First World Deluge

I actually felt it tear. *shudder*
When it rains it pours y'all.

"I can't sleep."

"The basement is flooded again."

"The minivan overheated on the highway and dinged a four minute warning bell that was code for 'this vehicle is about to combust' which was honestly like waiting through a bomb countdown right next to the bomb" (a bomb that would eventually cost $250 to defuse).

AND

 "Who knew tearing your calf muscle could be so painful?" (It's not actually torn all the way through.  I don't need surgery (thank God).  But it hurts like nobodies bidness.)

(Also on my rant rain list: Ezra's new therapy is $120 a week, Hosanna's skin is really having a hard time in this weather, our household humidifier needs to get it's stuff together, my gym membership is up at a $350 renewal fee, Ezra needs oral surgery, and why can't I lose these nine pounds?)(Answer: It's totally because I eat too much.)

I am thankful that all my problems lately are just merely inconvenient and not actual problems that keep me up at night (except for the first one).

Happy Fitness Friday!

The torture device from where I blog.
Seeing it is kind of like visiting Shakespeare's home, right?

I didn't post yesterday because it hurt to sit at the computer.   You know, because of my major and serious calf injury. And since I don't have a laptop or any of those other newfangled contraptions you younguns use nowadays I have to sit in a hard-backed chair with no cushion to play work on the computer.  But really it was the throbbing that kept me off the computer and on the couch with my calf elevated all day long. (And not watching Christmas movies, Brian, because I am a homeschooling mother.)(And I for sure didn't have real coke instead of tea for breakfast because that's what you drink at a pity party.)

The calf tear was all my fault.  I was being stupidly awesome yet again.  Wednesday night at the gym is a fairly easy night.  I have Ab Lab (a twenty minute abdominal class for which I will name my next child), upper body strength training, and a three mile tempo run on the treadmill.  Everything was easy peasy until the tempo run.  About halfway through I realized if I pushed it just a bit more I would do a sub-30 5k.  I really wanted that. (Especially since the first fifteen minutes of my run were spent telling myself to make it to fifteen minutes and then I could quit.  Runners, it was that kind of run.) I bumped my speed to 6.3 mph (which is fast for me).  With about five minutes left I saw I would need to bump it up more.  So I did.  And then a little more.  And a tinsy bit more.  I ran the last minute at 8.7 mph. Well, I ran the last 56 seconds at 8.7 mph.  The last four seconds I said, "DUDE!" (in my head, not out loud because I'm a Navy Seal and we don't show pain) while my left leg quit working because I felt something tear.  I slowed the treadmill down to a walkable pace, which? was 1.3 mph.  You know, the speed labeled "Barely Moving."

(For you other Navy Seals out there: I totally did a sub-30 5k.)

The pain was cuh-razy sick.  It felt like the first time you get out of bed after a C-section (which about ten percent of my readership will relate to, so good job being universal, Kelly).  I limped to the wipes and limped back to the treadmill to wipe it down (because I'm still considerate even though I was probably dying).  I limped to the locker room and called Sarah. Since she's in orthopedics, I was pretty sure she was going to tell me we needed to amputate, so I was prepared for the inevitable. Unfortunately she was working so I didn't get to talk with her and have some totally made up doomsday proclamations to tell Brian when I got home kind of realistic diagnosis before I made my way home.  It took close to twenty minutes to walk to my car.  I was obviously limping but trying to play it off like all was well like maybe I was just perfecting a new pimp walk.

At home I got some ice and googled "My leg needs to be amputated".  Or I googled "treating a pulled calf muscle".  I don't remember.  The internet mostly told me what I already suspected: RICE, Aleve, and snickers ice cream.

This is me trying to take a picture of my
own jammies without being able to climb
on the side of the bathtub and take it in
the mirror like any other sane person.
ALSO:  "Hey Kel, is that a snowman
toilet seat cover in your half bath?
You are rockin' some Christmas spirit."
Totally.  

That is why I spent Thursday morning wearing the coziest jammie pants* ever created in the history of jammie pants and chilling on the couch while I snuggled the kiddos and read, like, a ton of stories. And maybe wore my slippers when I drove the car to pick up Happy Meals for lunch because whoever said money couldn't buy happiness never spent $3.49 to become the Best Mom in the Universe.


*Those of you who read Runs for Cookies know the jammies I am talking about because Katie loves them, too.  In fact, when she mentioned the most comfortable pajamas ever, I knew she had to be talking about the Vera Wang pj's from Kohls, and I was totally right.

After lunch I connected with Sarah who told me to take off my slippers and put on real shoes to help out my calf.  She planned to come over after work and examine me in person because she is a good friend and I am spoiled rotten.



I also had this telephone conversation with Brian midday because he is totally sympathetic:

Brian:  How's your leg?

Kelly:  It hurts but I can walk, so whatever.  I'm just really slow.  I'm pretending I have a peg leg like a pirate and wearing an eye patch.

Brian:  But can you Walk Like An Egyptian?

Kelly: I was thinking about getting crutches because at least I'd be a little faster.  Plus I could wrap them with red and white crepe paper and they would look like candy canes.

Brian:  You should get a neck brace. (He is totally mocking my pain, y'all)

Kelly: It probably wouldn't hurt.


Sarah came over that night and confirmed that I have the worst calf injury in the history of the universe a strained calf muscle, and if it's not better in a few days she will procure a fancy lift to put in my shoe so I can be more stylish than ever.

Did I mention that I totally did a sub-30 5k before I blew out my calf?  Hoorah.



P.S. This post gets the award for Most Bold-type Usage.  Because apparently I am feeling emphatic today.

Sometimes you're the frog.

Mama said there'd be days like this.

My current theory is that this frog toadally knew that thumb was being a bit fat wienie and went after it maliciously.  He was all, "I know you think I'm just a frog, and it's all super hilarious to mess with me, but I have feelings too."  He probably also dropped a monster swear because it doesn't feel good to be purposely frustrated by others.  Then he was all, "This is just like when I ask everyone for their dirty clothes, do six loads of laundry, and then discover another full load of dirty clothes that were ignored because they were under the bunk bed and/or crib."

Probably the frog* was like that.

* feel free to relate to this YouTube video as personally as I have.


In other news, I'm pretty sure our basement is fixed.  We've located the source of water and are currently getting everything clean and dry. (Because while I've been a slacker blogger I've been a busy homeowner.) My much anticipated Operation: Black Friday Recap will be coming soon, so stay tuned for an inside look at the top secret mission report. Thank you for your patience.  Hoorah!

You know what they say about good intentions ... they get washed away in your basement.

I could prepare a bird, or
a convicted felon could.  Your
choice.

Here is my Thanksgiving recap.  You should totally bookmark this page to refer to for the years to come, because I'm offering a lot of helpful advice here.  Also it's shorter than planned because my basement flooded.  Again.  Dude.  (Big thanks to John who came over on two separate days to help us out with the creeping water downstairs.)(And thanks for not judging me for the everyday state of the basement.)(Or the rest of my house.)(Or that the kids were in their jammies all day.)(And sorry that I almost hit your car when I was coming home after doing Kohl's returns.)(I'm like, the best driver ever when it comes to turns.)

Preparing the Feast

The most important part of preparing Thanksgiving dinner is to find someone else to invite you to their Thanksgiving dinner.  Offer to bring something and wait with bated breath until you are assigned rolls and green beans and sigh in relief.  On the big day, look at the clock and discover you have some time for a quick nap that you desperately need because tonight is BLACK FRIDAY.  To determine the length of your nap, check the package of the frozen rolls you will be bringing to Thanksgiving dinner to see how much cooking time on which to plan, realize they still need to rise before you can cook them, and say, "Dude, I better start these now."

Preheat the oven and take a casserole dish down to the basement and use the water cooler to fill your casserole dish with boiling water; this you will put in the oven with the rolls so they will rise faster because they are in a (cringe) *moist* environment.  On the way back up the basement stairs, slosh boiling water on your hand and give yourself a mental high-five for not cursing. (Mental high-five. You are still carrying boiling water.)  Get the rolls in the oven and set the timer for one hour so the rolls can rise.

Lay down on the couch.  Every forty seconds think of something hilarious to tell your husband who is playing working on the computer fifteen feet away.  He will finally ask (because he cares about you and wants you rested), "Weren't you going to take a nap?"  Cheerfully thank him for his concern and do not whine, "You never support my humor.  It's not my fault you don't get comedy.  And I still think I should be in your non-existent band."  (You won't say that because that is a ten year old argument and those are never fair to bring up on Thanksgiving.)

Decide the true reason you are not falling asleep is because you are not wrapped in the ugliest but coziest comforter in the house and rectify the situation.  Fall asleep hardcore deep.  Like, mouth open, drool all up in this mess, body jello-like, deep.  Stay this way until you are in the deepest part of your sleep cycle.  This is when the timer for the rolls will buzz and scare the bejeebers out of you, causing you to spring up completely entangled in the ugly comforter, and mad-mumble incoherently while you freak out because you totally cannot escape the comforter and the rolls are beeping. Finally sacrifice your slipper to the comforter gods, trip as you fight your way to freedom, and voice your first coherent word. It will be a monster swear, probably aimed at your husband who was just trying to help out, Kelly.

Next, while the rolls (done rising, ready to cook) are baking you spend time on Pinterest because what else would you do?  You certainly wouldn't spend this time making sure the five year old is ready to go to Grandma's and not wearing her bathing suit, a Rapunzel wig, sparkly Dorothy shoes, and a cape.  Or spend that time packing the diaper bag for the two year old.  You will, however, pin tons of good parenting and organizing advice, so good job being productive.

Eventually you will corral all children and food stuffs into the minivan to make your way to Grandma's house.  And that, my friend, is all there is to preparing a Martha-like Thanksgiving meal.

Strutting My Stuff-ing

I am so embarrassed at my own laziness.  To
think I could have worn this to the race ...

Turkey and stuffing and potatoes and pie!  I hope y'all had a lovely Thanksgiving.  Since I took a monster break from blogging we have much to catch up on, namely, what I did with my hair.

Last time I posted I conducted a worldwide contest to find America's Next Top Haircut for Kelly.  The choices can be seen here.  Haircut number 1 garnered exactly zero percent of the vote because apparently everyone hates Jennifer Aniston.  (Don't worry, Jen, I'll be there for you.)  Haircuts number 2 and 3 tied, each with 50 percent of the votes. Then my awesome hairdresser weighed in with, "Um, Kelly this is almost the exact same haircut, just styled differently and photographed from another angle."  So whatever you voted I totally agree with you and I chose your haircut.

Here is a before and after shot of my haircut.  The after shot is literally a three minute blow out I did all by myself.  Don't get too jealous of my hairdryer skillz.  If I ever get fancied up and curl it more to look like haircut number 3 (probably around Christmas party time) I will post some pics because I know you are dying to see that as well.  Before:

"Awesome dark shot Kel that makes it so we totally can't see your hair."  Also, in my Mom's voice, "Don't look over the top of your glasses, you remind me of a nun."  (She has Catholic school memories, y'all.)  In my defense, I was on my way to the salon and thought, "DUDE!  I totally need a before pic.  I'd better pull over even though it's getting dark and I might miss my appointment and take this picture because I care about authentic blogging."  You're welcome.

 After: In both these pictures I'm thinking, "He-ey!"  You can hear it, amIright? Also, I look super weird without my glasses.  But, did I mention this is a three minute blowout?  I might want to remind you that I have four kids and often fall back on the dreaded mom ponytail.  But no longer will that be the case! Three minute blowout to the rescue.

Glasses on, much better.  And I'm looking in the mirror like a boss.

Snowflake clings on my half bath mirror?  Am I ahead of the game or what?

After my haircut I came home to show off my new 'do.  I walked into my house feeling like a supermodel and was greeted by Esther screaming, "PAPA!  MAMA CUT OFF ALL HER HAIR!"  Eve added, "IT'S RUINED!"  This did wonders for my self-esteem.  Mysteriously, Santa then declared both of them were now on the Naughty list so yeah, sucks to be them.

It has become a tradition (i.e. we've done it twice) that after the Thanksgiving morning Turkey Trot we come back to my house to eat brunch.  I spent the rest of Wednesday evening preparing for the brunch. I made my Grandma's famous casserole (yep, that casserole; I'm pretty sure every grandma makes the same one), a fruit salad (that one took me all night as I had to open up the pre cut fruit I'd bought and dump it all into one serving dish), and did some baking.  I'm not gonna lie; I rule at any kind of food prep that involves lots of sugar and fat, so baking is one of my better culinary masterings.  Also, Hosanna is allergic to milk, eggs, and corn syrup and consequently I am a creative baker.  I made vegan mixed berry cobbler (de-lish-us) and snickerdoodle bread that I call "coffee cake" to justify serving it at breakfast.  The other component of the meal - the frozen Hebrew National cocktail pigs in a blanket (obviously) - would just need to be cooked in the morning.

Thanksgiving morning it was really foggy and about 45 degrees for the race, so Eve and I wore layers and took cheapo cotton gloves.  We got to the race about an hour early because I guess I can't read and thought the race started at 9:00 a.m., so we had plenty of time to people watch.  This race has tripled in size since I first ran it two years ago, so there were a lot of people to check out.  I am slightly disappointed that once again I have dropped the ball and failed to procure an actual turkey costume before race day.  Many others mocked me with their prepared selves happily adorned in giant costumes or turkey hats.

I knew a few other people running (unprepared and lazy as well)(because I'm sure those are the only reasons people run 5K's without costumes) so we gathered for a happy pre-race picture.

The girl right next to me in the purple?  This was her fourth run.  Not fourth race, her fourth run.  I may have wanted to trip her when she caught up to me was super proud and impressed at her natural athletic ability.  And she's a newlywed. 

Proof.  Plus?  Her 18 year old sister-in-law designed and sewed this gown.  You can find her on Facebook here.

The race was nice.  They did drop the ball by not having the first water station available by the time we all ran past, but this was only a mile in and no one was really going to dehydrate (totally a verb) at that point.  (It did cause a moment of panic in my 9 year old "Type A to the Nth degree" child because, well, we planned to drink and walk for 20 seconds at the one mile mark and it didn't happen.)

I was all, "Quick, flex your quad so no one will notice you are bottom heavy."  Totally worked.

We had so many friends and family attend the race as spectators, and it was really fun to cross the finish line when a group of fifteen people are screaming your name. The throngs cheering for me personally is pretty much what the inside of my head sounds like all the time; although experiencing the reality was slightly better.  Because, you know, other people hear it too. (And it's like others are agreeing with my self-proclaimed awesomeness.)(Which makes it no longer self-proclaimed.)(Just General Awesomeness.)

Sarah ran five miles to the race to watch me run.  And then ran five miles home.  I feel like that could have been made into a tongue twister if I tried hard enough.  Now you have a challenge for the day. Go!

Tomorrow I will recap more Thanksgiving festivities in a blog entitled "It's really not Thanksgiving until Grandma drops a 'He/She'."  You may want to tune in for that.

It's just like American Idol

I am having the hardest time focusing this week.  I fully blame my lack of coffee, but also I think I'm the slightest bit out of my freaking mind with anticipation excited for the rest of this week to get on with itself.  Tonight I'm getting my hair did.  For those of you who follow me on Pinterest (wait, you can do that?  Of course you can, silly girl!  Consider following me an early Christmas present to yourself because I'm really a loser with how much I'm on Pinterest diligent in my pinning.) you may have already seen some of these haircuts.  Any thoughts?  Here is what I am considering:

Not the blonde, the bob.  And since this is Jennifer Aniston's hair I would be copying,  if I got this haircut it's almost a guarantee I would sing the theme song from Friends every time I looked in the mirror. Which is an obvious win. (But?  it's also the safe choice and I could end up hating that.)(Or, since Rumor Has It that I have Friends With Money, if I hate it I could Just Go With It or pull The Switch and stop being The Good Girl, and decide that my hair, the Object Of My Affection, doesn't need to be Picture Perfect.  My life will not be Derailed and it won't cause The Break Up if I choose a haircut that makes hubster question if She's The One.  I mean, Love Happens and sometimes He Just Not That Into You.  Or is into you, because he married you.  Whatever.)

I think the shirt here is throwing me off.  If you stare at it long enough it looks like she is actually missing her arm.  Which is fine, I'm not hating on that.  In fact, most of Esther's barbies only have one arm because she has a girl crush on pro surfer Bethany Hamilton, and every new doll ends up with an amputation before they get too settled.  I pretty much have Soul Surfer memorized because it is Hosanna's favorite movie (next to the Chronicles of Narnia).  So yeah, the hair ... I like how the layers give the ends some shape.

I really like this one because I feel like I could pull this off on my own.  It only makes me a little nervous because I can't see her face, and what if this cut from the front is hideous?  I guess if that happens I can pull a Barbara Streisand and insist people face me on my "good side".  Which will always be the side of my head.  Problem solved.

What do you think?  I think everyone should vote on their favorite.  Let me know by 5:30 p.m. tonight which one you think I should get and I just might do it.  Leave a comment here or on Facebook.  If you leave it on Facebook you could leave a number and everyone would be all, "What's the number thing about?" and we could feel all elitest because we have a secret Facebook number game. (It's the little victories.)

So vote now, dear friends.  It's like the all the control and the future of my hair is in your hands.  I will be waiting with bated breath.  Don't leave my hair like this forever:

This is me from when Mark Sloan died.  I'm sorry to bring that up again, but honestly I don't think I have a better representation of my current hair status.  So vote.  It's for the betterment of America y'all.

Don't come crying to me when you pay full price for Legos. Sucka.

Only three more days.  I hope you are prepared because I totally am.

Black Friday E'rbody.






I'm pretty sure that Kohl's whole "Operation Black Friday" thing is a marketing ploy aimed specifically at me.  The executives had a meeting and were all, "Who is our number one shopper in southeastern Michigan?" and the research analysts answered, "Without a doubt it's Kelly from Sublurban Mama."  When they got together with the marketing department and they asked, "What's the best way to guarantee she will visit our store on the big day?" Some of the more junior members mentioned selling a waffle stick maker for $14.99, and while that was an incredibly enticing and bold move, the more experienced marketers knew that if they made Black Friday seem like a Navy Seal mission I would be all over that mess.

Physical Training

1. Waffle stick maker 2. Cowl neck sweaters
3. 600 thread count sheets 4.Boots
5. Headphone earmuffs 6. Jewelry 7. Bras
STOP? Navy Seals don't quit  

In preparation I have been focusing on shuttle runs/suicides, so that I am ready to sprint across the store to be the first for the best sale (that I will not be mentioning by name because this is a top secret mission, y'all). Also, lunges and squats have been working to build up the strength in my lower body so that I have more power in the thrust behind my sprinting.

"I can be your superman*,"  - Eminem
(*but only in a totally non-sexual way
that has nothing to do with Eminem's song
and everything to do with Black Friday shopping.)

In weight training I've been concentrating on my forearms, biceps, and shoulders; those are no brainers because you need strength for hauling around bags of merchandise.  My secret training weapon?  Lower back strength.  Many a Black Friday shopper is forced to retire early due to lower back pain which is the result from standing on the checkout line for so many hours.  This will not be me, my friends.  I've been doing Superman's faithfully for this very reason.

Mental Training

Mental Preparation is more about the weeks of planning it requires to pull off a successful mission.  I have lists of sales offered in my general area.  I've cross-referenced those lists with the things I need either as Christmas gifts or for our own household. Finally I made an itinerary that states where, when, and what I need from each store.  It has not only a rough outline but also hourly goals I need to achieve in order to succeed at my mission.  (And here you thought Black Friday was about being allowed to drink real Coke at 4:00 a.m.)(Sorry y'all, but these training methods are what make some of us elite shoppers.)(Although the coke thing will totally be happening.)


Operation: Black Friday.  Now it's not just a matter of fiscal opportunity that I attend the Black Friday sales, it's also a personal challenge.  And Kohl's?  Challenge accepted.  Hoo-rah.

Weaning ... because it's finally time.

This?  Totally me.  If I didn't wear
glasses.  And was a cartoon.

I have this awful aching in my chest.  Specifically, an ache deep in my heart where it is broken because it's time to wean myself from International Delight Iced Coffee.

We've had a lot of good times together.  But now we're totally bonded to the point of attachment issues. Specifically, iced coffee won't leave me the heck alone. So it's with a heavy heart that I know it's time to separate for a while.

Roll Tide.  This is actually my 4:30 a.m.
pre-triathlon picture because
remember when I did a triathlon?

Every morning I wake up and spring from my bed knowing I get to have iced coffee.  I turn on the computer, pad over to the refrigerator in my stocking feet, reach in and gently remove the half gallon container of mocha deliciousness.  I gather my favorite mug from the upper shelf of the kitchen cabinets (light green from IKEA, just so you can picture this)(the mug, not my cabinets)(and I might be climbing on the counter to reach it)(just kidding, Brian)(and wearing super cozy wide leg cotton jammie pants)(yes, jammie pants)(and probably my Alabama sweatshirt)(because: Alabama is number one).






I measure out one cup of iced coffee and carefully pour it into the waiting vessel.  (I briefly consider using a funnel to transfer the coffee from measuring cup to coffee mug but veto this idea because of the potential for wasting coffee when some clings to the funnel.)(Because who wants to spend their morning trying to suck the droplets of leftover brew from the inside of a tiny funnel yet again?)

You probably shouldn't bother
me until I've had some caffeine.

I delicately plop two ice cubes into my waiting drink.  Two ice cubes is the perfect amount; two offers a subtle chill and also a slight texture variation in my drinking experience.  Any amount greater than two and the ice cubes become obstacles to sipping.  I look down at my mug and whisper, "Hello, Friend.  You're looking well today.  It's been a long time.  Too long."  And it has.  Been too long, I mean.  Like, literally hours.


Now that all is perfectly prepared, I walk excitedly over to the computer and sit down. Now I can drink.

*bliss*

This is where you ask, "Oh Kelly, this seems to be something that adds so much pleasure to your life namely because International Delight Iced Coffee is the best invention in the history of all inventions including, but not limited to, Atari, the flushing toilet, and baby wipes*."

(*Baby wipes?  Oh no you didn't.  But please, go on dear reader who is thoughtfully asking all the right questions in order that I can segue into the last portion of this post.)

"It seems to me, my super talented and, if we are being candid here, my extremely gorgeous friend and favorite blogger in the universe  world  on blogger  that I'm reading right now, that Kelly, maybe you shouldn't be weaning yourself from a product that adds so much to your life."

truth.

But that's just it, my friends.  It is adding so much to my life.  (Unfortunately it is not adding to my bank account in a way that suggests International Delight has recognized the opportunity for sponsorship and pays me to plug them on my blog that reaches the untold masses every day of the work week.)  But it is successfully adding to my hips. And my belly. And my tush.  It really wants to add to my chin as well, because maybe my chin is feeling lonely and tired of being single and just wants a mate for the rest of the days and is that really too much to ask?


Yes.  It is too much to ask, chin.  And get used to it, I'm legally making sure you are referred to as "chin" and never "chins" again. (Because I'm the boss of you, chin.)

If I had more self-control I could handle just one little delicious cup of 150 calories every morning, but usually that self-control flies out the window around 3:00 p.m. when I'm all, "Don't MAKE me call your father" to the kiddos that are driving me insane and all I really want is a N.A.P. for me but settle on roughly 300 calories of binge caffeine.  And this just will not do.

So it is with an awful aching in my chest that I say a goodbye to my beloved coffee.

*sniff* *sniff*  *single dramatic tear rolling down my fuller than it should be cheek*

I was hijacked. Or held hostage. Or something.

I think we all need to remember that I am the victim here.  Because I'm not going to go into this at all if you are going to sit there all silent and judgey like it's never happened to you.

I was being responsible with my time.  The kids were in bed, the house clean as it could be since we ran out of dish soap yesterday and apparently you're not supposed to use shampoo even if you need the slow cooker to be clean in order to use it so you order pizza instead, effectively turning the $2 dish soap you were waiting until grocery shopping day to buy because "we don't run to the store for 'just one thing'" into a purchase of $20 in hot crust and pepperoni, and my workout done.

Brian was finished with the computer for the evening, so I could take the time and care required to work on this blog in order to keep it up to the impeccable standards I currently use for excellent blogging.  (They include:  try to spell check before you publish, and make sure each post contains the word "totally" roughly 30 times.)

Since it is Foreign Language/Fitness Friday, I needed to do some last minute research to have content that was both relevant and interesting.  (Read:  I've exhausted my vast repertoire of exercises that beguiled me when I began working out, and yet I also don't want to admit that this week I gained two pounds and use any of my spare time to dwell on my own failure.  So I was fresh out of things to write about.)  I went where everyone looking for inspiration should go:  Pinterest, the most trusted name in Genius Ideas Found on the Internet.

I promise I had every intent upon going straight way to the Health and Fitness section.  But every Pinterest visit begins on my home page showcasing all the pins of the people I follow, so I think honestly the first perpetrator person we can blame for what happened is my "friend" (who shall remain nameless)(Megan) who frequently pins the most amazing desserts on the planet.

I clicked on one little dessert pin and ended up discovering the next perpetrator my true junk food soul mate in a woman I've never met before who honestly could be my 24th sister wife solely for her love of chocolate.  Her name is Shelly, and it's one of those weird "I don't know her, no one I know knows her, but her pins are so good I should probably follow her, but not a lot of people are following her, so should I just go ahead and do it or will she think she's being stalked or something?" kind of situations.  Most people would just go ahead and follow her because that's how Pinterest works, but I was feeling a little sensitive and might tend to over-analyze things this time of year when SAD gets it's hooks under my skin and keeps me tethered with insecurity over L-AME-O things.  (And?  A titsch upset that the only remedy for SAD is sunshine, meaning that moving to Texas* is less a deep seeded desire and more of a medical necessity.)

*I totally want to move to Texas.  Brian's work has an office there.  It is warmer there.  And in Texas I wouldn't have to go through the gallons of lotion my allergy kids require during the winter.  Are there any readers that can tell me the good neighborhoods in the Dallas/Fort Worth area so I can be specific when I waste spend my time on Realtor.com?

I wanted a post full of this:

because I care about your health and helping you be an informed fitness junky.

Instead, I ended up with this:

Ghirardelli English Toffee Recipe?  YES.

and this:

Whaaa?

I was clearly defenseless when faced with the possibility of both toffee and truffles. I maintain that I was clearly hijacked.  Or held hostage.  But whatever the case, it totally wasn't my fault.  So, in conclusion, I rest my case and Happy Fitness Friday to you.

I didn't choose the Twi-Life, the Twi-Life chose me.

If you are someone who, I don't know, lives under a rock, you might not be aware that the fifth and final Twilight movie premieres tonight.

I might have plans later.

Chi-Town, Mangina, and the JCSS Cover Band - Part Two

We left off with my brother ruthlessly denying me my one true dream by rejecting my classically trained, college degree endorsed* Mary Magdalene skillz for his Jesus Christ Super Star cover band which doesn't even exist.  It's like he had all the power in the world to grant me a tiny slice of happiness but was totally a glutton and hogged all the happiness for himself.

*I'm pretty sure that my Bachelor's degree in music education covers any formal training I may have needed to be in a JCSS cover band.  If not, I'm sure I can find some on-line university to endorse it for the right price. (*exaggerated wink*)

Natalia, Steve's girlfriend of many moons whom I've never met, got off work and met us at the restaurant.  I'm sure it wasn't intimidating at all to meet her boyfriend's entire family in one fell swoop.  (And while many might consider Cassie the threatening one, what with her gun and career in law enforcement, I find that I'm the one to look out for because sometime's I pee when I laugh too hard I'm the oldest sibling and might be out to defend my self-proclaimed status as the most important member of our family.

But alas, Natalia is really sweet, super pretty (not to sound too much like we are checking out horses, but her teeth are amazing), and she is 100 percent Polish and articulates her words much cooler than the average Midwesterner.  I could listen to her talk for a while, which says a lot if you know me because I'm someone who really likes the sound of my own voice, youknowwhatI'msayin'?

When Steve asked what we wanted to do, my only criteria was that I wanted to ride something.  Cassie threw out the idea of going to the Navy Pier, but Steve emphatically informed us that "the Navy Pier sucks."  End of discussion.  We settled on taking the train (YES!) downtown to see the Bean.  Or, as it is formally known, "Cloud Gate."

Waiting for the train, A.K.A. the First Form of Public Transportation I've ever taken. (Unless you count the buses at Disney World.  Which I don't.) I was strangely disappointed because I kept looking around to see crazy people and/or poop, both things I've heard can be experienced on public transportation, but none of which I encountered.  

Cloud Gate, A.K.A. The Bean.

It was a little rainy.  We passed a wedding, peeked into the Pavilion in Millennium Park, and walked down the Magnificent Mile without stopping in any stores because Steve believes in passive aggressive forms of torture.  I did get to see his office building.  (He does something entirely brilliant and nerdy that I don't understand involving genomics.  This involves DNA and a lot of other scientific words that sound like "blah, blah, blah" to the untrained ear.  Every so often I encroach upon the internets to find me a science-y joke to email to Steve because he loves spam so that we can share a moment that involves his brains and career.)(I usually don't understand the joke at all.)

One Chicago gem I would be remiss not to share?

"Hey Kel, is that the building from the movie Adventures in Babysitting?"  "Um, yes, it is.  And no, apparently they don't just let people up to the top to try and reenact the scene where Sara slides down the slanted glass windows.  But you can sing 'Babysitting Blues' with gusto out on the street."

When the sun started to set we flagged down two cabs to take back to Steve's house.  Cassie, Doug, and I went in one.  My mom, stepdad, Steve, and Natalia went in the other.  The cab ride was thoroughly uneventful until this:

Super Quiet Roommate Doug said out of the blue, "Does that vanity plate say MANGINA?"
(A brief pause while Cassie and I checked it out.  Then an internal dilemma ensued.  Because it totally didn't say Mangina.  Was the proper response then to correct this person you barely know who has thrown out a word like "mangina", or do you go along with it and agree that it's crazy that someone would pay to have "mangina" on their license plate, or do you bite your lip so freaking hard so you don't explode with the giggles that are going to eventually leak out in spontaneous bursts that you will try to cover with coughing and/or accidental duck noises because you can't believe "mangina" just showed up unexpectedly?

The answer is: Doug realized it didn't say "Mangina" but instead said "Mangia". (Because probably the driver is Italian and likes to eat.)(I totally figured that out using my noodle.)(Noodle? Italian food?*giggle*)  He said, "Oh, it's missing an 'n'," and went on with normal life because he is a mature grown up, but I spent the next few minutes reminding myself that I am also a mature grown up and repeating, "Don't laugh out loud," in my head, but it totally didn't matter, this was just like when someone farts in Ab Lab.  It is hilarious.

Back at Steve's house we took a preventative pee break, shared heartfelt goodbyes, and headed back to Michigan.  Our Super 8 motel was about two hours away.  Most of this travel time may have been spent in quiet reflection of the day interspersed with gut busting laughter whenever Cassie or I said out of the blue, "Mangina."

And the Super 8?  Totally had a continental breakfast.  With waffles.  So yeah, win.  Plus it was on the second floor so it totally had a view:

Behind those trees?  The highway.  You can't pay for convenience like that.  (Actually you can.)

Thank you, my dear family and the great city of Chicago, for a wonderful trip.

Chi-Town, Mangina, and the JCSS Cover Band - Part One

I have a brother.

Here we are at Warrior Dash 2011 being sexy.

His name is Steve.  (Although, as children we used to refer to him as "Little Laura.")(Because our mom hoped thought it was another girl and that's the name she picked out.)  Steve is the younger of my two siblings.  He's the baby of the family and got away with murder growing up.  (Spoken like a true first child who had a rule for everything and totally isn't bitter about the way her parents chilled out for children #2 and #3.)(Cassie and Steve, you can totally thank me later.)(Preferably with some kind of extravagant gift.)(Wrapped in actual wrapping paper, Stephen.)

Steve moved to Chicago a few years ago and I had yet to make a trip out there to see him.  So when my mom called me last week and asked if I'd like to take a last minute all expenses paid trip to see him without my kiddos in tow I was all, "Twist my arm why don't you."

We left my house on Saturday around 9:00 a.m. Michigan time.  We drove to Chicago in record time if you subtract all the pee breaks that were necessary due to someone's incontinence issues.  We arrived in Chicago at the same time as some torrential rain.  And traffic.  A lot of traffic.  The rain and traffic coalesced to form the most amazing version of bladder torture.  Both Cas and I were all, "we're totally not going to need another pee break before Steve's house,"  and then the traffic and rain were all, "Ha-ha, don't count your chickens just yet, dude."  (I don't even know if that expression works here, but I was thinking of my bladder, which made me think of my ovaries (obviously), which made me think of eggs, which made me think of chickens, so, there you go.)

The closer we got to Steve's, the tighter we held our legs together, and the more tense we became. (Because Cassie is awesome she sent Steve a text hinting that the bathroom should probably be available the nanosecond we arrived at his house.)(Steve is also awesome and texted back that he was thinking about pooping and hadn't yet decided, so we'd have to wait and see if there would be a bathroom ready.)(Because I am awesome I told Cassie she could go first when we got there.)(But only because the unspoken rules of Potty Dibs clearly indicate that the person to first mention the need to pee officially has primary bathroom rights.)(And that just happened to be Cassie.)(This time.)(I won't be so quiet next time.)

We arrived at Steve's house around 12:30 Chicago time.  It's much bigger than I thought it would be, and also (sadly) much better decorated than my own home.   I mean, the man has a Tinkerbell shower curtain.  Steve lives with two roommates named Doug and Billy.  Doug and Billy have known each other forever, mainly because they are twins.  They are also Toledo boys, and I've been there a few times, so right away we were able to discuss the awesomeness of the Toledo Zoo.  (In hindsight, I can't believe I didn't bring up The Toledo Mudhens, because I occasionally attend their minor league baseball games, and one time I saw Crystal Bowersox there.  That's kind of an impressive name to drop, so I can't believe I missed that opportunity.)

We walked to a restaurant called the Boiler Room where you can get a piece of pizza, PBR, and a shot of Jameson for $7.50.  This is one of Steve's favorite breakfasts.  I had the "Purist" - pizza with fresh mozzarella, basil, and a balsamic reduction.  It was delicious.  I also had a Diet Coke, and totally stayed strong while my alki brother tried to get me drunk.  (Not really.)(But he did offer me his extra shot.)(Because he was raised to share his alcohol. Because we are Irish.)

Cassie and I at the Boiler Room.

I'm going to end Part One here, but not before I tell you about my newest musical venture.  It turns out that Steve has found kindred spirits in his roommates when he discovered they each harbor an intense appreciation for the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar.  Over lunch, Steve and Doug were discussing the possible formation of a JCSS Cover band, and I figured this was totally my moment. I, too, can belt out some JCSS at a moment's notice (or even without any warning) so I figured I was totally in to be Mary Magdalene.  I mean, my brother is going to be Judas.  And Doug was going to play Jesus, and I was sitting right next to him, so just by the rules of proximity, I was the obvious choice to cast in the only female singing role.  But when I volunteered my services, Steve was all, "Yeah ... we'll see."

Dude.

This may have been the second time in my life I've been rejected from a band that doesn't even exist. This is probably how the Beatles felt when Decca Records turned them down.

Stay tuned for Chi-Town, Mangina, and the JCSS Cover Band - Part Two.  There will be redemption. And a Super 8 Motel.

"I just want to ride something." - Things You Shouldn't Say Around Your Little Brother

I took a little road trip this weekend.  And by "little" I mean it was a 27 hour round trip.  Ten of those hours were spent traveling.  Of those ten traveling hours, about one hour was spent taking pee breaks.  But?  Totally worth it.

I will elaborate on this trip later, because today I am worn out.  And super behind on my daily life responsibilities.  So I am a slacker blogger today.  But don't hate, I'm going to present you with this loveliness:

Yep.  It's me and my sister Cassie.  Just hanging out in Chicago, riding a metal bull.

A whole 'nother angle. (Plus this one looks like Cassie is photo bombing me.)(Which is rad.)

When my little brother (whom we were visiting) asked what I would like to do on my trip into the city, I answered, "I want to ride something."  I totally meant some form of public transportation, because I'm from the suburbs and go everywhere in my minivan.

While I would've been completely satisfied with the train, this pretty much made the trip.  Thank you Chicago.

Beauty and The Beast

Hello, Beauty.  Fancy meeting you again.
It's been a long time since yesterday.

Happy Foreign Language Friday!  Today is the day where I take some time to explain some of the words and phrases found only in the fitness world so that the next time you hear someone talk about "plank position" you don't immediately think of pirates. (Which is actually a shame.  Because who wants to miss out on a chance to think of pirates?)

I must have started four different posts for today.  I was having the hardest time concentrating.  I would get about two paragraphs in and completely lose steam about whatever it was I was blogging, only to start over and have the same thing happen again. Guess why I couldn't concentrate?  My freaking lower body is a hot mess of pain.  You must be thinking in horror, "But why, Kel?"  Two words: walking lunges.  And then I realized:  I have my topic for Foreign Language Friday!

I would do anything to get out of lunges.  They are by far my least favorite exercise.  I hate every form of lunges, which is why I never do them if given a choice.  That is why fitness classes are so valuable to me; I constantly work my body differently and harder than I would by myself.  This week I had two instructors with one track minds: walking lunges unto death.  And now that I've totally talked them up and you are psyched to try them yourself:

How do you do a walking lunge?

 Hello, BEAST.  (Dumbbells optional)

Stand with your legs shoulder width apart.  Step forward with the first leg.  Land on your heel and then your forefoot. Lower your body by bending the knee of the front leg until the knee of your back leg is almost in contact with floor. Return to standing position.  Repeat using the other leg.

Why should you torture yourself this way?  Lately I've been really conscious of my booty; specifically the way it jiggles when I run.  Lunges work your glutes* (think "butt") and your hamstrings (think back of the thighs), so they will help tone (i.e. tighten it up) that area.

(*Glutes = story for free.  My children learn a lot of vital information from me.  Including, but not limited to, the definition of a "verp".  I also think it's really important to teach them to be good stewards of their bodies by embarking on a variety of fitness endeavors, and so I often include them when I'm doing Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred or morning yoga stretches.  This is why Esther knows how to um ... flex her glutes.  She frequently completely stops all activity, concentrates really hard, and says in delight, "I'm workin' my GLUTES!" as she squeezes her little tush together.  Abso-glutely adorable.)(Did you see what I did there?)(*giggle*)

Lunges are also good for your hamstrings and quads (think front of the thighs).  If you want to be a faster runner, building strength in those muscles is the way to do it.  If running isn't your thing remember Black Friday is right around the corner and running is not a bad skill to have in your corner for that day lunges are still helpful in increasing core strength as you have to fight to keep your balance during execution.  (Doesn't that totally sound like more pirate talk?)(Coincidentally you can also do a form of walking lunges in plank position.)(Actually they are more like mountain climbers.)(But it is still as hard as it sounds.)(My awesome Boot Camp instructor makes us do them adding a push up on every step.)(I should be a beast at this point.)(But I'm not because I counter all this intense exercise with healthy doses of Iced Capp from Tim Horton's.)(I think that's their new motto;  Tim Horton's: So You're Not a Beast.)

(Weight Loss Update:  I've lost four of the eleven pounds so far.  YAY!)

E'rbody have a wonderful weekend.  Do some walking lunges.  Or not.  But definitely enjoy some Tim Horton's.  (I'm pretty sure I should be on payroll there.) See y'all Monday!

The Rules of Invisibility Are Clear

I hate when this happens.
Sometimes you really need a pickle.

There are times when it is polite to treat people like they are invisible.  I've discovered, with some concern, that recently more people are ignorant of what used to be the unspoken rules of invisibility.  Which is leaving me no choice but to review a few here on my blog because I care about the future of a society in which I am raising my children.  I can't imagine leaving them to inherit a world full of people that aren't practicing the rules that provide an opportunity to be open-minded and compassionate.  Otherwise, what kind of world are we leaving them?

Rule #1:  People are invisible while they are in their own cars.

When one is in their own car, minding their own business, and makes the responsible decision to keep their hands on the steering wheel at ten and two because they are being trailed by a cop and are slightly tense because they might be 1. missing a taillight and 2. have a speedometer that frequently spontaneously quits, it might occur belatedly that they've rendered themselves unable to accurately communicate through dance how they feel about the music on the radio.  This is when the more creative members of society (or those with a Can-Do Spirit) explore other means of expression.  Including, but not limited to, conducting the music with one's nose*.

(*Before you hate on this and shrug this off as a non-option, consider that the nose sticks out of the body much in the same fashion as an arm or leg.  It's almost/kinda like another appendage.  Plus it can wiggle, scrunch up, hold up your glasses, and even houses one of the five senses as a conduit for smell.  In fact, the nose is probably way more useful than your right elbow which you use all the time when you dance and it's time to rock out a lasso.  Not so much a stretch now, is it?)(Also supremely underused?  Eyebrows.  And since I'm not one to discriminate I employ both of mine as often as possible.)(When I'm alone.)(I try not to be too much of a spazz in front of others.)

Actually not as hard as you would believe.
Because windows are already clear.

But just because people understand the availability of the nose for rocking out doesn't mean they will accept it when they see it happening.  However, those with any sense of propriety will observe the situation, make sure that the driver is not having a seizure but just dancing with their nose, and turn away and giggle at the spectacle.  Because the unspoken societal rules clearly indicate that while one is in their car they are in a bubble of private personal space and are therefore clearly invisible.  And for no reason is it copacetic to blatantly stare and silently judge.  (It is okay to take a picture if you are not driving and can do it in a subtle nature.)

Rule #2:  People are invisible if it is dark-ish.

Like, maybe you're spending a week at Disney World.  And maybe you've been walking around all day and you're super tired and even the trip back to your cabin was sidelined by a stop for dinner at another resort meaning that you still have an additional boat ride back to the bus stop that will take you back to your cabin. (First World Problem alert!) And maybe the Disney meal plan allows a dessert with your dinner and so you order an awesome looking granola cookie bar thing to take with you because you are sufficiently full now but will totally be ready to indulge later.

However.

On the boat ride home you make the mistake of taking one little bite and discover that the granola cookie bar thing is the most delicious thing you've ever eaten in your entire life.  And so you keep taking minuscule bites for the duration of the ride because you're holding a wiggly two year old and trying to eat without getting crumbs in his hair because you don't want to bathe him that night trying to be a responsible eater. (But then you remember that you're pretty sure the chocolate in the bar is dark and the coconut is organic, and probably the whole thing was handmade on some kind of free-range farm by free trade workers*, so it's totally just like health food.)

The clippings are a breeze to clean up.

When the boat docks, the best husband in the world takes over the care of the two year old, leaving you with two free hands to dedicate to mowing this dessert.  Since there is about a two hundred yard walk to the bus stop, mainly on barely lit paved pathway, and it is late at night and therefore very dark and less populated than in the light of day, you feel okay about eating with less decorum than usual.

(Have I mentioned how good this granola health food made by rescued baby seals and wrapped in biodegradable plastic wrap tastes?)


And maybe in your haste to finish it before you reach the bus stop, you may literally break off more than you can chew and some will fall from your lips (not chewed yet, chill out) and slide down into your bra (take a minute to thank the good Lord it won't be wasted).  This is when you automatically reach down into your bra to dig out the cookie bit that fell from your lips into your bra.  You might need to embark on a bit of a search as it is dark and the morsel landed among crevasses.   Once you have procured the crumbling chunk, you, without any delay, eat it.  At that exact moment of the boob to lip return you will look up and catch the eye of Disney Dad of Dastardly Deportment, the fellow that not only watches you remove food from your bra but sees you eat it as well and doesn't even have the decency to look away and pretend he didn't see it.  He's either the rudest person at Disney World or it's like he doesn't even know the rules of invisibility.

This situation is clearly a time when you are invisible.  Let people grope themselves for snack food in peace.  Duh.

IS THAT A TIGER?  It's like invisibility of a whole 'nother level.  Welcome to the jungle, Kitten.

In conclusion, there are probably more than two rules of invisibility, but that's all I have time for today.  So remember, next time you are witness to some "I can't believe I just saw them do that!" moment, ask yourself, "Are they actually invisible right now?"  Let's keep America kind.

* the only proof you have of this is your own assumption.

So You Think You Can Dance

Scene:  We are watching our upteenth hour of political coverage.  During a commercial break Brian heads to the kitchen for a snack.  I am standing at the couch folding laundry.  At the sound of the segue music that signals the coverage is about to continue, Brian returns to the room to find me dancing (obviously).  He looks at the ground and shakes his head.





Brian: Kel, about 98 percent of the things you do are excellent.  The other 2 percent just shouldn't happen.

Kelly: I know, Babe; I'm just sad that everything in that 2 percent involves me moving my body to music.

Brian:  Yes.

Kelly:  I can't help it.  Rhythm is a dancer.

This is totally what I looked like.  Except I was folding towels.  And my abs are slightly less defined.