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.