I Punched Goodwill IN THE THROAT

I don't know who these guys are, but they
probably spent the day trying on clothes
together.  And one of them probably made
a completely inappropriate comment in the
form of a musical number. A la Glee.
Probably.

Remember my Captain Crabbypants day?  The day I completely threw in the towel, ditched the fam, and went shopping by myself?  Usually spending any kind of money cheers me up, which is the main reason I love grocery shopping. It's the only time I drop more than a hundred bucks and hubby happily anticipates the goods I'm bringing home.  (He exhibited none of that same joy when I showed him my TYR swimsuit and Speedo goggles which were around the same price.)

Lately I've been aware that we have four kiddos, I'm a SAHM contributing nothing to our bank account (in a concrete "here's some actual cash" way, chill out SAHM activists), and I've chosen one of the more expensive sports as a hobby.  (I just started and erased an overwhelming list of triathlon equipment.  Even going "bare bones" - not a euphemism - I'm not doing my tri naked this year or anything - the equipment essentials add up.)  So when I take off "just to shop" I am mindful that we have legit family needs, and they don't include a super cute pair of strappy jeweled sandals for Mama. (I feel okay about this because I'm pretty sure a Navy Seal wouldn't be caught dead in those jeweled sandals.)(Because Seals are much more practical than that.)(They would probably like Teva Sandals.)(Which I also want.)

So my "spree" started at JC Penney, solidifying that I am thoroughly a suburban mom.  I really wanted some sleeveless, wicking, workout shirts.  Anyone pear shaped (ahem, me) knows that buying fitted shirts is not the easiest thing in the world.  Tops that fit in the chest and shoulders are a bit snug in the waist.  This is not a popular look, especially when the shirt is to be worn with fitted workout bottoms.  I mean, I'msexyandIknowit, (Haha! You are totally singing!  And THAT'S how you control minds) but it's really not fair to tempt the whole human race with the visual treat that is me looking like a stuffed sausage I can't breathe in my workout gear.  (Also, you'd be all, "Hey Kel, how are your four kiddos?  And I'd be all, "Hey Creeper, how did you know I have four kiddos?"  And you'd be all, "Because of your awesome baby gut."  And I'd be all, "Dude," with my head hung in shame.) In that situation nobody wins.  

I left JCP empty-handed, feeling discouraged but not beaten down.  Target was next on the list and Target never disappoints.

Until that day.

You know when everything you try on only emphasizes your huge tush problem areas?  And you even experiment with different sizes and you're like holy elephant arms that's not very flattering either.  And then you remember you are going to be working out in these clothes so you try to mimic the worst workout positions you might be observed in while sweating enough to fill a kiddie pool, all while sporting (haha) this attire, and that totally doesn't help. So I left Target without wicking shirts (after inhaling a personal pan pizza from the food court).  (Because nothing puffs up self-esteem (and your body) like eating fatty foods alone in Target on a Saturday.)

The next stop was Goodwill because obviously I had given up on workout gear at that point.  Now I just wanted something cheap and pretty, which I'm pretty sure is the same root desire that keeps hookers employed.  (Or maybe not.  Because I've seen a few episodes of COPS and cheap hookers aren't known for their looks.)  I grabbed a few tops and dresses and went into the changing room.

Nothing fit.  (Although, speaking of hookers, I did try on a dress that would be excellent if I ever decided to do porn.  The HECK, Goodwill, this isn't Lover's Lane.)  I realize I may have been a tad overly critical at this point,  but seriously, everything I tried on was off.  You know, in a completely non-paradox kind of way.  I'm just saying things didn't fit well.  I'm not trying to blow your mind. Purposely.

I left the fitting room and continued my fruitless effort through the store.  Remember how I love to meet new people?  I made eye contact with a gentleman who was singing along to the overhead music (which admittedly already makes him pretty awesome) but I wanted to punch him in the throat when I realized he was singing along to Big Girls Don't Cry.  At me.  Clearly.

At this point, even in Goodwill I had no goodwill for anyone/thing.  It was time to leave.

"Geez, Kel, did anything go right?"

Yes.  I bought a super cute change purse at Plato's Closet because accessories always fit. Okay, maybe I did find a top that I wore to church the next day that got a ton of compliments but it seems a pretty anti-climatic end to my Crabbypants day.  Or maybe a super redemptive end.  Okay, so I totally got a super cute shirt and then rocked a FIVE MILE RUN at the gym and then we went to Sonic for dinner where I stayed within my calorie limit.  And that part was awesome.

The End.

What's your best thrift store find?

You say Bro-tay-to, I say Bro-tah-to

 I am dying here.

Hey, BRO!  Another Facebook Friday! I am on fire with these things!


This week I am going to focus on one of my favorite things: food.  Here are a few of my Facebook Statuses over the years involving the very thing that helps sustain my svelte figure.

On Kelly's Diet Philosophy:

If you ignore the adjective "chocolate", my decision to have eggs for breakfast is both healthy and responsible.

We took all the leftover veggies from the garden and turned them into crackers using the dehydrator. They smell like whatever is the opposite of delicious.

To help those bound by legalism, if you simply make your ice cream sandwich out of WAFFLES it totally counts as breakfast.

Listen up Blueberries, Salmon, Almonds, Dark Chocolate - you may have earned your "Super Food" status with your vitamins and antioxidants, but before you get all elitist, know that happiness contributes to good health, too.  And today, corn dogs make me really happy.  So I'm adding them to the list.

On Teaching Healthy Habits:

Scene: Kelly drinking straight from a two liter of Diet Coke.
Eve: Can I have some?
Kelly: No, I'm not feeling well and I don't want you to catch anything.
Eve: It sounds like you're sick with a case of Bad Manners.

Taco Bell is the new cut up organic fruit.  The other moms at the splash park just didn't get the memo yet.  Don't they feel silly.

After closely observing Mama eating cherries, Esther now thinks it is appropriate to chew your food for awhile, and then spit it out.

I just broke up a sibling dispute over whose piece of bacon had more pig in it.

On Things That Are Not Food But Are Treated As Such:

Taking my Gandhi lecture to heart, Esther tried to "be the change she wanted to see" by eating a penny.

According to Poison Control, ingesting the chemicals in a glo-stick is surprisingly non-toxic and apparently quite common.  I'm a bit disappointed; I thought Esther was being pretty original.  Added bummer?  The stick was so old there is ZERO chance of getting to see her glow.

Good Morning, Poison Control!  Yes, those are super delicious vegan banana muffins you smell cooling on the counter.  No, I cannot explain why Esther thought A&D Ointment would be tastier.


(Did you notice the common element in the "not food" posts?  I freaking love Esther.)

Have a fantastic weekend.  Try not to swallow any glo-sticks, and, if you do:

See y'all Monday!

Siriusly* - Why shouldn't you take kids to the club?

It all started when Dad-in-law let us borrow his sweet ride for a family trip to the lake.  This sweet ride is a Ford Flex, which reveals just how far I've fallen into Mommyville.  His ride is sweet for two simple reasons.

1. It doesn't smell like french fries It's clean.
2. It has Sirius Satellite Radio.

We discovered Channel 51.  This is where you hear all the best and latest progressive and electro house tracks from around the world, plus remixes and mash-ups. (Words I probably have an improper understanding of from the previous sentence: most of them, because I stole that description from the Sirius website.) It is impossible to experience Channel 51 without grooving.  It's like the sound reaches into your core and starts making you twitch communicate the "dirty" bass and synth with your body (much like 4th meal at the Bell).  Channel 51 pretty much turned our car into the hottest club out there with toddlers.  We moved like extra's on Soul Train.  (Soul Train?  Um, 1985 called.  They want their current pop-culture references back.)  I discovered that my family probably could have owned the Step Up franchise (and not just on DVD).

Ezra, at almost two years old does not talk, but the boy has moves.  He demonstrated some serious vibe with just his neck and head.  He also cannot wink but thinks he can with giant, exaggerated eye closures, so he threw that in the mix.

Esther, it turns out, is an instinctual woot-er.  Like, hardcore.  The girl just knew where a high pitched "woot - woot" should be added.  If Dance Music Wooting were an Actual Thing, she would be a prodigy.  Maybe even in The Prodigy.  I don't know.  I think we found her calling.

In the spirit of "do what you know", and in lieu of any actual dance moves, Eve started signing the alphabet to the beat, including a switch to slow motion when the music broke down.  Genius.

Hosanna looked embarrassed.  I think she's adopted.

Brian surprised no one by dominating the party in the front seat.  He started by 1. professing his committed love of all things Katy Perry, 2. breaking out a sprinkler/robot/climbing a ladder dance combo while driving, and 3. declaring (in a car travelling 70 mph with really loud music) I WOULD BE THE BEST DRIVER'S SEAT DANCE MUSIC CHOREOGRAPHER.  I WOULD KILL THAT JOB! (Enter an Esther "woot-woot!")

I, of course, did some lassoing.  My lasso involves both elbow and wrist, and because I'm feeling generous, hip action.  The deprived people in the car next to us could not see the hips, but they did enjoy my Ricky Martin facials accompanying the lasso. (See above pic. Now picture me making that very face while rocking a stellar lasso.  That visual alone is like a gift that keeps on giving.)

The only dark spot of the whole experience was when Brian chastised me for raising a fake Bic lighter because it wasn't a "lighter song".  I guess I just don't share his aptitude for driver's seat dance music choreography.

We got to the lake just as our glow sticks ran out and had a lovely time with my side of the family. We celebrated my b-day and Father's day.  Here is a pic of me and the Daddy-O (my awesome stepdad Gary) receiving the exact same present.  Because?  My family obviously has good taste in music.

My awesome hair is due to attempting an open water swim that never came to complete fruition.  Gary's awesome hair is because he's Italian.  Our awesome CD's are Bob and Iz.

*I totally know how it's spelled.  I love me some 'play on words'.

Fourth of July, Yo!

Happy Fourth Y'all.  Or, as the Brits call it, Wednesday.  I'm taking the day off, but I'll be back tomorrow.  Hoo-rah, America!

Please Don't Be Poop

Brian looked at this from afar and
said, "Why are you posting a picture
of a potato?"  which I guess makes
him the mature one in our relationship.

I may have been a little cranky on Friday.  I may have been so cranky that I ate Brian's Snickers bar that I bought as a replacement for the Payday candy bar that I stole from him ate on Thursday night.

After all that protein packed fuel I decided it was best to skip my five mile run because no training schedule was going to be the boss of me.  This was a sound decision benefiting not only my physical and mental health, but also my sweet nature towards my poor family.  I guess a ton of sugar on top of a mood, combined with no exercise and the weight of my weight on my mind (not a pun)(but could be if I weighed my words a little more)(Stop! I'm pound-ing my hand on my leg in laughter!) does nothing to fix the problem of my extreme case of the Grumpies.

Saturday dawned nice and early (not really, my awesome older kids tried to let me sleep in by getting the younger kiddos up and plugging in some Chugginton, which still didn't change my outlook.  Dude! Captain Crabbypants much?)

I decided the only logical way to tackle my mood was to clean Esther's room.  With Esther at my side.  (Yes, I realize now how ridiculous this plan sounds, too.) Esther is four years old.  Since she is the third child she has missed some of the more diligent training time that got used up on lucky #1 and #2.  Her idea of cleaning her room is to take all her dirty clothes and hide them in the dress up bin.  She also thinks all things shoved under her bed are invisible fit neatly.  (Which? Totally not true.)  Another popular technique is to take any paper clutter and rip it into the tiniest pieces imaginable and strew them about the floor.  (Another formula for invisibility.)

It was when I was *helping* Esther sweep under and behind her bed when I saw it.  My first thought was please don't be poop.  That thought ran laps through my mind as I got closer to inspect.


A lumpy brown line, broken up over the span of about two feet, ran along the wall just above the floor molding.  It stuck out about 2 centimeters in some spots, and in others was a smeary mess.

Please don't be poop.  

Kelly: Esther, is this poop?
Esther: No.
Kelly: Esther, what is this?
Esther: I don't know.

I reluctantly got closer to inspect further.  I smelled it. *cringe, gag*

Kelly:  Is this candy?
Esther:  Yeah.
Kelly: Is it tootsie rolls? (My sense of smell is pretty first rate.  Plus Eve bought tootsie rolls at the dollar store so, yeah, skills of deduction.)
Esther: (with the decency to look miserable) Yeah.
Kelly: Why are they on the wall?
Esther:  I didn't like them.

Here, I was at a fork in the road.  Do I go with A) So why did you stick them on the wall instead of throwing them away?  or B) Why did you keep eating more?

Instead I went with C) Concede that some days just beat you when you are down, choose your battles, and let Esther scrape at the walls for awhile (with a knife food scraper thing, chill out)  while Mama delivers the strangest piece of parental advice ever, in a lecture called "Don't Stick Used Food to the Wall and Leave it There."  The second part of Plan C is, as soon as the husband comes home from his half day at work, leave the house and go shopping alone.  Eat a personal pan pizza from the food court at Target.

Coincidentally, I have gained five pounds this week.  I'm giving myself two weeks to lose it or I'm posting my food journal.  *Be warned.*

Thank God it wasn't poop.

Exit Strategy? STUN GUNS

Confession:  I really like meeting new people.  I like chit-chatting in the grocery store over the price of lemons.  I like discussing training plans while on the treadmill at the gym.  I like joking around with moms at the splash park about weird kids' television.  I ask people about their t-shirts.  I comment on their hair.  Anything to get my foot in the door, because I love a good conversation, and a possible new friend.  But ...


...sometimes people are categorically off their rocker.  (They are called "strangers" for a reason.) And I seem to attract the crazies the way Tim Horton's Iced Cappuccino attracts me: all the freaking time.


The earliest I remember this happening was when I was around 16 years old.  I was at the gas station (back when everyone paid cash for gas and you had to go inside the gas station to pay, and yes, we totally had color television then) (but not really the Internet) (But we did have C&C Music Factory and Marky Mark was feelin' the Good Vibrations so don't feel too bad) paying for my gas when the attendant (a gentleman of about 60 years) held out his arm and demanded, "Touch it." (I'm pretty sure that today he could be arrested for that.)  This followed.

Kelly: What?
Attendant:  You want to know what skin cancer feels like?  Touch it.
Kelly: I'm cool, thanks.
Attendant:  Always wear sunscreen.

Oh.  So it was like a live Public Service Announcement.  Totally makes sense.

This happened recently while we were in line at McDonald's.  We just left the zoo.  Logically McDonald's Play Land follows the zoo because I am a generally thirsty person (in a non-diabetes kind of way) and Diet Coke is a $1 at McD's.  Also, ice cream is $1.  Everybody wins.  I am standing in line with the four kiddos, and a sweet 60-ish lady looks at my family.  She makes eye contact. And we are off. (Yes.)


Sweet Lady:  Oh, my.  Are they all yours? (Every.single.time.)
Kelly:  Yep. *nervous giggle as I deliver the standard next line*  They keep me busy.
Sweet Lady:  You are a good mom, I can tell.  (Seems good so far, right?)
Kelly:  Thanks.
Sweet Lady:  You are not anxious and nagging them. (Specific praise, nice.)
Kelly:  Thank you.  I do have my days, though.
Sweet Lady:  I come from a family of six.  I'm number five.
Kelly:  Oh, that's a good sized family.
Sweet Lady:  Yeah, my dad was an alcoholic.  Only one of us isn't an addict.  (Um, what?)
Kelly: I'm sorry to hear that.  That's hard.
Sweet Lady I Met One Minute Ago:  Yeah, I had all my kids taken away from me.  I suffer horrible depression.  Sometimes I don't even get out of bed.
Kelly: ... That's, wow.  I'm sorry.  That's hard.
Sweet Lady: My brother is the most screwed up one.
Kelly: ?
Sweet Lady:  Crack.
(At this point, the conversation is really completely out of my control.  I can now only pray for our ice cream and Diet Coke to be served so we can play in the Play Land where the only crack we are exposed to comes from a sagging diaper.)


Fortunately I am getting better at handling these little exchanges.  Last Thursday, a complete stranger washing her hands next to me in the bathroom of a Red Robin starting talking like we were mid-conversation.  It went like this.

Stranger: I can't go home because channel 7 is at my house because that's where Bobby is recovering from his bullet wound.  But I'm like, I can't sit around here anymore.  Like, I know he got shot and whatever, but I still need to have fun. 

Kelly: Red Robin certainly is fun.  Did you see the airplane fan?

Stranger: He's just such a baby sometimes.  It's a f***ing bullet, and it got removed, and he wasn't even going to die or anything.  Now he's all, "Get my cigarettes, I need the remote" like I don't have stuff to do.

Kelly: Did you know you can use a stun gun to treat scorpion bites?

Stranger:  No sh*t?

Kelly:  Serious.

I haven't tested this theory at all fully but I'm pretty sure the stun gun fact will rescue you from any situation.  It's now my go-to strategy for exiting Crazyville.  If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.  Feel free to use this the next time a Deceptively Normal Woman in the Meijer Pharmacy asks your opinion on different brands of douche. (Totally not a typo.)(But I really think it should have been.)(Because why would Deceptively Normal Woman even heed the advice of a complete stranger?)(Do I really look like a douche expert?)(Also, because I know you are wondering - my favorite douche?  Mike "the Situation" Sorrentino.)

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
joke - 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.