BEPRSNT

Old:  [ohld] adjective, old·er, old·est OR eld·er,eld·est, noun

1. far advanced in the years of one's or its life: an old man; an old horse; an old tree.
2. of or pertaining to the latter part of the life or term of existence of a person or thing: old age.
3. as if or appearing to be far advanced in years: Worry had made him old.

I think one of the key signs of aging is that it becomes a job to keep up with pop culture. When I was younger, pop culture was something I inherently understood; what was cool was cool to me, what was fashionable I incorporated with relative ease, and I recognized new artists before they hit Top 40 radio.

Lately I've been noticing this all change.  Sure, I'm still pretty awesome for 34, but that awesomeness takes a lot of time and effort.  Often, even after all the research and development that comes from HOURS on Pinterest I find myself befuddled at the appeal of many of today's most popular styles, music, and technology.  Conclusion?  I'm getting Old.

Recently I was out with the kiddos and came across a vanity license plate that said "BEPRSNT".  I immediately sighed and grew tired.  I mean, it obviously read "Bep-re-zhent" which was surely some kind of new hip-hop Pig Latin for "represent" that was going to take me hours on Urban Dictionary to decode.  I'm pretty fluent in hip-hop* which alone is a foreign language, but to add some kind of funky Pig Latin twist (never mastered as a child)(so ashamed)(on what foolishness did I waste my youth?) just seems cruel. Cut a suburban mom some slack, homie. (I'm thisclose to being current with most my phat knowledge.)

*I'm not at all.

OLD.
Ice Cube knows what I'm sayin'.

It was while I was feeling overwhelmed at the prospect of adding "mastering weird Pig Latin hip-hop hybrid" to my already full to-do list that 10 year old Eve chimed in from the back seat.

"Hey, Mom, check out that license plate.  BE PRESENT.  You know, like live in the moment.  Don't worry and stuff.  That's cool."

Bep-re-zhent.  Be present.

Two kinds of people.

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!

Brain Dump and the Apocalypse

Approximately five times a day Brian does something both hilarious and inappropriate and then smirks, "Put *that* in your blog."  This is maddening and is one of the few things that makes me wish I blogged anonymously.  Because then? All bets are off, Babe.

I tried on nine pairs of shorts at Plato's Closet yesterday.  Plato's Closet is a used clothing store for teens and 34 year old SAHM's who have lost 100 pounds who want to update their wardrobe for cheap.  As my weight has dropped I find I'm more interested in fashion, and Plato's Closet allows me to try new styles without a big monetary commitment.  My newest discovery is that among the young adult crowd, the most popular accessory to go with shorts is your vagina.  I'm thinking of opening my own used clothing store where all the shorts are still hip without exposing you to too much of mine.  I'll call it "Not Too Hip".  I'm sure it'll take off.  That mess is marketing gold.

I went on a bike ride this morning on my new baby:

Selfie because everyone was still asleep.
#superhardcoreathlete

Sarah helped me get it for my birthday and it is such an improvement on my old ride. (Which is a mountain bike that I still love for trail riding.  This is a road bike and is sooooo much lighter and a significantly smoother ride.  For those that speak cycling it has hybrid tires because I'm clumsy.)

Even though I chose those handlebars my left hand still started to tingle around mile ten (because the pressure plus my tendinitis can make my hands go numb), and when I waved to a car to give them the right of way it was like I had turned into a mannequin.  Or Miss America.  Either way my wave was awesomely stiff and I stared at my hand in wonderment as I tried to make a fist and giggled when I realized I probably looked really high to the average bystander.

The real reason for this post is that all you lovelies that follow me on Google Reader are about to LOSE ME FOREVER.  It's like the apocalypse for bloggers.  But you can follow me another way.  I've chosen Bloglovin' to keep track of all the blogs I follow.  You can do that, too.  You can also follow me on Facebook.  I update my Sublurban Mama status every time I post, so you can still keep up with all the vital life information I dole out regularly.  You're welcome.

How to Survive a Nice Dinner Out with Four Children (Alternate title: CAN'T WE BE CLASSY JUST ONE FREAKING TIME?!)

Here is the scenario: A gorgeous mother of four darling children is celebrating her thirty-fourth birthday.  Dad is a skilled short-order cook, but is currently unable to commit to the preparation and presentation of a proper birthday meal. The decision is made to dine at a restaurant to commemorate this historic event.  It will happen something like this.

1. Mom will have a hella hard week.  Probably she is exhausted because it's the second official week of summer and her kids are driving her absolutely bananas with their excitement, constant flutter of Summer Bucket List activity, and general non-stop bickering. She will be asked where she wants to eat eleventy billion times by a well-meaning husband, and finally realize that all she really wants is for someone else to make a decision and take the initiative so she doesn't have to.  This lasts until she disagrees with the decisions and initiatives taken, and realizes that all along she really, really, really wanted to eat at her (formerly unbeknownst) favorite Italian place in the whole entire world.

Interior of the actual restaurant, courtesy of
the Internets.

2. All day Mom will look forward to a nice dinner out.  She will be singing the Happy Dinner Out song that goes something like this: *insert joyful dance* Don't have to cook toniiiiiiight! *twirl* Don't have to clean uuuuuuuppppp! *leap* Someone else has to refill ALL THE DRINKS! *jazz hands*

3. Mom knows that this restaurant is very popular, and does not want to wait 45 minutes for a table with four children. She has several minor anxiety attacks about getting there at the exact right moment to avoid any kind of wait.  In the parking lot she will sprint from the car (leaving hubby behind to get the kids inside alone)(because it's her birthday and she's allowed to) only to wind up behind another party of six who got the last indoor table available for at least twenty minutes. No biggie; sure, they can totally eat outside. (Total disclosure: maybe Mom accepts this change of plans with a touch of passive aggressive disappointment showing on her face.)(Because apparently the hostess has a magic power that will spontaneously open up a full restaurant if Mom looks a little upset with the seating arrangement.)

4.  Outside the seating is fully shaded, but two round tables have been shoved "together" to make a table of six.  This is awkward, but the five year old will both distract Mom from her disappointment at the seating and announce the families' presence to all the other patrons with her observation of the statuary.  "MAMA!  WHY IS THAT STATUE NAKED? I CAN SEE IT'S TUSH!"

5. Once settled, the two year old will take one look at those reading the menu and declare "chicken" four thousand times in a row.  Mom doesn't mind the first two thousand, because with his speech problems, the word chicken is the result of $10,000 worth of therapy months of hard work. Once the two year old is assured that Mom and Dad and his three sisters and everyone in a twenty foot radius fully understands that he wants CHICKEN, he will move on with his next request: APPLESAUCE.


6.  Everyone will choose salad as their starter (because it is hot and you are eating outside and soup just won't do today) and four out of five will choose the House Ranch which is apparently like the nectar of the gods.  The kiddos will think nothing of dipping their fingers in the dressing and licking it off because why chance that some of that salad dressing might be tainted by the taste of lettuce?

7. While waiting for the main course a musician will begin setting up shop five feet from the table.  The children will all be fascinated, which is awesome, because the homemade bread is taking it's sweet time to journey from the kitchen to the bellies.  As the musician (a middle-aged man) is setting up a synthesizer, microphone, and a mandolin he will smile and wave at the kiddos repeatedly, leaving them delighted and Mom wondering if he ever babysits on the side.  And also if that's a creepy and dangerous thing to consider.

The five year old cannot wait for the music to begin, and spends time wondering what songs this man might deliver.  Will it be *she starts singing*

Here we go back, this is the moment

Tonight is the night, we’ll fight 'til it’s over

So we put our hands up like the ceiling can’t hold us

Like the ceiling can’t hold us 

"Because that is totally mom's jam!" While hubby gives Mom the stank eye for exposing the children to great music, Mom argues in song,

Raise those hands, this is our my party

We came here to live life like nobody was watching.

8. It's a good thing nobody is watching because if they were they would see bizniss get real when the food is delivered.  Hubby will regale the kids with his reenactment of the mouse chef from Ratatouille as he tastes his dish. The two year old will freak the heck out every.single.time. a breeze blows and the sunshade billows toward the table at which he is sitting.  He is probably convinced the wall is moving and is going to kill his Mama.  The eight year old food allergy kid will unwrap her foil covered hot dog and everyone will giggle when they see she wrapped it tighter than Fort Knox because apparently everyone at a classy Italian joint is going to be tempted to steal a Hebrew National fresh from the microwave and she is just protecting her property. 

9. The real magic will happen when all the girlies have to use the facilities.  One might think they have experienced all the trauma that can occur with taking little ones to a public restroom, and have taken precautions with the following rules:

     1. Do not talk about Mom's underpants.

     2. Do not ask if Mom is "doing a 1 or a 2".

     3. Do not comment on the sounds or smells coming from other stalls.

     4. Do not peak under the stall to "visit" our neighbor.

But having those rules in place will do nothing to prepare one for a comment from the child squished in a tiny stall with Mom who might have just discovered a new way to describe certain parental southern landscaping.

Oh.my.lanta. 

Oh, and Happy Birthday. 

Case of the Mondays: Livin' on a PRAAAAAYER

Because I'm such a super hardcore athlete (remember when I won the X-Games?) my weekends are frequently filled with trail rides, extreme suburban runs, lifting, and swim practices where I pretend sharks are chasing me.  So it should come to no surprise that this happened ...

... while I was trying on clothes at Kohls.

Today is truly a Monday.  In every sense of the word.  I plan to survive it by incorporating as many dance breaks as possible.  Like this sweet couple here.

Happy Monday er'body.

Stanfield and Gerrard in 2016 and Celebrating a National Holiday

Firstly, welcome all you beautiful new faces! I'd like to thank the Academy, namely Holly and Jake, for the prestigious award for my Letter to My 21 Year Old Self contributed to their link up.  It has been cuh-razy cool to see so many new readers.  Two days after Holly mentioned the winners in her blog and my blog traffic is still way up.  After seeing that kind of action I want to officially register my nomination: Stanfield and Gerrard in 2016.

(I went back and forth about this and feel good about my decision to list Jake as VP.  This was mostly because I'm pretty sure the first thing Jake would do in office is star in his own reality tv show - a snarky Big Brother-like (no, the other Big Brother) take over of Cabinet Meetings, where major governmental decisions are decided by Minute-to-Win-It style gaming - because who *wouldn't* do that? - whereas Holly would be using her superpower nice girl skills to usher in world peace except for the nasty ladies at Blissdom, they aren't invited to world peace   unless they apologized and then I'm sure Holly would forgive them and even buy them a Miller Lite because that's how nice girls role.)

In other national news, thirty-four years ago today, a baby girl was born. She weighed 7#11 oz, which would foretell of her love for 24 hour access to snack food.  Her mother would want to name her Jayma Pauline (not only a feminization of both the first names of the grandfathers, but also a step closer to a future residing in a trailer park) but in a rare exhibition of rationality her father would declare her name to be Kelly Suzanne.

Yep.  I'm 34 years old today.  Because of that I'm phoning it in today.  I'm sleeping in a little later, staying in my jammies a little longer, and maybe, just maybe, I'll "White Trash Wednesday"-it up and return the pop bottles, using the deposit money for a People magazine and an Iced Capp*. Don't get too jealous, y'all.

(*this just became the most midwestern blog ever.  For all you outside of Michigan, soda is really called pop.  When people in Michigan return their pop cans to the store they receive ten cents a piece for them.  It is a sticky and disgusting job, and I usually put it off until I have at least three garbage bags worth to return. So today should be fun.)

I also fully plan on my food diary looking something like this:

Because ... cake.

If you haven't gotten me a gift yet, it's totally not too late to follow me on Bloglovin or Facebook.  You could also follow me via Google Friend Connect, but that is going away in a couple weeks, so let's make you and me a permanent thing right now.

Follow me on Facebook here.

Follow me on Bloglovin by clicking this fancy button:

Thanks, y'all; you shouldn't have! (But I totally love it, so thanks so much!)

A Case of the Mondays: I love it when you call me Big Poppa

Eve, Hosanna, and Brian (2006)

Happy Father's Day to the Best Father I could dream for my kids. *Kanye takes over my blog* "Yo Kelly, I’m really happy for you…Imma let you finish. But Kim has one of the best baby daddies of all time! One of the best baby daddies of ALL TIME!"

We had a great day yesterday, and it couldn't have ended any better than me overhearing this conversation between Brian and the oldest of the three girls he has given me.

Eve to Brian: Hey Papa, in about two years I'll be able to have babies! *Proceeds to tell him about menstruation*

Happy Father's Day, honey.