Conspiracy Theories - Kleenex Edition

There are a few undeniable signs that life is about to get menstrual. The first is the desire for a mass consumption of chocolate. Since I am currently on day 5 of a wheat, dairy, and sugar fast I've been able to satisfy that craving and move on. Haha. That was a joke because I'm thisclose to driving to the nearest store and snarfing every piece of candy I recognize - and even those I don't.

Another clear sign of the impending monthly is that I get a huge case of the Feels and cry over everything. I'd like to take a minute to thank Great Big World and Christina Aguilera for the timing of their hit song "Say Something". Having it dominate airwaves the same week I'm PMSing is genius. I'm pretty sure that song is being sponsored in part by Kleenex brand tissues. Well done, Kleenex.

-John Green

I'm also thanking for great timing this week = my library. Finally getting me to the front of the line for John Green's The Fault In Our Stars this specific week was stellar. For those unfamiliar with this work of art I suggest you read it immediately. It is a YA novel about a girl named Hazel Grace who has cancer. She is tethered to an oxygen machine at a cancer support group when she meets Augustus Waters. Their relationship will wreck you. Decimate. Couple this novel with Great Big World's "Say Something" and you know Kleenex (and BIG BROTHER*) played a part in in it all. 

(*This is no joke = on Tuesday I was twenty pages from finishing The Fault In Our Stars - which means I was sobbing like a baby because if you've read the book you know what just happened - when my telephone rang. Since I was a hot mess I checked Caller ID before I answered it because I reserve my hiccuping snot-filled voice for my most special friends. GUESS WHO WAS CALLING AT THAT EXACT SECOND?!?!

This, kids, is a land line telephone. It is what came after telephones that still had cords. If you look closely at my Caller ID (#baller) you will see the person calling me during the end scenes of The Fault In Our Stars was none other than CHILDREN'S CANCER.

Well done, Drones Spying On My House, well done.

In conclusion, remember Big Brother (and Kleenex) are always watching. 

Don't worry, I survived.

There are people in this world that have never seen a real snowflake. They probably made one out of a coffee filter in elementary school art class, or have eaten a snow cone from the county fair (suddenly they live in Mayberry because county fair?), or have grand illusions of the experience of building a snowman. But guess what? These people don't come from Michigan. In Michigan it snows almost every single year. Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot. Regardless of the amount, Michiganders are no strangers to snow fall.

This is where I need to ask: Michigan, what. the. heck?

A big storm was predicted to hit Sunday. We were to expect anywhere from 6-12 inches of the white stuff in about a 24 hour period. I usually grocery shop on Saturday morning, so on Saturday morning I took Hosanna with me to the store, expecting a regular shopping day and OHMYLANTA.

Everyone in Southeastern Michigan was panicking about Snowmageddon 2014 doing their shopping as well. Brian went back to our grocery store later that day to pick up one little thing and took these pictures with his cell phone.

When it all hits the fan, I hope you don't need pre-sliced vegetables.

Or potatoes.

There is now a black market for bagged salad greens.

After all that roughage, you're certainly going to want to be prepared for the end result.

In case you are wondering, we did get the snow. It snowed all day Sunday. Thankfully, we had a delicious salad for dinner because I was prepared.

Today we are planning to make a snow fort in the front yard like rednecks, eat some snow ice cream, and probably screen Monsters University for the bazillionth time. Happy Snow Day, Midwest!

A Case of the Mondays: The Privilege to Whine

When you see it ...

My internet is currently working in 3-4 minute windows. I want to go all rage-fest about this, but I don't know enough about computers to know if this is a modem, router, or provider problem, which leaves me completely without a target to blame. Instead I've chosen to be pissed at the world in general, because suddenly my life has become 1996 all over again, which honestly (with the obvious exception of Coolio's Gangsta's Paradise) was not that great the first time around. In the last few days I've been forced to call someone for directions, use a cookbook to make dinner, and physically drive to the library to look up a book in person.

I'm sure my lack of computer usage is becoming a problem for you. I'm sure those that follow me on Pinterest are like, "What the heck? Did Pinterest shut down?" due to the decrease of new pins in your feed. I'm sorry. I assure you I am working on it. Especially if "working on it" means unplugging my computer 50 times a day and whining to Brian to FIX IT ALREADY.

Since my first two paragraphs were probably the most First World Paragraphs in the history of modern civilization, I'd like to dedicate the rest of my post to the men and women serving to protect the privilege I have to live in a place where shoddy internet connectivity is viewed as a travesty problem.

I am quite thankful to be an American, in all of our flawed glory. I do not take for granted the lifestyle and luxuries I have been afforded, simply because of my nationality. I never worry my children will have enough food. I can go to church, or to temple, or to mosque, because I have the freedom to choose who/where I worship. The only bombs my children have been exposed to are in the context of my amazingly resilient 90's slang. (Which? *Was* da bomb, yo.) All these freedoms were put in place by our forefathers and are protected by the men and women in uniform.

Thank you for your choice to serve, your time, and your dedication. Thank you for your lives.

Case of the Mondays: Up High, Down Low, TOO SLOW JOE

Well, I hope everyone is fully prepared for today.  Did you stock up on extra water?  Collect three months of your prescription drugs?  Buy ammunition to barter when it inevitably becomes our currency?  No?  Well, then you are obviously unprepared for July 1st : the day we say goodbye to Google Reader and usher in the end of the world.

If you have prepared by following me on Bloglovin, Facebook, or any other subscription method of your choice, good on you, big ups on your survival skills.  I would high five you, but it would probably look something like this:

Happy Monday!

Case of the Mondays: Keanu = *Mind Blown*

Phoning In My Cardio (and other ways to raise your heart rate)

Because I'm such a hardcore athlete, my heart rate is around 150 bpm when I run. If I really push it with fartleks  (stahp) I can reach 190 bpm.  Last week I had a chance encounter with an Accidental Personal Trainer from Hell named Sharon*, who single-handedly maxed my heart rate to over 200 bpm without even a proper warm-up.  She's lucky I didn't have a heart attack.

Before we talk litigation, I might need to clarify that I've never met Sharon in person.  I don't know if she has any kind of fitness training because I've never asked her credentials.  Stupid to put my personal well-being at her mercy, right?  In my defense I was fully unprepared for our exchange that left me panting for breath with my heart about to leap out of my throat.

I mean, who expects a phone call concerning medical billing to get your heart pumping and leave your face flushed in a pique of rage over incompetence and horrid customer service? (Oh, everyone?  Sorry, I always forget what's undoubtedly going to happen until it's too late and it would be rude to hang up.)

This is roughly my totally unbiased best recollection of the exchange between me and Sharon* in the billing department of a local hospital.  The parts in pink are not things that I actually heard out loud, and may not be in any way based upon reality but I'm pretty sure this is what was going on inside Sharon's head.

Sharon = Local Hospital, this is Sharon, how can I help you? *internal giggle* I'm totally not going to help you.  I will laugh at your problems and tell all my friends about you when I discuss Crazy People I Deal With.

Kelly = Hi Sharon, I'm so glad I get to speak with you today.  I'm having a bit of a problem and I hope you can help me.  Hi, yeah.  I've been dealing with this PROBLEM that you 100 percent caused for six months and I just got off the phone with the collections agency you sent me to and they sent me back here and you need to fix this.

Sharon = Name and date of birth please. Awesome, a really mad woman.  I haven't dealt with a really mad woman since my last phone call.

Kelly = Here is the pertinent information and I will not put it on my blog because I'm not retarded. But for the record, we are dealing with Ezra's speech therapy.

Sharon = So what can I help you with? Please, yell at me a little while I have no recourse because your issue is with company policy and not anything I can change in one phone call.

Kelly = Well, in August we started speech therapy through Early On.

Sharon = Early On, the state funded program that supplies ten FREE therapy sessions for children in Michigan but only at two locations, both of which are about 20-30 miles from your home something you are obviously still a little bitter about?

Kelly = Yes, Sharon, FREE therapy that you billed 1. my insurance company for and 2. me for because you didn't process my paperwork in time. You know, the ONE HUNDRED TWENTY DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS for ONE HALF HOUR of speech therapy for a two year old? (This last information exchange totally never happened.  It's a little writing technique where I make stuff up to creatively supply you with the applicable information you need in an entertaining way.)(You're welcome.)(Sharon and I both know all about how Early On works and what it is for.)(But Sharon doesn't know how far the therapy was from our home.)(I threw that in for free.)(Just kidding, Imma send you a bill for $120.50)(And *that's* how a gangsta makes money.)

Sharon = Let me look up your account while I roll my eyes at my coworkers because you can't see me anyway. And I know you are already steaming but $120.50 ain't a thing in the medical world.  Honey, $120.50 is the price of four Tylenol, as long as they are administered by an RN.


SHE TOTALLY PUTS ME ON HOLD.


Sharon = It looks like Anita* contacted us in September about this. Poor Anita.  I hope you were nicer to her.

Kelly = Anita, the receptionist in the speech department who is awesome, did contact you in September about this.  And twice in October.  And in November.  And three times in December. And when the January statement sent me to a collections agency, Anita apologized to me because although we have not been a patient there in months we have talked on the phone regularly and she is as puzzled as I am about this whole situation. And yes, I was nicer to Anita because I am generally a really nice person except when this mess has dragged on as long as it has and because the collection agency already told me the real problem and I am beyond pissed about it. But I am champing at the bit because you are about to act like you fixed everything and I know better.

Sharon = It looks as though you don't owe this money and we are just waiting for a refund. Chill out lady, I found the answer.


THIS IS MY FAVORITE PART OF THE WHOLE SITUATION.


Kelly = Yeah, I talked to Amanda* at the collection agency about that.


GET READY.


Kelly = So, we are in agreement that I do not owe this money, right?

Sharon = Yes.

Kelly = And we are in agreement that I should not ever pay this money, right?

Sharon = Yes.

Kelly = Then please clear it off my account, and tell collections to leave me alone.

Sharon = I can't do that. We are waiting for Aaron* - who is an employee at this hospital and works in our billing department - to issue a refund to your insurance company, then your account will be cleared. Woo-hoo!  Everything's cool!  We can all go away happy!

Kelly = So.  Let me be clear (Presidential quotes, now they know I'm legit). You are saying that until the Big Business Hospital refunds the Big Business Insurance Company for the $120.50 they wrongly paid for the first therapy session in which you wrongly charged them, which was totally a mistake on both sides that has nothing to do with me, I am being sent to collections for a bill I do not owe.

Sharon = Yes.

Kelly = And you are not going to take this $120.50 off my account, effectively charging me for your clerical error and incompetence.

Sharon = I can't clear your account, no.

This is when I requested a manager and was told that all three managers (Melvina*, Sheryl*, and Danni Ann*) were out on a lunch break.  At the same time.

And then I lost my stuff.

On the bright side, I totally got my heart rate to hover in the upper 100's long enough to consider this phone call a cardio session.  Because that's how exercise works. Maybe Sharon is the new Jillian.  30 Day Shred - Customer Service Edition.

*totally their real names.  All of them.

Calf Update

"Ok Kel.  Get back to running.  It's time to
moooooove it."

Remember the horrific calf injury that kept me from running for five whole weeks?  The one that necessitated I spend all day in my pajamas and drink real Coke for breakfast during my pity party?  The one that kept me sidelined during the most calorie-laden season of the year?  That calf injury?  Well, it's been five weeks and I tried out some running.  How's my calf doing?  It's vealing fine, thank you very much.



Because I really, really, really want to avoid re-injury, I decided my first post-injury run would just be the scheduled workout for week one of the Couch to 5K program.  It took every ounce of humility I had to get on the treadmill at the gym and run one minute intervals.  As we've previously established, every person at the gym is there with one unified goal: To watch me workout and judge my progress.  It killed me to get on the treadmill and run sloooowly for one minute when I am obviously a super svelte hardcore athlete.

Thankfully, because I'm not a heathen, I know my Bible and it tells me "Pride goeth before a fall". I'm pretty sure that what the good Lord meant by that wisdom was that if I was going to let my pride dictate my first post-injury run by jacking up my speed and distance, then I would surely and quite literally fall in a torrent of agony as my calf strained again which I would communicate in the most dramatic of YouTube worthy ways. And falling off the treadmill all broken and wounded and writhing in pain would have been way more embarrassing than running one minute intervals at 5.2 mph.

Still, I was completely unprepared for these feelings of inadequacy. Don't worry, however; I am an adapter.

The first thing I did was make sure my t-shirt was on full display.  This conveyed that not only had I already participated in a 5K, this particular 5K was also THE WARRIOR DASH.  I was way above the ranks of a normal runner; I could also crawl through mud and leap over fire.  This made me feel a little better.

Next, I picked some fights with people in my head who were not looking at me in the mirror opposite us which was proof they had already seen me and deemed me a poser and unworthy of their time.

Then I felt bad because I'm not a mean person who assumes the worst of others and these sweet people I had so rashly judged were just really focused on the televisions that face the cardio equipment.  Wheel of Fortune was on (and who wouldn't be altogether mesmerized since they now offer a grand prize of $35,000?).

Finally, I decided the back stories of all the people on the machines around me.  The lady on my left was flying on her treadmill (seriously, I think it's really rude to look at someone's speed but I totally did it anyway but had I looked I would've seen she was running around 9 mph.  That's about a 6 and a half minute mile).  The obvious conclusion was that she was doing a tempo run because no one runs that fast on a regular run.  But then I realized I was, in all likelihood, running next to a professional athlete who was just killing time at my gym before going into hyper-training mode for the summer Olympics in 2016.  (Rio, Baby!) I probably should have gotten her autograph. Or at least some training advice.

"Must ... get to ... the top..."

The man on my right was on the incline trainer, and not only was he seriously inclined, he also practiced the loudest exhale in the history of the universe. Ever.  He was no doubt in training to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, and needed to perfect his breathing in order to conquer any altitude sickness he might encounter.  I was in awe of his plans and drive.  I could never climb Mount Kilimanjaro because I have four kids and can't afford that mess. (This is when I started rapping -in my head- "Lose Yourself" by Eminem because "food stamps don't buy diapers, and it's no movie, there's no Mekhi Phifer, this is my life" and even though I've never been on food stamps this lyric is about being driven and providing for your family and I can totally relate to that which is proof that I'm so thug.  Logic = there it is.)

By the end of my workout I had gone the distance of about 2 miles.  It felt fantastic.  I was encouraged not only by a calf muscle that held up but also by the greatness that surrounded me.  And that is why you should train with champions.

Now Accepting Tim Horton's Gift Cards in lieu of Get Well Cards

June 27th was a good day.  I hope you enjoy it the second time around.  Happy (almost) vacation to most of you  some of you  me!

Here is the reposting of My Siamese Twin and I Have a Special Connection.

Me and Ezra.  If we were elephants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We make awesome neighbors.

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

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.

Dude, where's my royalties?

I thought I knew the sound of my own voice.  As a voice major I spent 4 and 1/2 years recording myself vocally and listening to it back to critique every breath, pitch, nuance, and inflection I could pick up on.  I never say, "Is that really what I sound like?" after hearing a play-back from a voice mail message I've left, or watching old home movies. The sound of my voice (outside of my head) is just already weirdly familiar.

Imagine my shock when I got a small sample of how my children perceive my voice.  It sounds exactly like this:

This is the only logical explanation for why phrases such as "FLUSH THE POTTY" or "HANG UP YOUR COAT" go consistently unheeded.  Those directives are full of individual words I am quite sure already exist in their vocabularies;  I'm even thoroughly convinced that the specific combination of those individual words have clear meaning to the little munchkins.  So clearly something must be wrong with the sound of my voice.

The Peanuts corporation has apparently been stealing the sound of my voice for years.  In fact, this is such a gross case of theft that it began before I was even born.  I'm pretty sure I'm going to sue them, because at this point I'm due millions in royalties.  That's right, millions.  (Pain and suffering and all that.)  I plan on using some of my winnings to hire an interpreter for my children so that when I talk there will be no further confusion over what I am actually communicating.  And by interpreter, I probably mean Super Nanny will come live with me and school all those involved.  Or I'll buy an ice cream truck and employ a healthy dose of the reward system to encourage the kiddos to get on board and learn how to speak Mama Nag.

This might end up being a class action lawsuit, so if you or anyone you know may have had the sound of their voice stolen and used in the Peanuts comic, contact me to see how you can get a piece of what you are owed.  Because everyone needs to be understood, but especially everyone needs their own ice cream truck.

Welcome to our Ool

Esther is standing in the shallow end of the pool.  She is concentrating very hard.

Kelly:  Esther, are you peeing?
Esther:  No.
Kelly:  Are you sure?
Esther:  I'm not peeing.
Kelly:  You look like you're peeing.
Esther: I'm NOT PEEING!
Kelly:  Good, because if you pee in the pool it turns purple.
Esther: (looks down) No it doesn't.

Gold Medal Knee Goatee

This is probably the single best picture of me ever
taken.  I might be doing my pouty face because I
haven't been able to fully develop my Vulcan
forehead ridge, which is a major fail in life.

I was probably a little negligent about grooming during the Great Cottage Get-Away of 2012.  My go-to hairstyle was a mom ponytail with an elastic headband, which had the duel benefit of making my infrequently showered hair stay a greasy mass on top of my head much prettier and keeping it out of my eyes while the slight breeze kept me cool while I was lazing on a chaise lounge chair at the beach.

The infrequent showering was solely the result of the fine bathing accommodations inside our cottage. Don't get me wrong.  I love, love, love the cottages we stay in. They are a part of my childhood with many good memories attached.  But I wouldn't be exaggerating if I implied that someone flushing a toilet three counties away turned my refreshingly tepid shower into a Scalding Waterfall from Hell.  Without warning.  In about .13 seconds.  Every few minutes.

Once you get used to this little idiosyncrasy you can anticipate it, which makes showering that much more suspenseful.  And that is fantastic, if you like excitement.  (And who doesn't like an exciting shower?  Anyone staying at the Bates Motel.)

The biggest problem with this acute temperature change is that when it occurs, there is nowhere in which to escape, because the shower stall was designed for garden gnomes to be a compact cottage-at-the-beach shower.  There is simply no place to run from the volcanic spew spouting from the shower head.  The most common avoidance technique is to stand on your tip toes in the corner, sucking in your gut like your yoga instructor frequently reminds you personally, praying "Dear God, make it end," as the splatter from the shower spray catches your feet and also maybe the slightly larger bumps in your belly that might stick out a tad (because you're a mother/ate too many cheetos/don't wear spanx in the shower)(also you are naked and vulnerable and possibly being boiled alive here, so stop dwelling on your belly, dude.)

You might consider beating the system by turning the hot water all the way off but this is apparently a magical shower that defies all laws of physics (or possibly just the laws of plumbing, I don't know much about either set of laws) and will persist with it's lava-like flow using only the cold pipes (until it becomes bored with the personal torment, abruptly ends the sauna treatment, and leaves you with an arctic blast to fully cement a lesson in contrast.)(This is now a shower with a personality.  And malicious intent.)

All this is to explain why I have a rockin' knee goatee.  When showering is that complex shaving your legs becomes a luxury, and you might try to shave a little at a time over the span of a few showers (because you are at the beach and as a courtesy to those you love you will want to attempt to not be a hairy beast)(unless that's how you normally roll, do your thang, girl).  It is after these few showers that you will discover you consistently miss the same patch of hair on your left knee.  That missed patch will leave you with an endearing little knee goatee that you totally get away with because it's south of your knee cap, looking like a shadow from a few feet away.  (But up close it's a soul patch that could rival Apolo Anton Ohno's.  In fact, in the spirit of the Olympic games, I bet your knee goatee could slightly edge out Apolo Anton Ohno in the Cute Little Patches of Hair Olympics, which I'm betting some of you just made dirty in your minds, pervs, earning a gold medal for unexpected patch existence.)

I'm pretty sure this can all be summed up as Poor Grooming = Gold Medal.  Or maybe not. Because, Ryan Lochte.

It was like war. But on vacation.

Don't mess with Samuel L.
Jackson.  Or me.  Because
we have HAD it...

My vacation was fantastic.  I missed you all terribly and tomorrow I will tell you a little bit about the fine time we had at the beach.  But today I need to tell you a story.  I figuratively can not keep it inside any longer.

No. Freaking. Way.  I can not believe this happened.  It's one of those things so gross and horrible that you can't look away. And?  I told you so.

First, if you aren't already a super awesome Member of my blog why not? read this.  Now, from the files of I Can't Believe This Happened ...

...We have been vacationing in the same cottages on the same beach of Lake Huron (a mere 1/2 mile from my triathlon) for about twenty years.  As a vacationing angst-ridden teen I stewed in the cottage listening to Soul Asylum's Runaway Train and Guns N' Roses Don't Cry on my walkman, flipping the tapes over and over until carpal tunnel dictated I take a break and watch Real World reruns on MTV while the rest of my (much less emo) family had fun on the beach or strolled into town for ice cream and/or antiquing.  My time at the cottage dramatically improved when I had children and was forced to discover how nice and sunny the beach could be. However, in twenty years we have never had any kind of lake issue.

Then I unintentionally started a war.  (Probably.  I mean my blog is pretty far reaching, so I can't completely rule out that somewhere in the Leech Empire a little Leech General has read my blog and knows I'm all "not in my neighborhood" about leeches and feels personally attacked.  I'm considering myself warned.)

I was trying on my sister's Warrior Dash t-shirt (which are suh-weet this year and I will be getting my own on September 15th - hoorah!) when Brian came up from the beach carrying Esther.  He had a very intense eyeball conversation with me that I totally didn't understand until I saw Esther's leg. Then I correctly translated the eyeball exchange as Brian telling me, "Kelly, it is your duty as a mother not to freak the heck out.  Draw upon every ounce of self-restraint and reserve of love you have for this child to put on your Nonchalant Face.  Because your four year old has a leech on her leg."

This is, undoubtedly, the sickest picture I have ever taken or posted.  Except for the bloody one that will soon follow.  Heads up.

All you "there are no leeches in Lake Huron" haters?  There are totally leeches in Lake Huron.  And since they can't get me, they are going after my kids.  Not cool.

This is the exact moment I heard Samuel L. Jackson (in my head - we don't usually vacation with Sam) speaking his famous R-rated Snakes on a Plane quote, except he totally said "leeches" instead of "snakes," and "beach" instead of "plane."

The first thing I did was grab my camera call for my brother-in-law, who is an EMT in Detroit and therefore obviously treats leech attacks on a daily basis.  Thankfully he backed up my mad Wikipedia knowledge and advised us to wait and let it fall off once it got full.  (*throw up in my mouth a little*)  Esther was a little uncertain about this plan, but Uncle Andy closed the deal with his informative and convincing, "It won't hurt.  Doctors use leeches in the 1800's at the height of their medicinal use mainly for restoring circulation."

Esther was very cool under pressure mainly because she had no idea what was going on.  We waited about a half an hour until the little sucker was definitely full.  The only problem was it didn't detach the way it was supposed to, Wikipedia.  Then Esther noticed there was blood now running down her ankle and realized we are a bunch of big fat liars when we implied things were cool with a leech just chilling out on your body, and that this leech was really feeding off her body and she had every right to go completely spazz nuts.  This is when she freaked out.

Just a little blood.  Caused by a leech wound.  No big deal.

Mama to the rescue (kind of)

Wikipedia (whom I no longer fully trust, FYI) suggested using your fingernails to break the vacuum the leech has on the skin, but since I'm not taking my iron I didn't have any fingernails to use.  (A great foresight on my part, I might add.)  Samantha from Cottage #6 came to the rescue with her gorgeous, long, strong nails and even more compassionate heart.  She plucked the leech from Esther, earning Esther's never-ending love and my own special brand of hero worship thankfulness.

The moral of the story:

1.  You should obsessively research every paranoia you have because that info might will absolutely be put to use someday when you are fully ambushed by leeches.

2. Bite your fingernails.  If you don't you might be called upon to remove a leech from a preschoolers leg.  Which sucks.  (Haha - sucks.  Get it?)

P.S. I've been keeping my eye on Esther, since my main concern with leeches was always Weird Leech Disease, which I'm pretty sure turns you into a vampire.  But since she's a four year old girl, it's kind of hard to discern if she's sparkling because she's now immortal, or if she has been playing with her glitter headband.  But my Vampire Radar is on, so you can relax.  You're welcome.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

Turns out no one knows.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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