Hold On.

Hello. It’s me.

I’m not going to belt out Adele’s newest hit. But know that I want to.

This is my first post for 2016! Queue applause! No? Crickets? No? OK. Jeez.

I know I’ve stunk it up in terms of blogging consistency, neglecting this squirrel’s nest of stories at times. But, long story short, I’ve had a lot on my plate over the last year – namely, my little family moved from NY to NC, transitioning from having oodles of family and friends and support all around us to living in a beautiful place where we have to rebuild it all. So far, it has been an exciting adventure but I have two screech owls under my wing (Kellan, age 4; Rory, age 1.5) at all times now and I’ve got a couple fun new freelance writing projects (!!!!!) and I’m trying my hand at being a Beachbody fitness coach (health and fitness, marketing and writing, helping people? Perfect combo for my soul!) So, If P then Q, blogging funny personal stuff isn’t going to happen on the regular. It’s not a priority at this point. Raising my fuzzy owls is. (That sounds like terrible English. It’s not. Don’t question me again.)

That said, I vow to make an effort when I’m able. Today, it just so happens that I’m able. So. Here’s my first crack at it…

I call this Hold On. *ahem, clearing lap top throat*


I have creativity. I have a quirky sense of humor and wit. I don’t have tech savvy. I just don’t.

My most recent reminder of this was yesterday, during what was supposed to be my workout time.

It was approximately 10:30am EST. Kellan was at preschool. Rory had just settled in for his morning nap. It was Mommy Time. A.K.A. Workout Time. Currently, The Master’s Hammer & Chisel Time. (Message me if you’re interested! Shameless plug! I’m a coach now, remember?)

Stay with me here.

So I popped in the DVD for my workout of the day, fired up my portable DVD player and waited while the usual boring warning screens loaded. “At your own risk. If you kill yourself doing this, we’re not liable. And at least your body looked hot while dying. So we don’t feel THAT bad.” Anyway, since Rory was napping, I hit the down arrow to lower the volume (my hubs, Tim, worked out last which means it was blaring in order to keep him focused and not distracted by screaming children and a screaming-at-them-mommy in the process of cooking a healthy dinner).

But instead of taking my direct order and softening in noise, the disobedient DVD player projected a message: Hold On. Big, white, irritating letters plastered on the screen.

What?! How dare you tell me to Hold On! You’re rude!

I press Volume Down again. Same thing. Hold On. Are you serious right now? Is my DVD player being sassy? Did it catch this from my 4-year-old somehow? Is my DVD player watching me?!

I press it again. And again. And again.

Hold On. Hold On. Hold On.

Listen, you piece of technological garbage. I’ve BEEN holding on. I’ve been waiting for this moment, my time of peace and quiet and sweat, all morning. I look forward to this 45 minute chunk of munchkin-free paradise every damn day and if you think I’m going to Hold On you’ve got something else coming. I’ve done my chores, stowed my children away safely and now it’s MY time! Don’t you dare tell me to Hold On!

It then dawns on me.

OK, not right then, I probably pressed the buttons 30 more times first before the old brain lightbulb sparked.

The DVD player was not in fact telling me to chill out and hold my horses. It wasn’t exerting power over my human brain. No, not at all, Dummy.

It was TRYING to tell me the Hold button was On.

Ohhhhhhh. Hold IS On.

Duhhhhhhh. Riiiiiiiiight. A verb would have been nice! Damn thing must have been manufactured in China. (No offense, my Chinese friends.)

I slipped the Hold button to Off and proceeded to feel like the smartest person ever born and the sweatiest (after I knocked out my workout, finally.)


What do you think? Solid effort at my first blog post of the year, right? There are plenty more Nellisms where that came from. Sometimes my whole life feels like one big Nellism.

Stay tuned. Hold On.

Thanks, friends. I wish you all a wonderful new year, filled with exciting adventures and opportunities to laugh at yourself. Or, hey, me.

Until next time.


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The great thaw and the stank mobile.

Crap. The weather is finally warming up. This is really upsetting.

I know what you’re thinking.

And no, I’m not being sarcastic here. I’m perfectly serious.

Why do I not want warmer weather and chirping birds and happier neighbors and green grass to sprout? It’s not because I love the cold. Or the snow.

I don’t ski. I don’t even sled. I don’t build more than one snowman a year, if that.

Before you go judging me, by the way, I have Raynaud’s disease, a condition where my fingers go painfully numb when they’re exposed to cold temperatures thanks to a lovely auto immune thing or frost bite as a kid – don’t know which. Either way, I get to blame my parents. Basically, I can’t feel my digits after the burning pain throbbing in them subsides. And they turn white. They look like thick, knobby icicles poking rigidly off my palm in all directions. Well, five directions.

(On the plus side, my hands make excellent ice packs for feverish children’s foreheads. Professional sports teams should really capitalize on people like myself with this condition. My hands perform much better than any ice pack. They can wrap right around tight shins and pulled hammies, no problem, and they remain ice cold for hours. School nurses ought to hire me, too. I can cool and cure two sick kids at a time while using my legs and feet to kick out the phony baloney ones and my mouth to spread fun school gossip.)

Anyway, even with the corpse fingers, I really don’t want our freezing cold, bitter arctic tundra, not-leaving-the-house-for-days of a winter to end.

The reason? It’s a good one.

The worst scent to have ever assaulted a human’s nostrils comes barreling out whenever a toasty ray of sunshine projects through my rear window.


Moe puked in the back of my car two years ago and it still reeks whenever the sun hits it just right, OK? The wretched scent of dog barf overwhelms my car when it’s warm outside. It’s heinous. No amount of Febreze, baking soda or freshy-fresh-smelling, miracle-promising spray can even begin to erase that scent. Or the memory of that scent, should the scent ever be evicted, that is. It will still be with me forever, haunting me on summer days. It’s a part of me now.

I’ve learned that, in general, when it comes to cleaning, whether it’s your house or even your car (again, thanks, Moe) you can scrub and vacuum and mop and dust and squirt and wipe and <cleaning verb>. Well guess what? You’re only as clean as your dirtiest member. Ours is Moe (clearly). The hairiest, smelliest, slobberiest, jowl-slime-flinging-iest beast of an English bully. Try keeping up with his filth. You can’t. I can’t. Even he can’t. He tries licking himself clean and gives up a quarter of the way through, defeatedly grunting and passing back out for his eighth nap of the day.

Harummpphhh. * Fat dog body collapsing back onto my pillow, a gnarly cloud of hairs catapulted into the air and raining back down on him.

You read that correctly. My pillow.

Moe curls up for his naps during the day where I put my face at night. As a direct result, every day I wake up resembling that sucker who turned into Benji. Or Teen Wolf. Wolfette. It’s not just a five o’clock shadow of dog fur – it’s a full coverage fu manchu. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think wow, my eyelashes are SO lush! Then I realize it’s just dog hairs interwoven with my real ones. Doesn’t matter, I can still coat those puppies (pun not intended?) with a thick layer of mascara and make women everywhere jealous of my lashes. Yeah, they’re not real, OK?!

You got it, flaunt it. Even if “it” is technically dog butt.

Anyway, back to the point.

Just keep me and my stink mobile in mind this weekend, my northeastern friends, when you’re happily out and about enjoying the more pleasant temperatures and the sun is gently warming your back and caressing your cheek. That same sun is doing something truly abhorrent and sinister in my vehicle. A chemistry project gone wrong.

Lastly. If you want to order a pair of dog-lash falsies from me for your next special event, let me know. Moe is molting this time of year so there’s no shortage of supplies.

Happy weekend!


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Sleep or blog?

Catch up on sleep or write a blog post? Is that even a question? Those two things are not equal. Not even close. But this is what’s going through my brain these days.

For those of you who don’t know, this mommy blogger is a mom of two now. Two boys. Two nut cases. The owners of two private parts around which I have no idea what I’m doing.

My newest little guy, Rory, just passed the nine month mark, while the older one, Kellan, the original inspiration for this blog, just turned into three. Yes, I purposely put an “into” there. Kids don’t just turn three. They turn into three. Three is a thing, not an age. And you don’t want to anger it. The worse part is, you never know what might anger it. There is no way to avoid it as you seriously don’t even have a clue what is going to set it off. You tip toe around the house, room to room, on eggshells only to find the thing waiting for you in a corner of the kitchen near where the pirate’s booty is kept, red beady eyes laser-beaming into yours, scorching your retinas and trying to gain brain control, chest heaving up and down as his siren voice screeches out (at least you think that’s his voice. It’s reminiscent of a million sewer rats being lit on fire), “Maaamaaaaaaaa!”

Why is the thing torqued up? Oh, one of his Legos probably wouldn’t connect to another of his Legos on the first try. Duh. Total hissy catalyst.

My coping mechanism? I try to keep open pouches of fruity gummy bunnies on me at all times so I can just reach into my pocket and throw them at the thing when he comes quasi-moto-limping after me.

By the way, I just caught wind of the term “threenager” from another mom of a hormonal three-year-old in an online mommy support group that I follow and I love it. I definitely have a threenager.

So yeah. Send help.

Having two kids vs. one is a completely different animal. Not a cute, fuzzy one. One foaming at the mouth with fangs. See above description. As my dad put it in a recent voicemail to me: “You’re probably feeding someone right now. Call me back later.”

So when one or both are napping by some miracle, I’m faced with the question: do I nap, or do I blog? (Assuming “do I eat?”, “do I shower?”, “do I clean the house?” and/or “do I exercise?”<- yeah right. are already answered and taken care of, that is.) My solution most times? Nine times out of ten, it’s nap. So I apologize for letting my blog slip, but it’s one of those “sorry, not sorry” deals.

But. Alas. I was only woken up out of my peaceful slumber to nurse Rory like three times last night (or was it four?) so today I shall blog. And I’ll share a few tidbits I’ve composited over the past several (non-blogging, heavy napping) months.

1. First up, a throwback to when I was pregnant. To friends and lovers of pregos: Inviting a pregnant woman to hang out in a bar is like inviting someone with no feet to get a pedicure. Useless. We don’t want to be there. We can’t do what you do and it’s not the same to be there sober. It’s just not. Don’t try to be the “cool pregnant wife”. The rest of us beotch pregnant wives know the truth. You’re not fooling us.

2. So-called “baby brain” doesn’t begin to describe my current state of mental dysfunction after having Rory. It’s more like an etcha-sketch right now. Any sudden movements and my thoughts are gone, slate wiped clean.

Plus, lately I feel like I’m in need of a Second Guesser when I venture out shopping. I simply can’t be trusted to read labels or purchase what I set out to. I need someone to go through each item in my cart one by one once it’s on the conveyer belt, look me in the eye (otherwise I’m scrolling Facebook on my phone totally distracted and totally not listening to you) and ask, “Did you really mean to buy this? Are you sure? ARE YOU SURE?” The other day I bought conditioner instead of shampoo and proceeded to wash my hair with it. I didn’t seem to notice that there was zero lather. Zero suds. Zero soapy clean feel at all whatsoever. When I was all dried off and dressed, my ‘do was slickly matted to my skull, but super shiny and soft, and I chalked it up to excess post-baby hormones. The whole postpartum whirlwind of estrogen and what-not flying through my body had to be to blame here, not user error, right? I mean, I went through the day with a partial mullet, resembling an otter that had just popped up for air in the middle of an oil spill ridden lake. Does that metaphor even make sense? Should I have used an ocean rather than a lake? Probably. I opted for blogging instead of napping today. See what I mean? Bad news bears, er, otters.

3. On the subject of showers. Showers are what make me feel human. Scientists say the conscience is what separates humans from animals. BAH. Wrong! I say showers. When I don’t shower, I swear I can hear the wolves prowling and clawing at the door, scratching to get in. My matted hair (from natural scalp grease, not confusing conditioner for shampoo), heinous breath that smells of rotting carcass (sometimes I don’t brush my teeth until I shower. You  know, package deal.), bits of (baby) dung under my nails. It’s obvious the wolves are waiting for me to be their new pack leader. To share the resources that I’ve so clearly been thriving on. Wait a second, wolves, are you saying I’m chubby?

4. I have also been shedding like crazy. (Thank you, hormones.) And when I drive, I tend to run my fingers through my hair simultaneously. (Like I’m Tiffany, singing my heart out in an 80s music video, yes, fine!) I then like to dispense whatever hair remains on my fingers out the window so as not to squirrel-nest-ify my car. But by doing this, waving my fingers out of my window to fling the strands out of my car, that is, people in oncoming traffic think I’m waving to them. I can’t tell you how many people have waved back or honked when they’ve passed by. Or tossed at me a furrowed, Do I Know You? brow. It has turned out to be quite an amusing social experiment. Until I’m bald. Then it won’t be funny anymore. Joke’s on me.

5. Lastly. To those thinking about having a child, I ask that you first try this simple test: Attempt to scrub clean a sink full of dirty dishes with one hand while the lower half of your body from the waist down is bending out so that a 38 lb orangutan-kid can dance underneath, between and around your legs like a drunken stripper on two crooked poles while you’re belting out London Bridge is Falling Down with an English accent because the regular upstate New York dialect isn’t entertaining enough, while trying to secure the 15 lb bobble-head strapped to your chest weaving in the opposite direction of your body with the other hand. Still interested? That’s what I thought. Keep popping that BC.

I’m going to stop at five today. Just knocking some rust off. I have about 1,999,999 more, but I need a – you guessed it – NAP. Email me if you’d like to apply to be my Second Guesser. You’ll be paid handsomely – in fruity bunny gummies.

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Does the odium come with the couch?

Sometimes Craigslist isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it’s not cracked up at all, but cracked out. Way the hell out.

My husband and I are trying to ditch our man-cave couch to make room in the new baby’s nursery for more important things, like, say, the crib, and the baby himself, so I posted it on my buddy Craig’s page for $100. At least I thought he was my buddy.

Here’s the first response to violently collide with my inbox:

“do the throw pillows and the odium come with in??? plz write back.” Signed Elizabeth.

No, but fierce judgment does, Elizabeth.

What the hell is an odium? Lamar Odom?  No, he’s not currently available from my house. Check with the Kardashians. Or the Lakers. (Impressed I knew that? Don’t be. Lamar in a blinding yellow Lakers uniform was the first image that popped up when I googled “Odom”. See Elizabeth? Google your shit. Spell- and fact-check it before you hit Send, dummy.) And do you mean “with ‘it'”, as in, “does the odium come with it, the couch”, or are you inquiring “within”? I’m lost. Not as lost as you, though, obviously.

I responded by telling her that she could indeed have the throw pillows, but the ottoman, assuming that’s what she meant, and not a tall, black basketball player, was not for sale.

She promptly replied, “can i come on monday and see it at 6:30???? plz write back”

When I told her that was fine, she said, “i need you addres plz so i can coome and see it plz”

In my head, my response went a little something like this. Listen Elizabeth – or should I say Eloozoobith, based on your blatant disregard for all things grammatically holy and spelled properly in this world – there are so many unforgivable errors in your request that I can barely physically muster the strength to willingly give you my address. I have to trust my gut on this one and my conscious is telling me – shouting, screaming at the top of my own lungs, actually – no, no, NO, do not invite this delinquent into your home.

My fingers curled up tightly into fists, refusing to type. I managed to pry out just one, the weakest, the pinky, to tap in the address. Just. Do. It. Fingers. It’s. For. 100. Bucks. Baby. Must. Have. A. Nursery.

So I swallowed my grammatical pride and sent the address. Regret sank in immediately. Like taking a cannonball to the chest.

After all this, do you think she ever did actually “coome to see it plz”?

NO. No, she didn’t. And she didn’t email me an excuse/apology/suicide note/jack either.

Elizabeth was a no-show. A total flake out.

My hubs asked if I gave her my phone number. “Did she text you? Can you text or call her?” Uhh, no, I barely wanted her knowing my address let alone my cell. I can only imagine the heinous texts from her. My inbox was scarred enough without offering her another avenue for committing grammatricide.

But I was angry. I thought, Hey! I put on (non-yoga) pants for you! Jerk!

I also baked brownies that night that just so happened to be fresh out of the oven around the time E-looser-beth was supposed to be there (again, coincidentally – I wasn’t planning on offering her any; I don’t reward atrocious spelling) and I was forced to awkwardly hover over them at the stove, scarfing mounds before they cooled (the way I love to eat them, ooey gooey) and monitoring the number of teeth blacked out by fudge in the reflection of the kitchen window. I had no choice but to perform a windshield wiper tongue sweep every two seconds like a ravenous, salivating hyena curled over its wounded prey in the wild or a middle school kid with braces eating Oreos in the cafeteria. You know, just in case there came a knock at the door.

She completely ruined my undercooked brownie experience. I mean, how rude! I could have dived in with a lot less tongue-over-teething had I known I was not about to have any house guests. Unbelievable how inconsiderate some people are.

Don’t worry though, I got my revenge. I fired off a “Hey, I’m guessing you’re not coming?” email to her inbox about an hour after she was supposed to show. Zing! Bet she felt that one! She won’t be messing with me or my man-cave couch any time soon. I should have added a snarky “plz write back” at the end, but truthfully, I don’t want her to write back. Ever again. And she has my address, after all. I don’t need to incite a drive-by-shooting of some sort. A drive-by-couching, perhaps. Besides. My couch deserves a good home and lazy people who will love it and treat it well and have grammatically correct, intelligent conversations on it. And that’s not Elizabeth.

Lamar Odom.

Lamar Odom.

My ottoman.

My ottoman. Still not seeing a resemblance.

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I’ll take a corned beef sandwich with a side of miso soup.

Happy (24-days-ago) New Year!

My apologies for the (second) blogging hiatus but I’ve actually had some pretty awesome paid writing gigs over the last couple months. I hope it’s a sign of what’s to come for 2014.

Pretty please, freelance writing gods. Pretty please. I’ve got 20 fingers and 20 toes crossed for good luck now that I’m 5.5 months pregnant and the fetus has officially developed those parts. Along with another part that I totally didn’t think was there. Yep. The penis. This little dude threw me for a loop the size of the Indiana 500 raceway (did I get that right?). A practical joker right from the get-go. Gawd help me.

Anyway, come on. It was holiday season.

You know you weren’t reading much during that time anyway, let alone my blog ramblings. How could you be? Your eyes were on the prize; a tunnel vision of wrapping, baking, familying; all that mushy-fa-la-la-la stuff took precedence. The only thing your eyes were reading were those pesky dosage warnings on the back of the Tylenol bottle. (Reading them, not to be confused with heeding them. No judgment here. Family time can be brutal.)

Well. Besides a happy-new-year-sorry-I-suck-at-blogging-on-a-regular-schedule-add-it-to-the-new-years-resolutions note, I’ll also leave you with a brief update on the star of these nap time diaries, my son Kellan.

My dear, dear Kellan is now two years old as of a couple weeks ago. And the most important yet odd tidbit to know about him right now? He’s convinced his name is “You”.

No, it’s not some sort of Japanese alter ego he’s developing.

It’s all my fault. I’m constantly starting every sentence directed at him with YOU. “You do this. You do that. What would you like? What are you doing? You’re too silly. You’re too funny. DO YOU WANT TIME OUT?”

You get the idea. YOU, not my son.

The other day he graced his diaper with an inhuman, fluffy mound of fluorescent green poop (thanks again for Christmas tree cookies, Yaya – Kellan’s affectionate title for Grandma, in case you’re wondering.) So I playfully asked him where that wretched stank came from. He shouted back, very straightforward-like, “YOU!”

Riiight. OK. Not exactly.

Around his birthday, I would ask him whose special day we were celebrating. “Who’s turning two this weekend?!” His response? Everyone in unison now. “YOU!” with a stubby finger pointing spastically at his chest and a grin stretching from ear to ear.

Dada. Yaya Hickey. Yaya Killoran. The mailman. We’ve all tried correcting the issue by telling Kellan he’s actually not YOU, but in fact, ME, but you can imagine how confusing that is. Can’t YOU?

Quite honestly, “You Killoran” has a sweet ring to it anyway. An Asian-Irish twist. Like dipping corned beef and cabbage in miso soup and devouring it with chopsticks.

I hope I didn’t cross a racial line just now somehow. I probably did. Really, it wouldn’t be my blog without some sort of Nellism, P.C. or not. (Usually not.)

Regardless. I wish you all a fabulous weekend and a fantastic start to 2014. I shall resolve to blog more regularly to keep you entertained, or at least feeling really good about your life when you read about mine.

My scribbly two-second drawing of Kellan in his monogrammed "You" shirt which I've yet to purchase for him. He's about 100lbs overweight in my mind's eye and could be Jay Leno's son.

My scribbly, two-second drawing of Kellan in his monogrammed “You” shirt which I’ve yet to purchase for him. He’s about 100lbs overweight in my mind’s eye and could be Jay Leno’s son.

The real Kellan. Will the real YOU please stand up.
The real Kellan. Will the real YOU please stand up. Naked or otherwise. 


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I bought an elf.

Yes, yes I know. It’s not even Thanksgiving and I’m blogging about Christmas. I’m just as bad as the stores, radio stations, and everything else people complain about who have nothing better to complain about.

So. Here goes.

I broke down and bought it.

The infamous Elf on the Shelf.

If you haven’t heard of it, you’re either childless or live under a rock sans society’s Christmas-tradition-must-have pressures. If the rock is your gig, can I join you? Please? I’m super tidy, especially being pregnant. That earthworm infestation problem will be gone in no time and I’ll have your dirt neatly packed on the daily. Mull it over and let me know. My house is becoming too chaotic.

Anyway. The Elf on a Shelf is a little elf doll that you hide each morning before your child wakes up so he or she can then go on a hunt for it. The innocent child truly believes the elf’s real because it won’t sit in one place for longer than 24 hours at a time. Obviously. Duh. Or something like that. The elf’s deal is that he travels back to Santa each night to report on the child’s behavior. That’s why he’s in a different room each morning. That and he’s got location-based ADD. No, no. You know, it’s the whole naughty or nice spiel. He’s Santa’s messenger. But he lives with us. Sort of like a magical foster child situation.

So, yes. I begrudgingly coughed up the $29.99, the original manufacturer’s suggested retail price, or MSRP for those of you who live for acronyms, after searching high and low for discounted elves. I did it all with high, high hopes. Maybe, just maybe my nearing-terrible-twos child might actually listen to and obey his desperate, strung-out parents in the name of the all-seeing, Santa-tattling elf. We’ll see, to be determined (TBD). To be blogged (TBB).

One cute anecdote has unfolded already since the recent arrival of our new foster elf.

The adorable book that accompanies the little dude that explains the elf’s purpose, etc., states that the elf should be named immediately by the child. So I was reading this elf manual to Kellan last night to introduce him to his new warden, and for the complete hell of it, knowing full-well the response would either be heavy breathing or thick gobbledygook baby gibberish, I decided to ask him what we should call the elf. Much to my surprise, like MUCH much, he shouted, “BOBBIE!”

I couldn’t help myself. I blurted out in response, “What?! Who the hell is Bobbie? What the hell are you talking about?!”

Not really. That’s what my brain said to itself. Yes, I hear voices. Thought you knew that going into this.

What I actually said was, calmly I might add, “Oh, OK, you want to name him Bobbie?” to which he responded with his usual, Kellan-like, “Yuh!”

Keep in mind, this dear child of mine has never named anything. ANYTHING. He’s got “Mama” and “Dada” and “Ya-ya” and “Bapa” (Gramma and Grampa) down pat and that’s it for names. His favorite stuffed animal monkeys that he dotes on day and night? No names. Just “Mama” for the big one, spoken in a gruff, masculine, truck-driver, borderline-exorcist voice and “Beebee” for the little one, spoken in a soft, sweet tone. So needless to say, I was totally taken aback. Shocked. Shocked to the bone with warm and fuzzy, my-son-is-brilliant-and-maybe-more-verbal-than-I-give-him-credit-for feelings, that is.

So. I guess one good thing has come from giving in and buying the rip-off elf so far. I’ll keep a tally and let you know any other funny-good ones. Until then, Merry pre-Christmas, friends.


He looks so sweet. So innocent. I don’t know. The jury’s out still.

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6 more months of dumb.

It just dawned on me that I need exercise to be smart.
Minutes after an intense cardio kickboxing class, my brain is on fire with ideas. New business ideas, funny anecdotes I should write up, secrets behind the meaning of life. Seriously, it feels like I could solve the all world’s problems for the hour or so following a good workout.
Over the summer, I skipped working out for a week or so due to Fourth of Julying and RVing and other necessary activities, and the night before I finally carved out time to attend class, I told Tim that balloons float away once they’re blown up. Like, balloons filled with oxygen not helium. (I’m pretty sure we were arguing over whether or not our toddler son Kellan was old enough and/or would enjoy batting around balloons. Apparently I thought they’d just float away and it’d be all for nought. All the huffing and puffing and cheek-splitting and sore finger tips from teeny-slippery-knot-tying.) I was perfectly serious.
So, speaking of oxygen, clearly my brain doesn’t get any without exercise.
Which brings me to my next scary point. I’m pregnant. (Many of you are already aware of this if you’re a friend on Facebook.)
The fact that I’m pregnant isn’t what I meant to be scary. Unless you think I shouldn’t be procreating after the stories you’ve read through my blog. Touche. Fair enough.
What I meant is that, because I’m pregnant, I can no longer safely participate in my brain-clearing, super vigorous, cross-fit style, crazy-person, masochistic workouts. Instead of my Sweaty Betty sessions, I have been relegated to walking.
Walking? Uggghhh.
Walking does nothing for me. Or my brain power. And guess who likes to join me? My slow poke son.
Aww, that’s cute, though, right?
Not really.
Let me paint this picture for you.
I end up shuffling along at the pace of a one-legged turtle dragging his other decrepit legs under his shell, shouting out nouns like an overgrown toddler myself.
“Dat?” “Dat!” A chubby finger points inquisitively to mailboxes, cars in driveways, squirrels, gravel in the street, whatever he spots. Used condoms, bullet shells. Kidding. We’re in the city, but not the ghetto ghetto. (If I could get some more freelance writing jobs, we might be able to move out into the ‘burbs. HIRE ME.)  My role on our snail walks is to provide a name for anything and everything he sees. I’m a Toddler Tour Guide, if you will. A Toddler Tour Guide under a lot of pressure. As soon as his sausage-digit lands on something, he expects a prompt response. Or else. Blood curdling screams that make me sound like a child murderer fill the streets.
Maybe I should offer my services to other rug rats in the neighborhood for a small fee? Genius. Screw freelance copywriting.
Anyway. Suffice it to say I must find a way to enlightenment through this new exercise regime, if it can even be called an exercise regime. A way to keep the sludge moving through my grey matter so the shiny, pretty, smart stuff can filter out too.
But how? Clearly I won’t be able to come up with ideas to solve this problem without some serious cardio. Harumphhhh.
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Nellcro (never) saves the day!

Do you ever feel like a magnet for insane people?

As you know from my other posts, I often do. Maybe they see some of themselves in me. Frightening thought.

Anyway. Yesterday I was out running errands (searching high and low for cheap Halloween candy to feed the ravenous throngs that swarm my door each year) and just as I was pulling out of the plaza’s parking lot, a large figure came toddling towards me.

Reminded me of my 21-month-old son when he was just learning to walk. Except he might have been steadier on his feet than this object.

As she neared – well, first off I could see “it” was in fact a “she” – I could spot a stubby arm poking angrily out of a tattered Cosby sweater urgently waving a dirty meat claw at me in an effort to flag me down.

I thought for sure there might be some sort of emergency. Something big is going down. She may need my help. Call 911. Something.

I pulled up closer to her and rolled down the window asking if she was OK. Her hippopotamus jaws snapped open, her aggressively gaping teeth holes leered at me and she began to pump hot stank breath into my passenger side window.

Got iny spar shange?

Uhh, you’re kidding me right now, right? You just ran head-on at my moving car with your high-alert jazz hands in full shake and you want spare change? I thought this was a serious emergency. No one’s after you? No demented ex-boyfriend? No Freddie Krueger? No zombies?

Come ON. It’s Halloween, let’s have a good scare! (This is where I start to question whether or not I should be participating in what my husband and I call Shocktober, where we watch as many horror movies as we can in this month.)

Nope. Just begging.

Not to be insensitive (which means, spoiler alert, I’m about to be insensitive) but get a sign and pop a squat on the street corner like the rest of them, lady. Isn’t it part of The Homeless Street Code (a book handed out at orientation I believe) that you must never aggressively approach a car signaling you’re a damsel in distress when the only demon after you is your own hankering for some McDonald’s? Or crack?

I mean, I’m all for helping the homeless in other ways, like volunteering my time at the soup kitchen downtown (which, if I’m being honest, I haven’t done since Kellan was born. Tsk tsk, I know. In my defense, being a stay-at-home, work-at-home mom IS my philanthropy. Caring for this psycho of a child. Especially now that we’re nearing the twos. Good gawd, send in backup.)

So, needless to say I didn’t hand out any spare change as I had just forked it all over to the cashier in exchange for bags of “fun” rip-off size candy.

Maybe I should have offered her a piece of candy but I thought even a homeless person would be insulted by the size of it. Not enough nourishment, forget it. Barely even taste it before it’s gone. I’d rather scoop up a bite of seagull poop in the parking lot. OK, I doubt anyone would utter that last phrase, but maybe.

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Stumped you!

14 bloody stumps.

In the name of the best holiday ever (Halloween) and in an effort to reel in some new writing projects, I sent a plastic, bloody, severed foot to a bunch of local advertising agencies with whom I would love to work.

Am I nuts? Yes. Certifiable. But I swear there’s a method to my madness here.

Attached to each foot is a note explaining that I’m a freelance copywriter looking for work, plus a little background on me and the obligatory contact info, including my new mini-site, https://nell-killoran.squarespace.com. (HUGE props to the brilliant Jay Hickey for my site.)

The line that ties it all together, get ready for your ah-ha moment, is “Now that I’ve got my foot in the door…”

Get it?

Ahh. Ok. So THAT’s why she sent feet. Weirdo. 

Don’t judge. It’s creative.

I figured it will at least grab an ad exec’s attention and leave a lasting impression. Ideally some fantastic projects will come knocking on my inbox. We’ll see. Wish me luck.

If nothing else, it will serve as a splendidly creepy paperweight for the overflowing pile of drafts on the creative director’s desk. Or the beginning of a super fun prank on the new intern. The possibilities are endless, really.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

The foot note.

The foot note. Or footnote.


The meat and potatoes.


Call me! Email me! Something!


The beast all packaged up.

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Pinch me. I’m flopping.

I often dream that I’m superwoman.

Sounds awesome, right? Soaring high overhead like some majestic bird?

It’s not.

Instead of coasting in the clouds, this superwoman is skimming the ground with her belly, like a human skateboard. I inhale dirt chunks and choke down pebbles.

In every dream, I’m giving myself a ride somewhere, or riding myself, that’s not what I mean with this one, and I’m flying low to the pavement like a broken, awkward hovercraft, bumping and skinning my chin, elbows, knees and other dragging parts on the gravel. I’ve even been concerned mid-dream that my clothes would be ripped and stained by the various roadkill I pass. And I wonder if I’m going to reek like that dead skunk carcass I mushed over a few miles back once I reach my destination. (My subconscious knows how important keeping up appearances is, even if I’ve belly-flop-dragged myself all the way to the party.)

Funny thing is, I never actually reach a destination. The whole dream is my Aladdin’s-magic-carpet-ride body just floating steadily along.

So what the hell does this reoccurring dream mean?

Oh, you think I have an explanation?

No, I don’t.

I’m asking you.

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