A Lesson in Acoustics. Oh, and Sex Education.

It's rare I get one child all to myself; usually I have all four kiddos or some variation of the majority of them. So it was a pretty awesome discovery to realize that it was just Hosanna and I going to hear the Voices of Liberty inside the halls of the American Adventure at Epcot during our Disney vacation.

A quick note about Hosanna: she is by far my quietest child, but when she is alone with mom or dad the girl does.not.shut.up. It's like she's saved every scrap of every thought she has had since the last private conversation and unleashes it wildly without a breath or beat to spare. This is both precious and exhausting. It is hard for me to process so much input in such a short amount of time, which is why I concentrate on being an attentive listener, which is just a fancy way of describing how I let Hosanna deliver her monologue uninterrupted while maintaining eye contact and nodding to encourage her. (Parenting: nailing it.)

Our American Adventure Voices of Liberty date was no different. She chattered away, telling me all about the television show she had been watching recently. It was a reality show on TLC about a family who wanted children but had trouble having them because "the dad was missing something...or didn't have enough of something... (oh.my.lanta. MOVING ON) but then they found a doctor who found someone who had enough of what the dad was missing and the couple was able to have not only one baby but FIVE babies!" Hosanna told me alllllllll about this family as we waited for the a Capella group Voices of Liberty to sing*.

*Nerd Fact= I majored in music. Specifically, voice. So I may have been a little pumped to finally hear this renowned group sing in the space especially designed and known for it's perfect acoustics. What are acoustics? Acoustics are the way sound behaves in an enclosed space. Some acoustics will deaden sound, some will carry it. The acoustics in the dome of the American Adventure were designed so that a group of eight singers could sing patriotic songs without microphones and be heard perfectly all around. Translation: sound carries fabulously and vibrantly.

Voices of Liberty? Were dope. We sat right inside the domed shell and enjoyed every single note. Yeah, I found the girl that sings my voice part and yeah, I could have fit in her costume if I had boobs, so I'll definitely have that job someday. (I'm pretty sure that's how they cast those parts, right?) Hosanna kept leaning towards me to tell me something in between each song, but the flow was pretty steady, what with it only being a fifteen minute concert, so she never managed to get it out. She was almost bursting out of her skin as we listened to the final song, desperate to tell me the one last little thing that was on her mind.

She held it in as the last notes died and the applause began, and, to her credit waited until the applause stopped and I was wiping the tears of emotion from my eyes (because I love a Capella music and 'Murica) before blurting, "IT WAS *SPERM*, MOM. HE WAS MISSING HIS SPERM."

And the perfect acoustics of the perfect dome in the perfectly magical land that is Disney carried that sweet little message to everyone in the room.

You're welcome, Disney World.

Elephant Noises Optional

This poor guy spent his birthday at Urgent Care ruling out strep throat. I've since promised that we can extend his birthday as many days as he wants. I don't know exactly what that promise entails, but I'm sure I can count on the request for burritos for dinner for the entirety of the week. Also, because he's sick and I'm totally in loooooooove with the man, I will probably make him that pretzel/cream cheese/jello dessert thing he loves even though I totally already slaved away for hours over the Sara Lee frozen cheesecake we initially celebrated with.

Happy 36th Birthday, Babe. You are my favorite person in this whole world. There is no one I would rather laugh with. You've kept life fun from the moment I met you. Anyone whose first order of business as a married man is to declare we each need wrestling names (because of course there will be wrestling)(I still firmly believe you needed a sibling growing up) is a keeper in my book. Thank you for always supporting me, for being a wonderful papa to our little monsters, and for letting me spend your paycheck (#iain'tsayingsheagolddigger) being my best friend. Love, Captain Top Rope

As well as being Brian's birthday, yesterday was also another weigh in day. This was my first weigh in since adding in "lifting heavy." I did the same workout on Friday and Sunday that I did with Kemper on Tuesday. Because of Brian's work schedule, the only time I can make the gym on Friday is 4:30 a.m. This worked to my advantage as I was totally freaking out of my mind about being on that side of the gym by myself. I figured going in that early would make it a little easier. I was halfway right.

I started my workout with a five minute treadmill warm up. Since I didn't bring my iPod I could hear everything around me. Normally I am fully plugged in and channeling my inner rock star, but I didn't want to lug it around with me so I went au natural. I'm so glad I did.

This appeals to the mom side of me
so much. 

Lifetime Fitness in the evening is pretty busy. Consequently, it's a bit loud. They have music playing overhead, but you really have to purpose to hear it over the din of so many people. Lifetime Fitness at 4:30 a.m. is no where near as busy, but I was surprised to see around 30 people greeting the sunrise by breaking a sweat. There were about five men lifting on Friday. I'm calling them the Rack 'Em Symphony Chorus (SERIOUSLY?! THAT IS THE BEST DETROIT MUSIC SCHOOL NERD JOKE I'VE EVER MADE.)(I seriously had to take a blogging break because I had to make a mental list of everyone that would love that joke.)(All six of them are getting links to this post.)

The Rack 'Em Symphony Chorus is really a trio (and two quiet dudes) who are the most vocal lifters I could ever imagine. The first, obviously a bass, grunts in staccato bursts. He is not only picking the key, but keeping the beat. The second, in true baritone form, fills in with constant yells of "YEEEAAAAAHHHHH," just to keep the sound big. And the final man, my obvious favorite, is the tenor soloist who, I'm not even kidding, made sounds like an elephant.

I wished I had a program to see where they all studied.

My new mission in life is to see where I can fit in, making their trio a quartet. I think we could make big money doing weddings.

Mine are actually black
and pink. source

As far as the lifting goes, I did really well. I bought my own wrist wraps from some Crossfit type store on line and they are doing their job. My favorite part of the whole experience was when I was done waiting for the leg press, the guy who was finished attempted to take off his weights (because his mama didn't raise no dummy and taught the boy to re-rack that mess) and I was all, "That's cool. You can leave it all," because I am a rock star bad A who was lifting the same amount as him.

Then I traded all my cool points for poor form on my dead lifts, but don't worry, I youtubed dead lift form this weekend and also talked to Kemper on Monday, so I think I'm okay.

Weigh in verdict? One week "lifting heavy" - I lost FOUR AND A HALF pounds, and 1.7% body fat. Some of that is because I gained .5 pounds last week, but most of it is a solid loss earned this week. I'm a believer.

Case of the Mondays: Welcome to the New Age

Some of you may find it a surprise to hear I have a fairly active imagination. (Haha - sike. That's called sarcasm.) Lately most of my daydreams have been supported by the soundtrack of Imagine Dragons and their hit Radioactive. I'm pretty convinced you could never top the original, but I found this version by Lindsey Stirling and Pentatonix and it is some stiff competition. It makes my music school nerd heart leap. Also, this song has brought me the realization that I have the fiercest runway walk ever. And I apparently wear a lot of leather pants in my head. You're welcome for that visual. Welcome to the new age, y'all.

Happy Monday!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Beat Goes On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Make You Less Miserable

Anyone can get a haircut, Anne.

On Saturday Sarah and I went to see Les Miserables.  As a former voice major I have spent my fair share of time being emo and performing "On My Own" and "I Dreamed a Dream" to the untold masses that gather to listen to me in my shower and minivan.  And while I do rock out some intense vibrato on the ascending "shame" line of "I Dreamed a Dream", I'll begrudgingly admit that maybe Anne Hathaway performed it a bit more convincingly than I.  Part of it had to be the costuming and makeup, but mostly somewhat slightly it had to do with her vocal chops and acting ability. (Seriously, she was amazing.  Not even ah-may-zing. Just, wow.)

I love Les Miserables because of the message of redemption.  It's a story of grace, and yes, revolution, which excites the warrior in me.  With this remaking I discovered it was possible to form an immediate crush on every dirty French revolutionary that sings (mainly because they are all young and attractive and have nice teeth despite the reality that that probably wasn't so) and also want to adopt a six year old boy who would doubtlessly give my own sweet Esther a run for her money.  I was pleasantly surprised by the performances and cried like a big fat baby through some of the scenes (effectively using my shirt to sop up the mess)(because I was too lazy to reach for the paper towel I brought from the bathroom for that very purpose).  Hugh Jackman was every bit as good as he was said to be, and Russel Crowe was aight.

However.

I came upon a clip.  Thank you, Internets.  I'm calling for an Oscar duel.  An Oscar duet duel, if you will.  Neil Patrick Harris and Jason Segel vs. Hugh Jackman and Russel Crowe.  It's on.

Facebook Friday: Alternate Occupations

This Facebook Friday is dedicated to Career Choice.  I am so blessed to be able to stay at home with my kiddos.  I don't take it for granted that I get to do what I love to do and be with my children every single day.  And night.  And while I'm trying to go to the bathroom.  And while I'm on the phone.  And while I'm trying to eat dinner.

However, sometimes I fantasize think about what I would do if I wasn't staying at home with the munchkins.  Thank the good Lord that I have all these facebook statuses that give me a few suggestions.  Here are some of my facebook statuses that highlight how I am clearly qualified to do many different things.

Phlebotomist.

Something about the care and precision it requires to be the designated Capri Sun Opener makes me feel like a phlebotomist.

Professional Talk Show Audience Member.

I hoped with every step inside Walmart that Oprah would show up and buy me the diapers ... except when I was in the checkout line, and then I hoped she would buy me the diapers and a Snickers bar.

This is not me.  But can you imagine how quickly my
kids would listen to me if it was?  "Eve, clean your
room."  Stuff would get done, y'all.

After tonight's episode of American Idol, I firmly believe my life would be cooler with pyrotechnics and a fog machine.

Music teacher.

7 year old Eve sang (with perfect intonation) the third, fifth, seventh, and octave above the sound of our neighbors leaf blower.  I think I teared up in pride.

Olympian.  Obviously.

Totally just medaled in the Awesome Olympics for making vegan shortbread cookies.  That's right, vegan shortbread cookies.  Best. Mom. Ever.

Criminal.  Like arresting the Easter Bunny.

If you ever want to know what it feels like to be treated like a criminal, just try returning something to Meijer without a receipt.  I almost offered to take a polygraph test.  Sheesh.

Activist.

Got out the Merck's Manual and looked under "Causes of heart attacks" for "Hey, Mom!  Watch me do a somersault down this fifteen foot high twisty slide" and it wasn't listed.  I'm thinking of writing the publisher ...

Schizophrenic.

My conversation at the grocery store.
"Ohhhhh, strawberries."
"No, they aren't in season.  We aren't paying $3.49 for a pound of strawberries."
"But they look so goooooooood."
"I know.  They've probably been grown somewhere warm and shipped a million miles to look that good."
"And they smell so good.  Please can we get them?"
"No.  That's enough.  Let's go."
Did I mention I was by myself?

Business Acumen = I have it.  Have a great weekend - see y'all Monday!

The Vicodin Diaries

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

Yep.

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

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

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

Let me back it up a smidgen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End.