I Can Only Excersize With Celebrities

I am not a fan of exercise, but I do it anyway for all the stupid reasons that everyone knows about… so I won’t bore you with all that stupid crap.  

I’m a member of a little gym that next to my work.  The gym is small -only 4 treadmills, 3 ellipticals, 2 stationary bikes, and the standard weight equipment.  I normally try to exercise on my lunch break so that I can make my co-workers think I’m all-healthy, while I’m sticking an entire sleeve of thin-mints into my pie-hole.

My schedule got a little wonky a few months ago, and I had to go the gym AFTER work.  I put on my low-budget gym clothes and hopped on the treadmill. There was no one else there.  I felt like I was stuck in a weird purgatory run by Richard Simmons.

Then suddenly, someone hopped on the treadmill next to me. The treadmills are VERY close together - only about 16 inches apart.  Because of the close proximity, I always feel the need to make an acknowledgement - like when someone gets in your elevator. I figured it may be a co-worker from my building, so I did my cursory glance and nod.  Hmmm, this person does not appear to be your average-disgruntled-government worker…  I glance again.  Weird.  I have to turn my head ALL THE WAY to get a good look-see… and damn if it isn’t Kirstie Alley. 

Here we are.  Me and Kirstie.  Work-out buddies.  Except for she’s got like a whole entourage of people doing things for her.  Someone brings her water, someone sets her treadmill, someone sets up her TV channels.  I keep looking around for someone to bring me water.  No one comes. 

*her entourage is full of really cute guys.  My entourage is full of just me *

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  Is Kirstie as fat as she looks on TV?  The answer is no.  She looks pretty good.  Especially for her age.  I tend to “freeze” people into the age they were when I first saw them.  So, if I met you in 8^th grade, you will ALWAYS be 13 years old to me.  I saw Kirstie on Cheers when she was in her early 30’s, so that’s what she is to me.  However, in REAL LIFE, Kirstie is SIXTY (60) years old.  I KNOW!  WHO KNEW?

So, everyday for two weeks, I would get to the gym, and there was Kirstie.  Sometimes we held short yet intimate conversations.  Once she said to me “I think that elliptical isn’t working right.”  Then I said, “Ok, thanks.”  

 

I bought new gym clothes, jewelry, and made sure my hair and makeup were looking good.. just in case TMZ or Entertainment Tonight showed up at the gym unexpectedly for an exclusive Kirstie Alley workout segment.  Or, as I started calling it – the “Kirstie and Kelly” workout. 

As our relationship grew, I found myself excited about going to the gym.  One particular day, as Kirstie and I were working out together, she took a cell phone call and sat on the Pilates table right next to me.  I turned down the volume on my headphones to listen to her talking.  (oh please, like you wouldn’t do it too.)

She would be considered a loud-talker, and her conversation included monkeys, traveling gnomes, and general famous-people-insanity.  I was so engrossed listening to her conversation, that when it was over, I realized that I had run 6 miles on the treadmill.  This had become the only way I could exercise.  Having her at the gym was my “magic pill.”  I needed her.

*Me falling off the treadmill without Kirstie*

One morning I was packing my gym bag getting ready to drive to work, I saw on TV that Kirstie Alley was going to be on the Oprah show.  It was a re-run… and I had the most super special awesome idea EVER.  I was going to watch Kirstie Alley on Oprah at the gym WHILE working out RIGHT NEXT TO KIRSTIE ALLEY.  Oh my GOD!  How brilliant is that?  I will be watching her on TV simultaneously while being right next to her.  It was sort of confusing, yet awesome.

I was excited as a fat-guy at a KFC Buffet.  I couldn’t wait.  It was like all the stars were aligned.  Then, it started raining. Then it started lightning.  WHAT IS HAPPENING GOD?  Will this weather keep Kirstie away?  Surely the gods of health and exercise were happy with me…  what is going wrong?

At 4pm sharp, I got to the gym.  NO KIRSTIE. 

I tried to work out.  But I couldn’t.  I needed you Kirstie.   I.NEEDED.YOU.

I’ve never seen her there again.  Surely she misses our time together.  The gym used to be magical and fun.  Now, it’s a vortex of pain and horribleness. 

WWJD - What Would Jesus DRIVE?

Sometimes I struggle with my feelings about religion.  Not God, and maybe not even the institution of religion…. More specifically – crazy-religious-people.  Growing up in a very strict religious background, I have encountered my fair share of CRAZIES.    My toleration of CRAZIES fluctuates… sometimes I use it as my entertainment, sometimes I feel like I’m going to smack the crap out of them.

*cartoon representation of various crazy people*

A few months back I was forwarded this email.  THIS IS A REAL EMAIL from a REAL PERSON.  I have removed the names to protect the crazy, I mean, the innocent.

The bank just towed my car away so I am depending on the will of God to get me where I need to be.  I am excited to see what God has in store for me…I wonder what He is going to do next.  Waiting on Him…and reminding myself of Jeremiah 29:11 and the fact that the car was too small anyway.

 Pray for a vehicle in good condition to be donated to my ministry according to His will.  A Lexus would be nice, I like the color white or pearl, and a working CD to play my worship music…less than 80,000 miles.  He says to pray specifically….can you help me out and add this to your prayer list? 

 I know God would not want to drive around in junk and since He goes with me everywhere, I'm sure He'll want to be comfortable.

 This email left me speechless, which is rare.   I read it several times and felt a combination of disgust and amusement.   I created a response:

"I am excited to see what God has in store for me…I wonder what He is going to do next."
I think I know what God has in store for you next.....  God wants to introduce you to PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION.  

“The car was too small anyway” If the car was too small, then why did you buy it to begin with?   I bet that God wants you to make responsible choices the first time. And, here’s a thought…Maybe God wants you to ONLY BUY CARS THAT YOU CAN AFFORD.

*disclaimer - Jesus DOES want you to get good gas mileage*

 “Waiting on Him…”  If I had to guess…..God wants you to stop “waiting on him” .. go out and get a job, or a second job, or re-think your budget.  God gave you a brain, so how about you giving that a try while you’re “waiting?”

“I know God would not want to drive around in junk and since He goes with me everywhere, I’m sure He’ll want to be comfortable.” 

Comfortable?    Really?!?    I would *LOVE* to see Jesus riding around in your pearl-colored Lexus.  I think Jesus WALKED everywhere or he rode a DONKEY. 

Yeah, riding on a DONKEY in the heat without a CD player sounds super-comfortable.  But, the donkey only had 26,000 thousand miles on it, so it was a practically new donkey. 

JESUS hung out with lepers, and poor people, and had no worldly belongings.  I doubt he really cares if you’re driving a Lexus, a Ford Festiva, or a 1998 Chevy station-wagon. 

Stop embarrassing Jesus.  There are people in the world that are dying, or fighting for their lives, or that are homeless, and you want GOD to GIVE YOU A LEXUS?   Really??

Please dear GOD, please give her a Schwinn Bicycle. 

 I swear, if she ends up with a pearl-colored Lexus.. I'm going to stop making payments on my used mini-van and start praying for a black Mercedes convertible.

Why I Wanted To Be Set On Fire By Fairies

I’ve always been a “writer.”  Even as a small child I would write letters to my parental-units expressing my displeasure about how I was being raised, or some horrifying injustice, or general complaints.  My mom saved these letters and ceremoniously bestowed them upon me recently. 

There were so many letters.  But, here is one of my favorites.  I posted this to facebook a few months back, but I think my adoring fans that may have missed this post deserve a chance to see it.. and I’ve added a *new* element that I had not shared before.

I was in 8^th grade when I wrote this letter:  (THIS IS THE ACTUAL LETTER, people!)

Dear Mom and Dad,

 Please don't make me play the piano.  I have no talent, I have no desire, and I have a deep hate for it.  I hate it so much that I lie about it.. I filled out a form for church choir, and it asked if you could play a musical instrument and I said no.

 I can't go thru another year of lessons and recitals.   I hate our piano, and the piano teacher is creepy.  Take the money from my piano lessons and buy groceries or something.

 I don't want to go thru another year of HELL and torment to improve this "wonderful ability" that I have... which is a bunch of garbage.  If I'm so great, then how come I can only play one song, I can't sight read music, and I can't even read notes...  and I've been taking piano lessons for THREE YEARS!

You told me I could quit, but I guess you lied.  Thanks, Kelly

 Obviously, anyone can see my early talent as a writer in this well-thought-out letter.   The reason behind the letter was multi-faceted, but I think it had to do with fairies….let me begin at the beginning..

My piano teacher was the crypt-keeper. 

*not actual picture, but close*

To my recollection, she ate small children who didn’t practice their piano.  There are missing kids everywhere, and they could probably all be traced back to her stomach.  A piano recital was coming up, and I knew in the darkness of my too-small heart…..this wasn’t going to be good.    She used her old, skinny, crooked fingers and fumbled thru some papers and pulled out THE PIANO PIECE that I WAS GOING TO PLAY.   It was worse than I thought. 

 Come, Fairies, Come.   

Yep, that was the name of the song that I had to play.  Surely God hated me.   

Come, Fairies, Come ??     Really?  Why God? WHY?

I hated that piece.  I hated the piano.  I hate recitals.  I had a PLAN B:  I was considering chopping off my arms and eating my raw flesh.  But, that didn’t seem too reasonable.  So, I sucked it up and went to the damn recital.

Picture this: A small, yet opulent auditorium.  A big black grand piano on the stage.  The students were sitting on folding chairs up on stage on the side.  All the parents were dressed up in their Sunday clothes, with their big, Baptist hair-do’s,  with their Polaroid cameras.

There was a microphone up on stage right in the front.  One by one, each piano student stood up and went to the microphone and said, “Hello, my name is ______.  The first piece I’m going to play is _______________.”    We had two different piano pieces.  I have no earthly idea of what my second piece even was.

So, in my mind I went over my line...over and over and over…

 “Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

*this is how I incorrectly pictured myself*

“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

CRAP, its finally my turn, I get up… walk over to the microphone.  I looked out at all the big- Baptist- haired- moms, and bored-as-hell-dads…..  and I summoned all my awkward-13-year-old-confidence, and spoke as loud as possible right into that microphone.

 “HELLO.  MY NAME IS KELLY WISE.  THE FIRST PLACE I’M GOING TO PEE.....”   

What?  Did that just come out of my mouth?

 “The first piece I’m going to play”  turned into “The first place I’m going to pee.”  

It was like God really hated me.  I wanted the fairies to come immediately and set me on fire.   COME FAIRIES COME!!  Please come set me on FIRE and put me out of my misery.

 I’m pretty sure I blacked out, because the next thing I remember… I had written the letter above.

This is where a normal person would end the story.  But here’s the REST of THE STORY:

My parents DID let me quit.  My mother was very angry and said emphatically "YOU'LL BE SORRY ONE DAY!"   Which I have to say.. I'm not sorry AT ALL.  I never walk by a piano and think "Wow, I wish my parents made me keep taking piano lessons.."  

NEVER.  NOT ONCE.  Not one single regret.

 My mother did NOT use the piano lessons for groceries.  She took the money and SHE took piano lessons, however my mom had even LESS talent at playing the piano than I did.  This provided me with a great deal of amusement at HER first piano recital... and guess what?  That's right...  she quit.

Random Things That I Think Are Not Right

This isn’t a story about my family.  I know – UNBELIEVABLE.  
 I am simply going to list a few things that I think are not right:

1.        This “Icy/Hot” product should not look JUST like my deodorant.  YES, I put it under my armpits accidently ..and I thought that FLAMES would shoot out from my pits and kill people for days.

2.       Hemorrhoid medication should not look similar to my tube of hair conditioner that I get out of my Miss Clairol box.  Good news is that I now have no hemorroid's on my scalp.

  3.     Smoking Kermit.  I don’t think this sets a good example for children or for frogs.

4.  My sister takes the hair out of my hairbrushes and makes hand-puppets.



 

5.       My sister stuck her baby’s head in the mouth of a Tiger.

*actual picture of my niece being eaten alive *

 

6.       Drinking Embryos

7.       Smoking Sock Monkeys (*similar to smoking kermit, yet different)

8.       My Dad sleeping.

9.   Angry Big Bird

11.  Cookie Monster smoking WHILE eating cookies.  UNHEALTHY.

I just realized that I have a lot of pictures of muppets smoking.  That’s not right.

Ok, people.  That’s all I had for today.  

OH!  I forgot one more thing that's not right...

MY mother's christmas sweater:

Did  I mention that I need more followers?   

Lying = Vomiting

This is a true story about how lying can lead to vomiting.  Generally speaking, vomiting is never pleasant.  Sometimes you feel better after you vomit, but realistically, no one looks forward to vomiting.

One glorious day a few months ago, for reasons unknown, I decided to go to the mall.   When I was growing up, my mom never wanted to take me to the mall because she said that the mall was full of sinners.  Lots of awesome, adorable, boy-sinners.  I loved that mall. 

However, I’m now an adult and I hate the mall.  I don’t really care if it’s full of sinners, I just think it’s a huge pain in my ass.  But, it was Rose’s (my niece) birthday, and I decided I would have her ears pieced. 

She was 12 years old.  It was time. 

*Rose is special*

Problem:  Her mother (my sister) wasn’t with us.  So, I had to lie to the 19-year old employee at the Piercing Emporium and fill out paperwork saying that Rose was my daughter.  As I was filling out the paperwork, I felt something.  What could that be?  It took me a few minutes, but I eventually identified the feeling as GUILT… because I was LYING.  Everything on that paperwork was a lie.  I didn’t even use her real name.

Oh, well.  We are entering into a right of passage ritual – EAR PIERCING – and NOTHING WAS GOING TO STOP ME.

The only possible thing that could give us away was that Rose kept calling me AUNT KELLY the whole time.  Good thing that the Piercing Emporium girl was too stupid to figure out that most people don’t call their mom by the term “AUNT” followed by their first name. 

As we were being escorted to “the piercing chair”… Rose reminded me of the disconcerting family tradition of throwing-up and passing out for no apparent medically-related reason.  This normally happens to my brother-in-law, who passes out at the site of needles, blood, bodily fluids, or anything slightly unpleasant.  Both my nieces inherited this genetic deformity.  CRAP.  I quickly dismiss her fears “Suck it up, lets get this over with.”  But, I said it with my nurturing fake-motherly love.

The piercing chair is conveniently located the very front entrance of the store, totally surrounded by glass.  This is well-situated so that all the sinning-mall-goers can walk by and see the piercing taking place.  Good idea.

So, the unobservant employee marks the earlobe, pulls out the piercing gun and *POP*… the first ear is pierced.  

Then as she was reloading the piercing gun…

ROSE:  Aunt Kelly… I mean.. FAKE-MOMMY…  I don’t feel good.

ME:   Dear sweet fake-daughter, you’re fine.

ROSE:  I think I’m going to throw-up.

ME:  It’s all in your head.  Think happy thoughts.  Like raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

ROSE:  Good idea Aunt Kelly,  I mean.. FAKE-MOMMY.  Find me a garbage can.  I’ll think of bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens while I’M VOMITING.

And, sure enough… it happened….projectile vomiting…in the middle of the store, in front of the glass where all the sinning mall-goers stopped and stared in horror….   

LOUD. GURGLING. VOMITING.

I dreamed of this day.  Except in my dream, there was alcohol involved. 

I held back her hair like a good fake-mom should.

I saw real-moms with their real-kids running out of the store.  CHAOS.  We were solely-responsible for awkward, chunky, embarrassing CHAOS.

All I wanted to do was to get that other ear pierced and get the hell out of there as fast as possible.  People were running, screaming, grabbing their kids and covering their eyes. 

*Actual people fleeing in horror*

JUST PIERCE THE OTHER EAR, LADY!   CAN’T YOU SEE GOD IS PUNISHING ME FOR LYING?      

She popped the other ear, I grabbed my fake-kid with my fake-mom-hand, and we ran out of there like a hooker running out of church...  practically knocking over the garbage can full of our LYING VOMIT.  

*Simulated picture of a lying kid.  (This is not Rose) *

We got to the car… and suddenly I noticed a rainbow overhead, and birds chirping, and little spotted-butterflies circling our heads.  And Rose looked up with me, and with a little gooey vomit still stuck to her chin,  she squeaked  “THANK YOU FAKE MOMMY.”

I still feel all warm inside thinking about it.

*actual picture of Rose's pierced ear*

Why Fake Dog Poop Makes An Awesome Present

This story was not on my list until today.  However, it’s so completely and unbelievable strange (and true) that I had to share it immediately.  I need to remove it from my head, and therefore I will now put it in your head.  That will make me feel better.

To the average person, my mother may appear normal.  She looks like your typical middle-class, stay-at-home, southern Baptist, mom.   She doesn’t travel to exotic places or work out at the gym, or dance at a bar, or gamble in a casino.   She’s the mom that made our home-made play-dough, packed our lunches everyday, drove us to dance lessons, and made pot-roast each Sunday. 

Everything looks normal to the UNTRAINED EYE.

I know things.   And, those things scare me because I see so much of myself in her, and personally, I think she’s off her rocker.  I have so many, many, many mom stories.. and each one of them could be self-sustaining … so, I won’t make this particular story a compilation.  I feel like I’m a caveman, and I’ve heard a story from another cave-person, and I have to run back to my cave and scratch it on the wall … 

My conversation with my mom today:

MOM :  You don’t have to use dirty words on your blog.  Stupid people use dirty words, like rappers.

ME:  It’s my blog, and sometimes I need to use that kind of language to reveal the depths of my experiences.

MOM:  You need a thesaurus.  It would give you alternate words to use.  For example, the word derrière is just as funny as the word ass.

ME:   I have a thesaurus.  I didn’t use the word ass to be funny.  It was just a word I used to describe my butt.  And, derrière is not as funny as the word ass.  Ass beats derrière.  Hands-down.

*This is where the conversation takes a sharp turn, and runs smack into bizarre.  She wants me to write a letter to go inside a present that she is giving to someone.  This may sound reasonable to the UNTRAINED PERSON. 

The explanations behind the present are numerous… but lets just go with this:  It’s a "gift" to a professional person who is incompetent .. and apparently is now going to deal with the wrath of my mother forever.  So, then she tells me her PLAN:

MOM:  I’m giving a “present” to  X. (x= the un-named person)  I want you to write a letter to give with the present.

ME:  What’s the present?

MOM:  Fake dog poop.  I was saving real dog poop in ziplock bags in the freezer, but I’ve consulted some people who told me that it would be best to buy fake dog poop.

ME:  Yes,  fake dog poop makes a much better present than real, frozen dog poop.  Everyone knows that.  DUH.

MOM:  So, I ended up going to Spencer’s Gifts at the mall to buy the fake dog poop.  That place is horrible and satanic.  If I had to go there everyday I would be skinny, because it made me so nauseated that I couldn’t eat.

ME:  Really?  So, Spencer’s made you nauseated, but storing dog poop in the freezer is perfectly fine.

MOM:  I've put the fake poop in a very pretty gift bag but I need something SCATHING to write in the card.  But, you can’t use any bad language.

ME:  Wow, so you want to give someone dog poop, but don’t want to use offensive language.  THAT MAKES PERFECT SENSE.  Sure, I’m in.

That’s when it hit me. 

It’s like I have time traveled forward, and I am speaking to a “Future Me”….   HOLY CRAP!  I felt complete panic set in.  Things were flashing through my mind.. because I knew with ALL CERTAINTY.. that this is EXACTLY like something I would do.  EXACTLY.  Except I would use bad words.

I quickly made a mental list of things my mother wouldn’t do… and I tried to do them all real quick… So I did a shot of tequila and I ran on the treadmill…  I turned on the radio and listed to some Sting and Bon Jovi…  I got a pedicure. (my mom told me to never get a pedicure because people die from pedicures.)  I flipped someone the bird.  

I was now ready to write the perfect letter to accompany the dog poop present:

“Dear X – I think you are a piece of excrement that came out of the anal cavity of a canine.”

There, that should do it.   Now for another shot of tequila…..

PS.  During my research of fake dog poop, I wanted to let my readers know that you can buy 1 Dozen Fake Dog Poop in Bulk from Amazon.com for 9.95.   Apparently dog poop makes an awesomely delicious present.

I Was *FELT-UP* By Luke Skywalker

Traveling with my family was always sketchy.  As a kid, you just never knew what the hell was going on – no itinerary, no sitting at the table looking thru the encyclopedia Britannica’s researching the City you were about to visit.  We were pretty much told to get in the car. These were the days before GPS, Mapquest, or common sense.  We went to AAA and some old man used a yellow highlighter on a Trip Tik for you.  We were always lost.

I have multitudes of travel stories.  However, this one in particular is among the strangest. 

There was a large group of us – MY family AND my aunt, uncle, and cousins.  We all got into this old 1976 van that looked like the Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo.  It even had a full bed in the back and a CB Radio.   I was about 14 years old, and the worse possible thing that could happen besides an un-timely breakout would be going on vacation with my entire family.  And we were driving all the way to Washington DC in the Mystery Machine…   Whoever thought this was a good idea should have been stoned to death.

*Not actual Van, but similar*

I feel it’s important that you know that my father is a complete cheap-ass.  It would take a tractor to pull a dollar out of his crack.  Seriously.  This is well documented.  I bring this up because we NEVER took a vacation unless it was coinciding with my dad’s business trip.

I won’t bore you with the details of the travel itself, I think I may have blocked most of it out anyway.  I do this sometimes as a defense mechanism to save myself.  But, the hotel where we stayed into is BURNED into my memory forever.  Its not the main part of this story.. but imagine a prehistoric motel from an old scary movie.  I was pretty sure that a prostitute was killed in our room.  I’m telling you this because none of this made me happy.

 *Example of our hotel *

Anway, back on track.  My dad had managed to get us all tickets on a “private” tour of the White House.  I’m not sure what made it private.  I think Ronald Regan was president, and I’m pretty sure that neither Ronnie nor Nancy gave us the tour, but whatever.

It was during this private group tour that I made eye-contact across the room with Luke Skywalker.  He was probably about 17 years old, and although not as hot as Hans Solo, he was pretty cute.  Now, remember that I had been stuck in the flipping Mystery Machine with my family for days, and then in a prostitute motel… so this is my first sign of anything good on this vacation.

 *This is an example of the Luke Skywalker eye-contact*

As we entered into each room, the guide explained a whole bunch of stupid shit that 14-year-old girls and Luke Skywalker did not care about.  The force was with us.

Each time we entered into a different room, Luke Skywalker gradually eased his way closer.  We finally came into the “Blue Room.”   Luke had made his way across the galaxy and was standing directly behind me.        **And that’s when IT happened. **

I felt Luke’s hand on my ass.  Are you kidding me?  Am I getting FELT-UP by a complete stranger who looks like Luke Skywalker in the Blue Room in the White House?  I was pretty sure that all the dead presidents knew exactly what was happening.

*Actual Blue Room in the White House, with my drawings to demonstrate the groping, generally speaking*

Without going into great detail…this was a full-fledge grope.  There was definitely “light- saber” action going on here, if you know what I mean.   I felt panic set in.  I used my mind to try to get Luke to remove his had from its grip on my ass.  

"Powerful you have become, the dark side I sense in you."

It wasn’t working.  The dark-side was stronger than I thought.

HOLY CRAP!.. the guide lady kept talking about the drapes, and tapestries, and blah blah blah…  All the time I was willing her in my mind to SHUT THE HELL UP and lets move on to the Yellow room, or the Oval Office, or the hall of dead presidents or whatever.. let’s go lady! 

WHERE IS FRICKIN’ YODA when you need him? 

 *yoda is of no help*

FINALLY we made it to the next room where I positioned my ass directly infront of my parents.  Normally I acted as if they were complete strangers to me, so I assumed that this would send up some read flags now that I am stuck to them like a cockroach on a cupcake.

I tell the parental units – after the tour is over -  that Luke Skywalker felt-me up in the Blue Room.  And they both look at me with blank stares and then they mumbled something about my attitude and how I just had a chance of a lifetime getting a tour of the white house and that I should have paid more attention…    Well, it was hard paying attention when Luke Skywalker had his KUNG-FU-GRIP-DARK-SIDE-HAND on my ASS… I’ll try better next time.

TAKE THAT MONICA LEWINSKI.  You weren’t the only brown-eyed girl to get a good groping in the White House.  I beat you by AT LEAST 15 years. 

May the force be with you all….