The Cooperation Sweater

When I was in preschool, there was this cream-colored wool sweater that I hated with every fiber in me.  It wasn't particularly itchy.  It wasn't ugly.  It fit...mostly.  In the Vandersluis house, this sweater was called the Cooperation Sweater because it took a team of at least two or three to get it over my head.  You'd think that this sweater was something special, like a handmade Grandma gift or Dolce & Gabbana Kids, but no. It was just some sweater from a normal children's department that my mom happened to like.  That sweater probably should have been sold as a factory second, because the only person who could get his or her head into that would have to resemble Bert of Bert 'n Ernie.

I didn't often put up a fight at that age, but when I did, you knew I thought your actions were unacceptable.  I fought the Cooperation Sweater hard each time Mom tried to shove me into it.  Clearly, even at 5, I knew that jamming yourself into something you hate because someone else thinks it's perfect for you isn't right.  And it hurts your head.  My 5-year-old self was pretty smart, and if I'd continued to think that way into my adult life, I wouldn't have continued to squeeze myself into relationships, jobs, and lifestyles that just didn't fit.

I finally get it.  Fit really is a factor when determining what's right and wrong for yourself.  Trying to make a relationship work because, you know, "a bird in the hand" and all, isn't doing you any good.  The same goes for a job that pays well, but you wish each day during your commute that something major would happen to prevent you from having to go in to the office.  If you've really let things get out of control, the entire lifestyle that you'll living could be a poor fit.

In the last semester or so (6-8 months for the non-academics out there), I've made some drastic life changes that stemmed from realizing that my lifestyle and career plan we're like the Cooperation Sweater.  Like the sweater, my life looked good superficially - on my resume - but I just wasn't comfortable.  Even in the ideal work situation, where I worked at a company I love with people I love, I was still feeling like that proverbial square peg.  I started to feel trapped by my own lifestyle, which led to a minor freak out.  After that, I began to insist that my life progressed on my own terms.  Now, months later, I've never been happier.

It's scary when you realize that you need to demand the correct fit for your life.  But, believe me, it's far worse to continually work yourself into your own personal Cooperation Sweater.  The fit doesn't get better with time, so be brave and get a new sweater, boyfriend/girlfriend, job, or life.

Tinkerbell, Bonne Bell, and Other Influencers

When I was in preschool, there was a girl named Cindy who I was insanely jealous of because she was allowed to wear bright red lipstick when we played together.  As in, big girl lipstick that her mom got at Merle Norman.  Around that time, my little world began to revolve around cosmetics and how I could get as much of them as possible on me at once.

Mom gave in to my need...sort of.  I collected Bonne Bell Lip Smackers and Tinkerbell perfume, brush-on/peel-off nail polish, and banana cream lip gloss (I spent more time eating and reapplying that one than looking glossy, though) like it was my job.  You wouldn't catch me without my beauty supplies from the Bells, both Bonne and Tinker, in my sequined purse or Rainbow Brite bag.  It was the mid-to-late 80s, y'all.  Back then, things were wild and colorful, and we allowed children to wear cosmetics.

Then the 90s came along with grunge music and dark eyeliner which were both tempered by nail polish colors to match the rubber bands on my braces.  There were also a few years following that of bronzer, frosted lipstick, and roll-on glitter that we won't discuss further.

Luckily, I'm more of a Caudalie and Benefit girl these days, but my love and enthusiasm for cosmetics is still going strong.  I have a graveyard of partially-used beauty products under my sink to prove it, including every anti-aging product ever made because I got paranoid at 27 and thought I had wrinkles.  I'm so bad that I've moved through American, British, and French products and am now mesmerized by Korean skin care loot. In fact, my BFF Jess and I have decided to put our beauty obsession to good use and have launched a health and beauty conglomerate that encompasses our shared beauty interests, Jess' mad scientist chemist skills, and my health and wellness background as well.  We're off to Korea in a week or so to attend the Osong Cosmetics and Beauty Expo to start meeting with Korean beauty companies and get our foreign partnerships going for the beauty retail side of our business. More to come on all of that stuff when we're back from Korea.  


Sometimes when you need to figure out the next step in your adult life, it helps to reflect on what you loved as a kid.  Okay, so maybe not all things I loved translate, such as roller skating and setting fires; however, Tinkerbell and Bonne Bell contributed to the beginning of a life-long love, and I can't thank them enough.

(Image Credit)

The Fat Fitness Instructor: After Week 2

It’s the end of week 2 of my return to health, and I’m dropping weight, feeling energized, and am making the little adjustments needed to make clean eating work for me.  I still hate eggs.  The smell, taste, texture, ugh.  So I’ve modified lunchtime to not only get out of my egg rut, but to also avoid feeling overly full and like crashing after lunch.  Now, I make lunch an extended experience where I start with a piece of fruit (usually an apple) at 12:00ish.  Between 1:00 and 2:00, I’ll have light string cheese for some protein.  Between 3:00 and 4:00, also known as The Crunching Hour, it’s a bowl of dry Cheerios.  Finally, between 4:00 and dinner, I’ll have 1 ounce of raw almonds.  This way, I’m satisfied all afternoon but never over-full, and I’m getting in fruit, whole grain, and two sources of protein – dairy and nuts.

I’m an all or nothing kind of girl, so cheating isn’t really an issue for me when I’m eating healthy all the time; however, I wanted a little taste of something sweet Tuesday night – but not filling or too cheaty.  It was then that Eric tried to kill me with sugar free “candy” that’s main ingredient is sugar alcohol.  For the uninitiated, sugar alcohol is a terrible, horrible ingredient created solely to make people gassy and unfit for social contact.  He was just being nice, but he’s learned a valuable lesson.  In most cases, it’s not worth it to me to have some fake “diet” food version of a treat. When everyone talks about diet food not tasting good, they’re talking about this fake kind.  There’s no way someone could hate all fruits, vegetables, grains, nuts, and lean proteins.  Actually, productive diet food is real food that comes from nature and not a lab.  I preach this all the time, but this is the first time that I’m actually following my own professional advice and not falling into the fake food trap.

In addition to spreading out lunch and eating real food, I’ve started drinking more tea.  It’s warm, comforting, and satisfying in the way that often food can be.  Sometime eating is about comfort, so tea does the same thing for zero calories.  I’ve always been a tea person, but now I’m going through it like a champ.

I know it’s clichéd to say that this isn’t a diet, it’s just a different way of doing – but it’s true.  Whether you’re making a drastic change in your weight, or you’re just trying to find your way back to being healthy, it’s pretty hard to change your behaviors.  We all know what’s good for us – there are no secrets there.  We don’t have to change beliefs and our attitudes toward healthy food.  It’s about actually putting what we know into action.  And that’s the key to wellness.

Teacher, Mother, Secret Lover

So, I’m just sitting here, eating Cheerios from a baggie, toddler-style, and completing two year’s worth of online education in a few hours to renew my fitness instructor certification before it expires tonight.  I prefer to call it efficiency rather than procrastination.  The only other choice for renewal is retaking the initial certification test on physiology, biology, body parts, and whatnot.  I think we all know that’s not happening when I can just sit here with Cheerios and read PDFs of nonsense and take online quizzes set at a 3^rd grade reading level.  Will it really make me a more qualified instructor if I read three pages on obese fitness participants and their potential to drop out of exercise programs?  Did you know that being sedentary leads to weight gain which leads to disease and morbidity? Of course you did.  We all do. 

Forced education - like K-12, continuing education, professional training, and the safety demonstration before a flight – serves a purpose by getting us all on the same common sense page.  But what about education on the things that really matter to us? Things like ancient aliens, gypsy weddings, hillbillies, Amish people, and dealing with not knowing we’re pregnant.  Nothing sparks discussion in our household like TV shows that take the pulse of America.  We were watching TV last night, and a commercial came on for Abby and Brittany.  I heard Eric whisper, “So many questions,” as his eyes glazed over in deep thought. 

This information we learn from TV sticks with us better than anything from school.  I have been proven not to be smarter than a 5^th grader too many times for my liking. But, thanks to TV, I can consider myself essentially an expert on the paranormal because I’ve watched Ghost Hunters - domestic and international versions, Paranormal State, Ghost Bros, and Haunted Collector.  Without this televised education, I’d never be able to haughtily point out that entities feed on electromagnetic energy, like from air purifiers.  I can also put together information now, like gypsy brides are really just grown up glitz pageant girls and ancient aliens could have put the whole Amish faith system in effect when they landed during ancient times.

G.I. Joe once advised that knowing is half the battle.  Thanks to “The Learning Channel” and other cable classrooms, I’m full of knowledge and armed for whatever battle may come up.  Like trivia night at the bar. 

The Fat Fitness Instructor: After Week 1

Eggs. Eggs as far as my hungry mind’s eye can see.  High protein/low carb as a vegetarian is even more of a challenge than it is for the average Meaty Joe.  I’m a champ with fruits and vegetables - even beans and soy.  But beans have carbs, and tofu isn’t something you just throw in a pan and heat up for a snack.  In fact, tofu without any effort tastes like mucus.  Right about now, my mom would say, “Ugh, why can’t you just eat meat like a normal person? How about fish?” Eating meat “like a normal person” isn’t happening, so by day 3, I got a gigantic jug of whey protein powder and a thing of soy milk to put into smoothies.  Much better.

I’ve eaten lots of good food, and it’s been eye-opening to actually cook food.  I feel more of a connection to and responsibility for the food I’m putting in my mouth when I take the time to make it instead of getting prepared food from Wegmans.  I don’t love to cook, but I’m learning.  Also, following Jackie Warner’s advice, I’ve added nutritional supplements.

Yep, that’s a lot of pills.  And that’s only the morning ones. The supplements for the whole day are:

• Plant-Omega (Omega-3 Fish Oil substitute)
• Creatine Ethyl Ester HCL
• BCAA
• Multi-Vitamin-Mineral supplement
• CLA
• Ester-C (Vitamin C)
• Lifetime Fitness’ Lean Source

The supplements seem to be worth the effort, I feel more energetic with a higher protein diet, and working out is going just swimmingly.  I’m a fat fitness instructor, after all. 

While I’ve made progress and feel great, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows.  Eric has practically had to chain me up around Cake O’clock when all I want is a slice of red velvet.  Now, I’m like an addict in detox, and it’s comforting to know that the crazy sugar cravings will continue to lessen, and I’ll be able to find other, smarter, choices than convenient junk.

Small Rebellions

My life is defined by order.  Everything has a place, a schedule, and a packing algorithm.  Without this level of control, I would never be able to accomplish the many things that I can in a short about of time.  However, as will all efficient machines, I’ve got to let off a little steam sometimes.  This is done by way of small rebellions.  For example, I have three of Eric’s dress shirts and a pair of his pants hanging in my office closet, waiting to have buttons and a hem repaired.  Eric isn’t aware that I have absolutely no idea how to repair buttons or hems.  I considered taking them to my dear tailor Miss Joy and then not telling Eric I outsourced the job.  But that seemed dishonest.  Then I thought I’d look up tutorials online and do it myself.  Then I realized I didn’t particularly care if 3/17 of his dress shirts were out of commission for another week, and I grabbed a kombucha and watched Toddlers & Tiaras on demand.

Not only are those shirts and pants probably never going to be repaired (by me), but we’re also intentionally in violation of the homeowners association for the second year in a row.  This is, by far, the lamest form of badassery.  The first year of violations was mostly because the HOA used fancy architectural terms like “widow’s walk” that we didn’t understand.  So, we threw away the warning letter.  This year, though, it was more like, “We could fix that widows walk or…go to Norway.”  I think it’s obvious which we did. To be clear, our house isn’t falling apart and there are no cars parked on our lawn or anything.  This is the widow’s walk in question there over the front porch – apparently the ornamental balls are not regulation size and shape (It’s okay, I laughed at that sentence too). 

Sometimes, however, I rebel against my own good judgment and end up hurting myself to the point where I swear I’ll just be a rule follower and fall back in line with all the other good citizens.  I have a rather cavalier attitude toward contacts and eye care.  I wear monthly contacts for a few months, I use minimal contact solution, and I nap and often sleep with my contacts in.  A few weeks ago, I slept in my contacts. My eyes got redder and harder to see out of throughout the day.  Long story short, I damaged my left cornea.  When the eye doctor said not to wear contacts for a few weeks, I rolled my (damaged) eyes and got caught.  She threatened me with never wearing contacts again.  I have obeyed so far, but not pleasantly.  I wear my glasses when absolutely necessary, but I’m really vain.  Most of the time, I’m Mr. Magoo-ing around town without my glasses on, trying to look normal despite not being able to see a thing.  So, while I learned my lesson about eye care for now, I hope not to be taught another lesson for rebelling against glasses.

These small, mostly inconsequential, rebellions keep me (mostly) sane in my world of order and process.  Even the tamest of us need a little dose of defiance from time to time. 

The Fat Fitness Instructor

I’ve gone soft.  Not personality wise, of course - I’m ruthless.  I’m talking physically. Between work, school, social obligations, and everything in between, I’ve managed to gain weight in the last year.  You don’t have to feel sorry for me, though.  I’m naturally smaller than the average human, so I’m really saying I went from a 0-2 to a 4.  But this gain has been particularly hard for me.

I make no secret of my past with anorexia, disordered eating, EDNOS, and just abut anything in between except for bulimia, because I’m not here to ruin my teeth.  I’m more of a body image masochist than someone who makes a social statement, so I’m not trying to prove a point about feminine beauty either.  As much as I hate it, I’m a slave to that common view of feminine beauty.  Beyond all that social stuff, I’m being a terrible example to others who come to me for my fitness instruction and fitness expertise.  Not only am I studying health communication – with a focus on fitness – but I’m a certified fitness instructor as well.  After I started gaining weight, I gave up my fitness instructor position at a gym and I took a break from fitness advocacy and education.  Who wants to take advice from someone who’s going to go home and eat a piece of cake, Goldfish, and half a case of Diet Coke for dinner?

I preach wellness, strength, and inner peace through physical activity and clean eating, but I beat myself up over not following my own gospel. I’m the Dalai Drama of fitness these days, and I’m tired of being conflicted. But, now, also I’m a woman of action, and there’s no crying in weight loss.  I’m sharing my plan to get back to being a good example and back to teaching fitness classes again to help others in this situation and to have some kind of accountability to the great, vast Internet.  I’ve combined my own knowledge of fitness and nutrition with the incomparable Jackie Warner’s advice and my personal trainer’s advice to create a plan that I feel is actionable and not torture. 

Here are the basics:

Sugar bad; real food good.  If that’s not enough for you, read on.

A balanced diet fit for someone who is active must include lots of protein, a variety of produce, and complex carbs.  In between those elements come 80-100 ounces of water (100 for active people, 80 for inactive), herbal and green teas, and no more than two cups of coffee.  Every meal has a (1) protein, (2) quality carb (whole grain, for example), and a (3) fruit/vegetable.  So, breakfast would be something like eggs (protein), plain oatmeal (good carb), and blueberries (fruit). 

You’re looking to at least supplement (if not making replacements) your diet with whole, clean, real foods that haven’t been processed or had any chemicals or hormones added.  The protein situation gets a little more difficult if you’re a vegetarian like me, but there are tons of protein sources.  Same goes for the vivacious vegans out there.  Luckily, nutritious, whole foods are available to just about everyone, regardless of diet or disposable income.  You don’t have to go fancy, exotic, or organic. Just eat things that are found in nature.

I’m also a believer in juicing vegetables for a boost anytime throughout the day.  I love Blueprint Cleanse juices too, ladies, but while they are high-quality and delicious, they have a ton of sugar in each one.  I have a juicer, and it was a wonderful investment.  I make a simple green juice with romaine, cucumber, lemon, and ginger.  If you’re not into juices or things like kale smoothies, you’ll have to get used to the taste. It's worth it.

Eating throughout the day keeps your metabolism up, and it keeps your hunger at bay.  I’ve always felt my best when I’ve eaten a little bit every few hours.  The key with that strategy is eating a little bit.

For exercise, there’s nothing complicated here.  You need to get in at least 30 minutes of cardio 5 days a week, and 1-2 sessions of strength training.  The quickest and most interesting way to make cardio progress is with interval training.  This is where you vary your workout intensity.  For example, walk 1 minute, run 1:30 and repeat for the workout duration.  Strength training can be with free weights, resistance bands, on machines, using your own body weight, or with foam weights in the pool.  Strength training is important for two good reasons: (1) you get lean and lovely and (2) more muscle leads to a better metabolism.

Now, tomorrow morning begins my practicing what I preach.  Form a prayer circle for me.

The Day I Was a Mental Patient

Have you ever just needed a break? Some time to get rid of the stress and anxiety that makes you feel like you’re slowly losing your mind? I did. And I did it in the most extreme way possible, because I’m just that kind of girl.

I won’t bore you with the details of why my anxiety got out of control, mostly because they just sound like White Girl Problems when I say them out loud.  Regardless of the source of one’s anxiety, the important part is that there are psychological, physiological, and social ramifications of allowing anxiety to spiral out of control like I did.  I was gradually ruining my life and I was taking those closest to me down the rabbit hole as well. 

I’m genetically predisposed to panic attacks, but they tend to only rear their ugly heads about twice a year, and usually for a good reason.  My panic attacks began to increase in frequency a few months ago, and they were happening for no apparent reason.  I frantically told my therapist that I needed help.  I talked myself into thinking I was going crazy and that I was having a psychotic break.  My therapist encouraged me to make my own decisions about what needed to be done about getting back to feeling like myself – and I decided that what I needed was a trip to outpatient therapy at a local mental hospital.

When I imagined outpatient therapy, I saw a pool, spa food, and a lot of talking about my feelings.  Basically, I pictured celebrity-caliber drug rehab.  Outpatient therapy is nothing like that.  In fact, the other name for outpatient therapy is “partial hospitalization.”  My first day of treatment, I showed up to a decrepit old mental hospital that was clearly haunted. I sat in the waiting area before our day was supposed to begin, and others slowly filed in.  One woman stretched herself out across a plastic couch and proceeded to yip and yell things out.  Another woman mumbled to herself in the corner.  I sat there reading, trying to look like I was just waiting for a crazy friend.

When a nurse called me, we went up to the floor where we would be for the day.  We passed through a large room with people coloring and a woman dancing like Richard Simmons to the oldies radio station.  I was told to turn in my cell phone until “phone time,” and off we went for the in-processing interview.  Most of the interview consisted of the nurse asking behavioral questions and me saying, “What? People do that?”  She asked about impulsive behavior, and it made me think.  I started a Ph.D. program on a whim and I tend to be all like, “Let’s go to Norway tomorrow!” (that actually happened) – but apparently none of that counts.  It seems that impulsive behavior, no matter how weird and how much your parents and friends give you the side-eye, only counts if you can’t afford it.  Apparently socioeconomic status always reigns supreme.

Our morning group session was already in progress when I got out of the interview.  I grabbed a seat and a worksheet and tried to catch up.  The worksheet had questions about goals for the day, our feelings, and our “safety level.”  I figured that my goal was to figure out what this whole deal was about, and I guessed I was somewhat safe, making me a 5 on the scale of 0-10, 10 being safest.  Others around me talked with difficulty about their goals for the day – many of which were making psychiatry appointments and taking meds.  Group members tentatively rated themselves at moderate safety levels.  Everyone was kind and welcoming to me, and for that I was extremely grateful.  

The day continued with group sessions on various topics, and during the sessions, people were pulled out for social worker and psychiatrist appointments.  The group discussions were fascinating – these people were really hurting and they were scared for themselves and their own safety.  In one group session, we discussed anger.  I got to thinking that, sure, I get angry sometimes.  I had to take an online aggressive driving course a few years ago.  And I once threw a fit in a McDonalds when they were out of parfaits.  But by the time I focused back on the discussion, we were talking about punching through bulletproof glass, scaring family members away, and being arrested for angry outbursts.  They got to me and I had nothing interesting to add about my anger.  It was like that scene in Mean Girls when the girls are listing everything that’s wrong with their appearances and Cady says, “Um, I have really bad breath in the morning.”  While I was enjoying hearing people talk about their situations, I felt that I wasn’t really in the right place and that I shouldn’t have the privilege of hearing their stories.

Throughout the day, it because even clearer that I was not a candidate for “partial hospitalization.”  I felt like an imposter and almost like a field researcher as people yelled out, wandered the room, cried, danced, and discussed the breakdowns that had led them to the hospital.  I began to freak out all Girl, Interrupted style.  During phone time, I frantically texted my therapist to get me out of there.  I grabbed a nurse and pulled her aside telling her I needed to get out – these people were crazy.  In hindsight, I looked insane when I was telling the nurse how sane I was.  My panic escalated to its apex when we had our wrap-up meeting to plan for the weekend.  Most people’s goals were to stay safe and to have some form of social contact, like going to the grocery store.  I also learned that “safety level” didn’t mean something new-agey and warm and fuzzy; it was a scale indicating the likelihood that we would harm ourselves or others.  So, there I was, not knowing all day that those people around me with safety levels of a 2 or 3 were likely to hurt themselves or shank me with a color pencil.

I was so in over my head.  Being (partially) hospitalized is a new level.  Even the most calm, “normal” person would come out of a day of outpatient therapy having over-analyzed herself and thinking she may be crazy.  I left the hospital feeling shell-shocked.  However, I won’t lie about taking advantage of the mental patient status.  There is a sense of freedom and being able to do whatever I wanted because I was technically a mental patient. It was a license to be weird.  But, all good things must come to an end.  On Sunday, I notified the hospital that I wouldn’t be coming back. 

Though I skewed toward the dramatic by checking into an outpatient program for my anxiety, I learned valuable information from my day as a mental patient.  Most importantly, I learned that my anxiety – though sometimes emotionally and physiologically painful – is not in the realm of crazy. In fact, I’m not sure there’s really a solid definition for crazy.  For now, I’m going to go with neurotic and delightfully eccentric, or just Kelly.

Housewifing Gets Real

I’ve been given the wonderful gift of finishing up my last year in my Ph.D. by being a housewife-student.  Since school hasn’t started back up yet, I’ve only been the first part of the hyphenate…and it’s not quite what I imagined.  I thought being a housewife was going to be all watching TLC and being able to make microderm appointments for during the day.  I also thought that being a housewife meant wearing aprons and pearls and being afraid of being left alone with a serviceman. It turns out that it’s more like getting up sticky stuff and mystery crumbs while wearing yoga pants and a shirt from the 2009 National Book Festival, bear claw slippers, and hair that would make servicemen afraid to be alone with me.

I’ve made a pretty valiant effort at housewifing so far.  I get a bit of good karma each day for making Eric’s work lunches (including embarrassing notes so his friends will make fun of him).  Unfortunately, he sent me an email one day around noon to let me know his sandwich looked like this:

So maybe I should have coffee before making lunches.  I also tried couponing, thinking I could save our household some money, but the one I tried to use for $0.30 off Kashi bars wouldn’t scan, so I gave that up.

This has been pretty cool so far, but my worst fear is that staying at home and doing stuff around the house will lead me to become like the, ugh, other half of the Pinterest population.  Those are the pinners who, instead of swooning over shoes, vacation destinations, and interior design, are all like, “OMG, you can make your own laundry detergent?!” I d-o-n-apostrophe-t DIY.  In fact, I miss having an excuse not to cook or clean.  I also miss wearing real clothes and talking to humans.  All I get around here is conversation with Tater, and honestly, he’s either asleep or making this face:

He’s also very little help with research or dissertation planning.

Though my new workload is now a bit more physical –which is great because, you know, calories - it does allow me to watch Wendy Williams and be all “How you doin’” along with her to my 4^th cup of coffee.  Also, being at home really appeals to my OCD, because everything is now under my jurisdiction.  The dishwasher shall be loaded using the correct algorithm.  Laundry is done in the approved manner.  And, most importantly, only the raw, vegan, juiced, gluten-free – or whatever I’m feeling that week - meals will be allowed, since I feel fat and, therefore, Eric should too. 

We’ll see how things go this week when school starts and I feel compelled to actually do school work too.  Perhaps I’ll feel less like a neurotic waste of space? Probably not. It's part of my charm.

Things I've Done This Week Instead of Writing My Dissertation

1. I went through boxes from my parents' basement and found important stuff, like:

dance costumes from the early 90s;

a Nintendo from the mid-80s;

one of my many college IDs that I had to get since I insisted on tucking them into my underwear for frat parties instead of carrying a purse;

and a "He's Interested Trophy." Yeah, I don't know what that is either.

2. I baked and ate a lot of Wookie Cookies.

4. I altered Eric's clothing to fit Teddy.

5. I made a superhero cape for a friend's childhood stuffed dog.

 6. I posed the dog to look valiant.

7. I made my boss a felt viking hat.

8. I used up 10 more minutes taking pictures and posting about everything.

Journey to the Center of the Car

I do stupid things. Usually this is from either trying to do too many things at once or being flustered from trying to do too many things at once. One of the stupider things I’ve done recently is leave my giant purse open on the floor behind my driver’s seat. I hit the brakes on the way home from teaching a late class out in Prince William, so I figured that whatever the clacking sound that came after braking was Future Kelly’s problem and nothing I felt like dealing with that night.

The next morning, I was trying to find my cell, but gave up after it didn’t turn up in my purse, bedroom, home office, or any of the other levels in our house. I figured it was at work and stopped thinking about it. The phone didn’t end up being at work, so I was minorly concerned about having lost it. That night I figured I should search for it a little more. I eventually made my way out to the car, home phone in hand, to try calling it. Nothing. I went around the house again with the home phone. Nothing. I figured that every time I’ve lost something, it’s been under my driver’s seat. Even completely improbable things like hair brushes, jewelry, and spoons have made their way under the seat; which is really weird because I don’t store things in the car or have anything out of place in there.

I tried calling the phone and listening more carefully, contorting myself to fit squeeze down halfway under the driver’s seat. It was then that I heard a distant vibrating. Great, I left the phone on vibrate for class. Now it would take technology to try to find the phone.

After an hour of reaching, lifting, pushing, and getting bruised, I realized that I’d have to finally admit to someone that I had lost my phone…inside the car. As in deep in the bowels. I had learned enough on my recon mission to know that the phone had made its way into the iPhone-shaped hole that would have a one-in-a-million chance of swallowing a phone for anyone besides me. I figured my dad would be the best person to admit this to since he already bought a flexible, colonoscopy-type camera to shove into the depths of his car to find my mom’s wedding ring (that’s another story, indeed).

Dad and I aren’t known for elegant solutions. Vandersluises are fast and powerful kinds of people when we want to get a job done. For example, my dad bought a gigantic snow blower with a headlight that’s pretty much rated for Antarctic snow. He’s used it once for a legitimate reason, but otherwise uses it to clear the typical DC one inch of snow. So, anyway, we’re all about tools and impressive maneuvers for problem solving. We thought it was a brilliant idea to crow-bar up the carpet and then have me shove my arm down the vent. It didn’t work, and it hurt. We then tried driving up my parents’ steep hill and slamming the breaks to get the phone to move back toward the opening. None of this worked. That meant something worse than just getting a new phone – admitting what I (and my dad) had done.

When I got home, Eric spent three hours disassembling my seat and floor piece by piece in the garage. He then drilled a hole in the vent, narrowly missing the phone screen, pushed in a hanger, and propelled the phone out the vent surprisingly unscathed. He was sweaty, bruised, scratched, and displeased. And the driver’s side of my car was still all over the garage. The look he gave me after everything was back together and settled down was about equal to if he had found me at 30 years old with my head stuck in the stair railing. My husband thinks I’m an idiot, but at least he feels useful.

Attitude Adjustment

I was a pretty good kid growing up. I got in trouble in school a handful of times: (1) when I put cheese in the radiator in 1st grade to see what would happen, (2) when I wrote on the bathroom wall in 4th grade, and (3) when I laughed at the “Bridge of Puberty” in sex ed in 6th grade. Imagine my surprise at the end of 8th grade when out of nowhere the Teen Living teacher angrily pulled me aside while I was wrestling with stitching up my cow pillow and told me I needed an attitude adjustment. I was shocked – surely she couldn’t mean me. I tended to mind my own business and only do bad things on the sly. Teachers loved me. Her telling me I needed an attitude adjustment opened up a part of me that I’d never experienced before – pure, unadulterated surly teenage outrage. I’m not talking outrage like when my cousin peed on me for no good reason when I was five. This was a whole new kind of outrage that included distaste for authority. I became what she thought I was from that moment onward. I talked in class, I made terrible pancakes for our semester cooking project, and, honestly had an attitude adjustment.

Unfortunately, I adjusted my attitude in a way that left good, sweet Kelly far behind. Today, I’m a Kelly who isn’t very patient on the road, who is not particularly suited to difficult customer service activities, and who is easily irritated by people who try to create a disturbance in her perfectly orchestrated life.

The lesson here is that words can make a difference how we should be careful with those we influence. Mrs. Teen Living, forever on my blacklist, has influenced me in a negative way because she accused me, undermined my reputation, and put me on the defensive. Mentoring is serious business, whether you’re an official mentor, like a teacher or counselor, or an unofficial one where you have the ability to influence impressionable minds. For all you know, a poorly-thought-out comment to a nice little girl like I was could transform someone into a ragey little Chihuahua like I am today.

Legos and the Gestalt Adult

Eric and I were both huge fans of Legos when we were little. Eric made complicated RVs and I made cars for Teddy...mostly because I gave up on ever understanding how to make a house that was more than one level without having a balcony instead of a full second floor.  It's a fact that everyone who played with Legos had their pet projects that kept being remade bigger, better, and stronger each time. Honestly, what fun would Legos be if you couldn't break down masterpieces (and not-so-masterful pieces) and then make something newer and better?  How can you rebuild anything without first breaking it down to the pieces?

We are who we are today because after every hurt, failure, and flop in our pasts, we were reduced to pieces and forced to rebuild. When you have everything in pieces, you can combine the good and the bad into new, stronger forms. If I hadn't had my heart broken many times and had to keep coming back together with new knowledge of what to do or not to do, I never would have gotten to the point when I was ready to meet Eric. I would have simply told him I had already met my lifetime engineer quota and to move along. The experience that we gain through much effort and anguish is what makes us so wise and capable - and greater than simply a sum of our pieces. 

When you have all of those pieces after being broken, you can recreate, reorganize, remake yourself into someone who has more wisdom and experience and a pathway forward.  The catch in this is that we have to have access to all of those pieces to be able to rebuild.  If you've left part of yourself in the hands of the person/thing/circumstance that broke you, there's no hope of fully rebuilding. When you give an outside force the power to keep you from rebuilding, how can you possibly clean up the mess? That force may be some remote possibility of a defunct relationship ever starting up again, the constant reliving of a mistake or bad experience, or even a constant physical reminder of that broken moment. Or, you may not be letting yourself have access to all of the pieces.  You have to have those pieces in front of you to even know what the possibilities for rebuilding can be.

And, when you get yourself mostly together and the moment is right, you find friends and partners who let you combine all of your pieces with all of theirs to create a bond that is hard to break when tough times come along.  Using everyone's strengths and lessons learned compliments the collection of weaknesses that the group may have.  When, someday, Eric and I finally combine our Lego collections, we'll be able to build bigger and better RVs and maybe a house with a full second (or third, fourth, fifth...) floor. After all, sometimes it's hard to let go of your pieces and be open to giving them to others - as well as accepting theirs.

I've found that the individual pieces of my past and even somewhat present can be an asset.  Knowing what you're made of and what the possibilities are with those pieces makes you a more effective compliment to those friends and family who are there with you.  For example, I've conceded that Eric has most of the logic on our team, and that he knows how to deal with things calmly and linearly.  Case in point, Eric had a nightmare the other night that he was being chased by a giant Lego Man (the guy who comes with Legos, not a man made o' Legos). Even in his sleep, he knew that he could get away from Lego Man by going upstairs because Lego Man doesn't have knees.  Without understanding what you and others can bring to the table to create a better, faster, stronger entity, no one would know how to outrun Lego Man...or how to navigate life with the benefit of the whole, rather than dealing only with the pieces.

"Can't is the cancer of happening"

My dad and I are both impulsive overachievers.  To the point where it drives my mom crazy since we're always coming up with half-baked schemes for weird certifications, degrees, and qualifications.  My mom just doesn't get us...she tells me that all she ever wanted was for me to be "normal" and not go about trying to do anything extra or out of the ordinary.  What fun would it be if I didn't sign up for strange things on a whim?  Also, being able to get Mom riled up and spittin' tacks about how ridiculous I am is a big part of the fun.

In the summer of 2009, I pulled an Elle Woods and woke up one day and said, "I think I'll get a Ph.D."  I did a quick Google before work to find an English Lit doctoral program, realized that the school that I wanted to go to didn't have a program higher than Master's for that, I decided to find the closest thing, and, therefore, landed on Communication.  I applied that morning to start the program on temporary non-degree status (since it was a month before I wanted to start and 7 months after the application deadline) and suddenly, I was starting a Ph.D. program before I had lunch.  I'm impulsive, if nothing else.  Mom thought I'd lost my mind that day.  Dad was all like, "Yaaaaay! That's totally normal."

Fast forward two years.  Yesterday I advanced to Ph.D. candidacy, and since Eric is out of town, my parents and I went out to celebrate at the Olive Garden (don't judge).  My dad had two Xanexes before we left, so he started to let out secrets by the end of dinner.  He spilled that he was thinking about getting his pilot's license, because, why not, right? Since Dad paved the way and Mom had already used up some of her trademark logic and energy, I took that opportunity to announce that I've applied to the community college to start taking French classes next semester.  I'll only be writing my dissertation and teaching one class after work then, so I'm pretty free. My mom stopped mid pilot rant to cough out, "What is wrong with you?!"  Of course, that only made us talk about all of the Associate's degrees we could add on to our doctor titles, which also made Mom madder.  We got all the way to planning how we're going to get our pilot's licenses, boating licenses, CDLs, scuba certifications, certificates in phlebotomy, and Associates' in radiology, construction management, emergency medical services (since Dad already has a book), and welding. 

You'll be glad to know that I got my acceptance letter from the community college today, so the world is my oyster.  I called my mom and told her that I had earth shattering news.  She's still not speaking to me, although it was tough for her not to comment on shirtless Derek Hough on Dancing with the Stars tonight.  She's a woman of willpower.  Someone has to be "normal," here right?

The Holy Order of Crayola

I've mentioned before that I have a strong sense of order.  Some, like me, might find that to be a good thing, but others, like Eric, apparently don't.  When our company was on another floor, I had a multi-month silent battle with an unknown floormate with a contradictory, but equally strong, sense of coffee counter order.  Cups should go in two neat stacks, Sweet 'n Low is not the same thing as Splenda, and there is no need to take things out of their line up longer than when you're using them.  My parents tell me that I'm clearly the abnormal one, since no one else they've encountered feels compelled to line up french fries on a McDonald's tray or restaurant plate before eating them (horizontally not vertically, because that would be crazy).

I'd like to say that I've grown to be a more precise person as I've matured, but that's not quite true.  In second grade, I had the mega stand-up display of 72 Crayolas that was my pride and joy.  It was awesome - it had a portable case, a built-in sharpener, and did I mention SEVENTY-TWO COLORS? For those who are from a different time, that was the Holy Grail of crayon collections.  That was the biggest one, and my mom, obviously knowing what's up, got it for me at the beginning of the school year knowing that it would be the envy of Mrs. Wright's class. I loved and cherished these crayons, keeping them sharp, but most of all, keeping them in the "correct" order.

Everyone knows that Burnt Sienna is the ugliest color in the Crayola family. It had its place in the corner, next to the florescents (known as Ultra Pink, Ultra Blue, and so on rather than "florescents" back then).  Despite being the second grade queen of the fluorescent short and tee sets, when it came to the fluorescent crayons, as my grandma would say, I just couldn't go it.  They were garish, too...well, too, and they just weren't, you know, Carnation Pink.  Also in the banished corner were White (useless unless you have black construction paper, and the school only gave us manilla), Maize, and Orange-Red.  These undesirables were not to be mingled with the remaining 60 colors, but they couldn't be thrown away because that would have thrown off the balance of the Crayola ecosystem since some colors have to be undesirables.  It's a fact of life.

I've never been much of a sharer, especially good stuff like the Crayola 72er.  But, if someone asks nicely to use my stuff, that's cool.  What was decidedly not cool was when an unnamed classmate used one of my crayons and then peeled down the wrapper without permission, which she never would have gotten anyway.  I don't care if that's how some people think you should do shading on a picture. That is not how I do it.  It's not so much the non-regulation shading or the act of peeling my crayon wrapper, but more that the crayon now would not match its brothers.  I went all kinds of Linda Blair on this kid, going from quiet to head spinning crayon police. 

Sensing my need for order and school and office supplies, my dad gave me something even better than the crayons: a Dymo label maker.  Now, this wasn't one of those new-fangled ones that is electronic and will smoothly print out a flat label - this one squished each letter into the rubbery tape in a satisfying way.  *Shiver*  It was the best.  I labeled everything in my room.  In fact, I wish I had one now so I could label my things that Eric isn't allowed to touch.  I should probably do that now while he's away at a conference, right?  Off to eBay.

Halloweeping

For the first time in the history of Kelly, I'm putting on my big girl pants and skipping Halloween. This is monumental.  Halloween is my Christmas - I look forward to it all year long, I plan ahead for the perfect costume, and I would have a mix tape of spooky sounds like chains, howling wolves, and maniacal laughs on repeat if I knew where to find one of those (besides 1985).  After soul searching and gnashing of teeth, I've made the mature decision not to go out and mingle with the ghouls and slutty pirates/Care Bears/cats/etc. but to stay at home and prepare for the oral defense portion of my exams. 

But what if something happens between now and next year, and I'm suddenly too mature to go out for Halloween? What if I'm overcome with adulthood and can't manage to put on my costume and party face to celebrate? That would be like finding out that Santa isn't real all over again. Then all I'd have to hope for is being the mom (or creepy childless lady on the street) who peels grapes to pass off as eyeballs.

Back in the day, I used to be ready at 4:00 on Halloween in my yellow crayon suit, eyeliner cat whiskers, or Olympic ice skater outfit just waiting to go out with the hundreds of other kids in the neighborhood to be the first to hit the house where the guy who owned the Shell station gave out king-size candy bars.  His contribution was balanced out on the parent scale because the orthodontist a few houses down always gave out toothbrushes and those tablets that turned the gunk on your teeth pink.  Then, after a long night of trekking around our neighborhood, my favorite part of Halloween happened - candy sorting.  I've always been one who appreciates a sense of order.  Making micro piles of candy brands, then macro piles of types, then super macro piles for "yuck" and "yum" entertained me until bedtime.  I had a childlike sense of benevolence too, since I would gather up the yuck pile of Charleston Chews, Mary Janes, and Peanut Clusters and be all, "Here, Daddy, I saved these just for you because I love you."

More recently, I exercised my Halloween spirit by forcing my best friend in college to go out for Halloween with me dressed as Playboy Bunnies without any irony, despite it being Parents' Weekend.  That turned out unfortunately, because for some reason, all Halloween parties were put on hold for that weekend and we didn't get the memo.  So, there we were, inappropriately bunnied, Elle Woods style, walking around in the freezing cold.  Even that didn't break my Hallo-will to party in costume.

I feel like I should be proud of myself for making a mature decision this year, but it's hard.  This will be yet another year where Eric and I can't be a monkey and organ grinder pair.  Though, logistically speaking, an adult would say that being a monkey on roller skates while drinking would be a bad idea anyway.  Speaking of viewing Halloween through adult eyes, today Eric ruined my fond memories of the king-size candy house by realistically stating that the guy gave those out because he bought them in bulk for the gas station and got a deal.  So, he wasn't that cool after all. Engineer logic ruins all of my good memories.

So what should I do this year when I'm at home by myself studying, with Eric at a trade show and all of my friends being normal people and going out?  I'm thinking of sharing my bitterness with all of the little children and only giving out Charleston Chews, Peanut Clusters, and Mary Janes.  I would obviously reserve some of these for Dad because I love him.  Or, maybe I'll just turn out all the lights and tell kids to get off my lawn.

Team Butter

Food is not only an expression of culture, but also of upbringing. I'm pretty self-centered, so I had no idea that there was any debate on food preferences or names of dishes (see the Great Tortilla and Cheese vs. Quesadilla Debate of 2006) until Eric and I got serious enough to cook anything together or combine grocery lists.  Let's just say that's pretty serious with me.


Not only does Eric favor cheesefoods, such as the orange power found in Kraft Mac & Cheese, but he eats margarine.  Like, he'd choose margarine if given a choice.  Now, my mother taught me that "margarine is for poor people" and the "no one actually eats Kraft Mac & Cheese, it's just for the church food bank bin," so imagine my surprise when long after Eric and I got married he bought both margarine and a box of Kraft.  He then dropped more bombshells, like he craves SpaghettiOs and he has been known to kill a bag of beef jerky in one sitting.  So, bottom line, he could do all of his shopping at the gas station if need be. Okay, Eric's low maintenance, cool.  Gross, but at least he's practical.

To be fair, misguided food naming and preferences are not limited to Eric.  I have a habit of calling all members of the soda universe "Cokes" and I think MoonPies are a legitimate food group. As much as I stick my nose up at Eric's Mac & Cheese made with margarine, he doesn't even begin to appreciate the world of ersatz flavoring quite like I do.  "Banana" Twinkie? Yes, please!

That said, I'm a health food kind of girl most of the time, and I like to think I prefer real food - like butter, produce, whole grains - to gas station food.  I also think that meat is yucky and we should eat a balanced vegetarian diet.  But let's be honest here, a least a portion of the produce I buy is guaranteed to go bad every time, but I've never let a Peep even try to expire.  Further, my soy nuggets have at least as much processed goodness as a Tyson's chicken nuggets.

Perhaps Eric and I have more in common than I give us credit for - our diets follow the "better living through chemistry" method and we're darn happy (and potentially diseased) because of it.