I Hate Running

Women running.  That’s hot right?  I mean think Bay Watch babes bounding down the beach, perfect hair tossing perfectly upon their perfect faces attached to their perfect bodies.  H.O.T.!  …and then there is me.  I have been running for years, yet ½ a mile from knees up, I look like I have conditioned my scalp with a half cup of Crisco.  Regardless of outside temperature or weather conditions, I am dripping sweat from my entire face.  By mile one, I am wet through the bands on my shorts and my bra.  The backs of my knees have pasted from glistening to downright swampy.  Still I power on.  Fueled by mass quantities of pasta, I am a running machine.  I look like I may need immediate assistance from a defibrillator, but I tell you I am a running machine. 

You may not know this, but despite logging 12-20 miles a week, I don’t like running.  Nope.  Not a fan.  I have been known to wear my running clothes for hours procrastinating the eventual push to pavement.  So why go?  I don’t like it.  I’m not really training for anything in particular.  It isn’t part of a figure sculpting plan (I have Brazilian Butts for that). So why spend my time doing something so horrendous that I look like I am going into cardiac arrest?  Well, for the men.   I spend my time running alone.  Sort of.  I mean I start out alone, but once I pass through the gates, I am spending time with Rob Zombie, Serj Tankian, Buckcherry,  the entire gang from Five Finger Death Punch, and when I’m feeling mellow, Chris Martin of Coldplay.  To have a rough day and sweat it out with John 5 is more than okay.  To be feeling a little low about where I am in life then hear Josh Todd of Buckcherry croon on for 50 minutes about addictions that he clearly doesn’t recognize puts a little bound in my step and leaves me feeling like maybe being me is preferable to being him.  Any time you can start out despising the idea of something then end up feeling better than a rock star, I would call that a good workout. 

I have an awesome girlfriend and every time I would get down on my body with all its curves compared to the Italian women (and my friend Lauren) she would always say something encouraging like, “Here in Italy we are different Kelly.  This is the only time in our lives where we are going to be the exotic ones”.  True.  Check me out.  I’m exotic in all my average American-ness.  I am exotic running with my massive headphones I bought for playing poker, not for running.  I’m exotic in my miss matched Wal-Mart cast off clothes I have been handed down and garnered from trash-to-treasure swaps.  Exotic.  Yeah Baby.  But, I’m not in Italy right now where I can assume they are staring because I look…exotic, I am in America where each passing car has to be thinking, “should we take that red faced girl to the emergency room or get to The Coral for a coffee stirrer?”  Well, no one has passed up the ice-cream treat for a chance to save a shorty.  Can’t blame them.  The coffee stirrers are amazing. 

Sometimes when I am running I think to myself, “Self, what are we doing out here?  It’s hot/cold/wet/snowey/stinkey."  I realized that I hate running…right up until the first foot hits the trail, then I love it…even as a hot mess.  I would like to run another marathon one day, but putting a time line on it seems a bit too motivated…just like I plan on loosing three pounds and thinning my closet…lifting my butt and buying a red Bay Watch-esk bathing suit.

Pancakes make America Awesome

Italy does a lot of things right.  They pick their fruits and veg at the peak of ripeness and sell them in Mom and Pop shops.  They walk and ride bikes around the local area rather than loading up the F-250.  There are still artisans in every town.  Lots and lots of things right...However, they have done for breakfast what Kevin Fedderline has done for music.  Now I'm not saying that the Italians don't make a mean cappuccino or a flaky pastry.  No.  They do those things.  Everyday they do those things.  And only those things.  It is romantic to ride my bike past the street seating in the a.m. and see all the gorgeous Italian women eating their cappuccinos with a spoon like it is a bowl of cereal.  Romantic yes, but me and milk dated for a while and well, the break-up was messy and every time I get it in my head that we should give it another try for old times sakes, that dairy delight donkey kicks me.  So I am left with a cafe (espresso) which is about one sip, two if I am feeling lady-like.  Efficient yes, but about as romantic as watching Sponge Bob.   


This is the third foreign country logging three and a half years in Japan and a bit under three years in England.  Whenever I start making plans to go back to Mother America, the lust sets in.  My desire is split between Las Vegas, easily accessible gas stations, shopping malls with no conversion, 24 hour anything, and American breakfast.  Any country that carb loads at dawn has no choice but to be a super power.  We are ready to take on anything with out an afternoon nap...er reposo.    

Welcome to the Middlesex Diner.  You will notice it has one of my favorite qualities, it is open 24 hours a day.  Surely they meant to add "a day" and just ran out of room.  Like wise, I only realised that it wasn't the, "West Middlesex Diner" just this moment and I have been going here since I was a kid.  Guess I just have pancakes on my brain we we roll in here.  A trip home to Pa wouldn't be a trip home without the diner.  I would explain in detail, but I think maybe you will understand when you see the menu:

All stains and splitting are authentic.  I love a bargain and can't help but order the Jimmy's.  I know Jimmy after all and surely it would be rude not to.  Here is how I get mine configured:

Two eggs over easy, all sausage, add onions to the home fries, and cakes.  $4.19

Every time I order this I get through the egg whites and part of the potatoes and I wonder what I was thinking.  Now Me and sausage aren't on good terms, but my daughter is smitten so that's usually been swiped before my fork hits the twenty year old porcelain plate.  I end up on a staring contest with the hot cakes and I try to talk logic to them, "listen, I'm just not that into you today.  No, it wouldn't be different if you were toast.  Yes I know, toast is so much thinner.  Honestly I love your curves...but...well, maybe if you were rye toast with gobs of jam...oh I've gone to far now.  Listen, I'm just going to put you down here by Papa and see if he's into your roundness."   

 This is how my Dad gets his Jimmy's:

$4.19!  Worth a road trip.

Not a pastry or cappuccino in sight.  The waitresses are the same every time.  Every year.  Martha is almost as good as the breakfast with her quick, dirty humor and local gossip.  The place has charm and character oozing from its double wide interior as mix and match as a home put together over a generation.  The people are just as awesome.  The guys that come in smell of Brute and Old Spice.  The ladies look like they have just gotten their hair curled.  It's the kind of place where everyone asks who your parents are.  American breakfast are the best.  Having them at the Diner is just the extra point on the buck. 

So here's a toast to toast...and eggs.  Biscuits and gravey.  Pancakes. French toast. Scrapple. Greesey spoons and the American way.

Fashion, Four-wheeling, and Forces of Nature

 Yesterday morning my Dad and I set out for an epic 4-wheeling adventure.  The torrential rain falls started at the Sheetz two miles from my folks’ house.  We continued on to the county seat before we admitted that Mother Nature (that bitch) had duped us. 

Today we started out similarly.  Wake at 6.  Ready to roll by quarter after.  Check facebook for ten minutes while my Dad to destroys the restroom.  Head to Sheetz for gas, coffee, and sandwiches.  Now Sheetz (for those not familiar) is a special place where the coffee is always fresh and you can buy 31 flavors of jerky.  There are adds for off brand chew and clever turns of words to include the “sh”.  Order a “sh-muffin” while you pump fuel and pick it up inside when you buy your truck nutz.  Sometimes Sheetz isn’t just a convenient stop on the way to somewhere else, sometimes it is the destination.  I know of a couple who goes on dates to Sheetz.  Really.

Yes we are going 4-wheeling, but I am female (for those of you that missed that).  Therefore, occasionally fashion crosses my mind.  Today, for example, I was barreling through the woods and all I could think about was how this

Is so much like this

And how maybe western society has the idea of a burka all wrong!  No one I met on the trails today has a clue if I shaved my legs, or pits.  Not a soul was aware that in the quest to take my hair from purple to platinum there was a road side rest at orange.  It would be totally up to someone to imagine if my arms were toned or if I was smuggling a six pack or a pony keg under my Dad’s denim shirt.  It was kind of fun and really limited the use of sunscreen.

Time to head to the trail head.  I am wearing my Adidas trail runners and before my Dad sets the odometer for the day’s ride, I have soaked my right foot and ankle.  It seems that turning back yesterday was a stroke of combined genius.  The trails were beyond saturated.   Every valley on the path was a river.  Every divot, a pond.  IT WAS AWESOME!  My Dad says at this point that I can feel free to ride any way I like – avoid the water, SCUBA dive – whatever.  I decide to take the trails like a catamaran skimming from one water hole to the next.  Between two particularly well irrigated spots, I became momentarily airborne allowing mass quantities of wet dirt to find sanctuary on my rear.  Yes people, I had mud butt.  It was at this moment that I decided on my goal for the day, “get wet/muddy all the way to the top of my head”.  Turns out this is not hard.  If you take the trails with enough speed, you can get saturated without much difficulty what so ever.    Two miles down, sixty-seven to go and I am the swamp monster.  Four-wheeling rules!

My throttle thumb is a little worse for wear, but I really think the past three weeks of Brazilian Butts may have been all in preparation for this ride.  I am totally not sore even after all those miles.  We will see if that is still a true statement int he morning. 

a special treat for all my (both of my) readers  :)

The Dangers of Google and Hotel Mirrors

Despite asking for one for the last two Christmases, I do not have a full length mirror.  If I want to see my complete outfit, I climb on the edge of my bath tub and look in the bathroom mirror.  I regularly do this in five inch platforms since they are clearly part of my outfit.  To actually see the stilettos in context, I have to do some Circ de sole contortions.  (Wow I live dangerously) So, when I found myself staying in my very own hotel room this summer I was clearly smitten with the very convenient duel full length mirrors.  Wow.  What luxury.  For the first day I had to resist my urge to owl on the bathroom counter.  It’s not that I have never been in front of a long mirror, but one can get way more naked in a hotel room than say an H&M.

 For those of you who hadn’t noticed, I am short short short (hence the daily desire to wear 5” heels).  Staring in the mirror of truth, I realized that my legs seemed to be a prime culprit in my criminal shortness.  I also noticed that if I lifted my booty, my legs APPEARED LONGER!  Sign me up!  I felt like I cured gout – you know, not quite curing cancer, but still not bad.  For the low price of $21.85 a day, my resort fee included free wi-fi so I googled “butt lifting exercises”.  How’s that for immediate gratification?  I come to find out that I am clearly not the first English speaker who has wanted to make this adjustment.  Pages and pages appear about how to get a high Brazilian butt.  I had no idea what makes a butt Brazilian besides genetics, but the other Brazilians I have experienced have all been worth the pain so I settled in.  Choosing a seemingly easy five minute butt routine, I went to work.  I squatted, I lunged, I fell over a few times.  By this point I had actually re-clothed myself so it was way less embarrassing than one might think. 

Fast forward three weeks to today.  I have been faithfully doing my 5 minutes of butt toning a day hoping to see my badonkadonk defy gravity… to lift…er… to launch itself into…what? My lower back?  Well folks, all that happened was that my already very large derier  grew an amazing ¾ of an inch!  GREW!  Not lift?!?! GREW!  My posterior did not need one more degree of plumpacity.  Google didn’t say’ “effects similar to sitting in miracle grow”.  No.  It said lift and tone.  LIFT AND TONE!  Time, money, pocket aces…these are things I need more of – rear end , and taxes I’m good with.

It appears that where Google fails, Wal-Mart can help.  They have this new miracle product that can put all sorts of parts in unnatural places.  It’s call duct tape and I am convinced that is about the only way I am going to lift my ass.  I’m not sure how you can hide the tape lines in a bathing suit…maybe people will think I am a cyborg…from people of Wal-Mart. Oh, and upon removal, side effect may include Brazilian.

Zebras, Unicorns and Four wheeling in miniskirts

 Who wakes up in the morning and says, "I think I am going to feed mythical animals and then get my redneck on"? Well, I do!  Welcome to Planet Kelly. 

The kids and I only find ourselves in Western Pennsylvania about one month a year.  During the other eleven months, my parents find the craziest things to do for entertainment.  We have classics like county fairs, bike rides, and boating to riding in a random parade tossing candy.  Well, let today be no different.  We found ourselves in Eastern Ohio at Wagon Trails which is a hybrid of Noah's Ark and Jurassic Park.  The idea is you ride through the park in a wagon with a bucket of feed and...act like a trough. 

Here's how it works.  You get your bucket of chow

The animals come on over  

You can pet them (or not)

Then you can "sprinkle" (I WANT SPRINKLES) them some grub. 

Some of the animals preferred to eat from under the seats

In a bout of confusion, this cow tongued my shoe.  Poor dude thought it was his uncle.  I bought these in Italy, so more likely it is this guy's baby than his uncle.  Just saying.  Or he might have a foot fetish...which Rex Ryan has taught us all is a, "personal matter".  And who could resist these yummy toes with a two week old home pedicure.  I am shameless foot bait.

This little dude tried to eat my shirt and Ty's sunglasses. 

It was about an hour ride all said and done.

We saw lots of amazing animals, but this is my fave!

As much fun as it is to see all the really cool animals,  there is one animal that I would like to see left behind next time the ark is built.  Goats are proof that God tripped on acid during creation.  If it weren't for the goat cheese/milk, goats would just be a sadistic crime against nature.  

Besides goats, I have a fondness for all the rest of the horned creatures...even horned owls even though they are clearly cheaters.  The symbol of our contrata (neighborhood) has a unicorn on it which of course means...well...not a lot.  Here I thought Unicorns looked mainly like white horses with a horn and had mad purifying powers.  Sounds alright.  You can imagine my surprise when I discovered thy mythical beast and it was....

a goat. 

I tried to find out if it bled rainbows, but the damned thing just kept trying to eat my clothes.  Clearly it was a male. 

So to make my world right again, I took my Dad's four wheeler for a couple laps 

In my mini skirt. 

Felt good. 

 Tomorrow My Dad and I take the bikes into the woods for a day of Jackass b-footage.

Should be fun. 

I think I will wear pants.

To market to market

Last night my Dad asked me if I wanted to tag along to Rogers which is only the largest flea market in the area.  I was feeling a bit down and I knew there would be loads of Amish there so I figured I could take my camera and entertain myself stealing Amish souls.  Always a good time. 

It takes a special kind of crazy to enjoy flea markets.  Lucky for me it lands in my spectrum of insanity.  We trolled the aisles of old glass wear and barely legal guns for about three minutes before we were both sweating through our shirts.  We still smelled better than the average shopper and powered on.  My assignment for this outing was to come home with the most useless thing on the market.  I was almost sold on this gem:

 

I mean who wouldn’t want a resin skull prominently displayed on their kitchen table?  Thing is, it still holds salt and pepper shakers…so while wildly tacky, still useful.

The next contender:

Perhaps scarier than the skull, disturbing 3 foot high midget Victorian recreations.  I would have taken a photo from the front, but I didn’t want to look them in their Chucky eyes.  I mean you can see there is already police tape up.  Do you know what happened?  Me neither, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they were hiding slain puppies and crushed rainbows under their petticoats.  I decided these would be useful if I ever became constipated.  Just put one of these in the bathroom and everyone will be in and out in under a minute.

But, I am looking for useless.  Well, I don’t chew tobacco.  Moreover, no one I know chews tobacco

making a spittoon the most useless thing I could find.  I paid a whole $7 for this bad boy.  Unfortunately for my gums, it is growing on me and I think I may need to take up chewing tobacco just so this thing can fulfill it’s purpose in life.

Mission accomplished.

So back to the Amish. I hunted them abashedly with my Nikon. Here they are making Amish doughnuts. Resistance was futile.  Anything made with lard then fried in the same puts a Krispy Kreme to shame.

I did a mad four miles of penance for this indulgance.

There was a proliferation of amazing produce and I totally dorked out.  I bought cherries, strawberries, nectarines, orange pepper, portabellas, and something that had been hiding from me my whole life: strawberry sweet corn.

We loaded our swamp asses into my Dad’s VW thankful that leather seats were an upgrade skipped on this car and crossed our fingers it would make it home.

It did.  Made squash and pepper soup, fruit salad, strawberry pie…and now a post.