water and I told myself I only had three minutes and to chill out you can make it, dude.  Besides, how rude would it be to disrupt the entire room with only three minutes to go?

Well, apparently not as rude as bolting from your desk with 30 seconds to go, making it to the door and puking everywhere.  The best part of this was that I tried to catch it in my hands.  This did not have the desired effect of containing the vomit, but only ensured that I now had no way to open the door, as my hands were covered in my own regurgitation.  

Also, since I clamored for the door before we were formally dismissed, everyone was already staring at me before the real show happened.  My teacher, who would now never, ever fully approve of me, asked, "Are you okay?"  to which I replied, "I have trouble with my intestines," which wasn't even true.  It was like the Lie Fairy took over my brain and convinced me that anything in the world would be preferable than admitting to a Vicodin overdose.  And the Lie Fairy is really quick on her feet.

In a show of mercy, someone opened the door to air out the putrid smell and I made a hasty exit, but not without first witnessing my classmates hopping over my barf to escape the room.

So, all my New Friends! in my New Class! in my Newly Christened Building! would forever know me as the Girl Who Pukes in Class.  And THAT'S why you should Just Say No to drugs.

The End.