978-1-57482-254-0

So many months of writing.

So many interviews, phone calls, emails and research articles.

So long waiting between edits.

So much moving on with the rest of life, that has nothing to do with being an author.

So many people not knowing anything about this side of myself.

And finally, my book has an ISBN number.

It seems like such a simple thing – an almost unnoticed line on the third page of a stack of 167 papers. Right between verbiage about “all rights reserved” and publisher contact information — and editor and book design credits. Two long lines of numbers and dashes I’d normally find on the back cover of a book I’ve purchased on Amazon.

I never cared about them until now.

After three weeks of intense editing on my manuscript, of skilled direction by my editor — of rethinking and researching — I’m this much closer to becoming a published author. The ISBN is tangible evidence that this life-list goal will happen.

So I celebrate the ISBN.

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Friday will be my birthday.

I’ll be older than I was in the other photos I posted here and here. Much. Older.

While this isn’t a milestone birthday, I’m definitely starting to feel my age, and look it as well. I guess that’s just the way it is. It’s also the reason I’m always behind the camera, rather than in front of it, these days.

So when we were ice skating last month, my husband thought he’d do me a favor by grabbing the Canon from my chair before I had a chance to do so. Sweet guy.

What’s funny is he really did think he was doing the right thing. The honorable thing. He thought, “I should really get Kelly in a picture with the kids. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

To answer this question for all you husbands out there that really mean well, but are generally clueless, this would not be nice. This would hardly even be human. And your photos will never see even the dim light of day, unless you happen to capture a moment when your wife is looking especially ravishing — or if, by chance, she decides to post this mortifying photo on the Internet, because she’s, well, crazy.

This, for instance, would not be the kind of portrait you should capture:
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As promised in last week’s caption contest, here’s the second in a series of three photos, leading up to my birthday.

The photo above is also pre-motherhood (duh) in my pageant days. I was first runner-up in the Miss Wisconsin USA pageant. I have only fond memories left, since the bod is totally gone. You’ll know what I mean in the final photo I post next week.

A current one.

Again, I think I’ve held true to my claim that I’m posting photos that look nothing like my profile pic. Again, I’m showing a photo I swore to myself I’d never show you.

And again, I’m offering a signed copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: Celebrating Mothers and Daughters, to the winner of this week’s caption contest.

So keeping in mind last week’s flattering photo, how would you caption this one?

I’ll accept captions until Wednesday 8 PM Central Time, and post the winning caption on Thursday.

And if you’d like to see the final photo, I encourage you to subscribe to a feed below to get a reminder. I WON’T BE POSTING THE LINK ANYWHERE!

Just sayin’.

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You’ve kept me giggling for 24 hours — taking pot-shots at my scraggly, flat-chested youcan’tmakemewearadress self. You made the brilliant, but unintended connection that this early-me could be the avatar for Pass the Pitchfork. Mom called me a joker. Jenny in CA suggested there may have been a noticeable scent. Holly thought I made a pretty good Popeye impersonation. Sprittibee noticed the veil of grit that covered every pore and follicle.

Mike Thomas used my pre-pubescent photo shoot as inspiration for the opening of a future best-seller,

“Just having come out of the safety provided by the trailer, the new boy ‘Tilbork’ looked disoriented with his surroundings in this new land….”

Robin and TNTChick inferred I must have just placed my strappy sandals in equine dung.

But Pamela — the incomparable Pamela — noticed the distinct Elvis sneer, and determined that I, a mere three years after his demise, had taken up where the legend left off.

And on the horseshow trail, the lyrics would have to be a bit different,

“Now I have to call them my brown suede shoes.”

Pamela, just email me your snail address and I’ll ship your prize book, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Celebrating Mothers and Daughters. Thanks to all of you who participated, and I’ll see you next Wednesday for my second installment in this series of photos. Ummmmm, it will show a different side of my insanely chaotic multidimensional life.

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UPDATED TO ADD: These captions are awesome! Caption as many times as you like. No rules that I can think of. Deadline 8 PM central time Wednesday. Enjoy!

UPDATED AGAIN: WINNER ANNOUNCED HERE.

In the three weeks leading up to my birthday on Good Friday, I’ll host a weekly caption contest for photos I swore to myself I’d never show you.

I promise. They’re nothing like my profile photo.

Since I’m a mother and a daughter, I think it’s only fitting to offer a signed copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: Celebrating Mothers and Daughters, to the winner of each week’s caption contest.

The photo above is of my scrawny self, when I was only a daughter — and a horseshowing fashion misfit. In the next two weeks, you’ll witness my progression to the soon-to-be-somewhere-in-the-upper-30’s mother I’ll become the first week in April. For an accurate age, you’ll have to ask my kids.

I’m also approaching the approximate one-year anniversary of this blog. (You can see I’m not good at keeping track of dates.) I’ll include these caption contest posts in my 100-things category, which you’re supposed to do on your hundredth post.

Yeah, I missed that deadline too.

Welcome to my world.

Visit the Wordless Wednesday hub for more fun photos.

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