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Motivational Speaker Bedazzles Foot…Again

24 Aug Posted by in Motivational Speaker | 2 comments

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled program to announce some late breaking news: Kelly Swanson, the world’s leading (according to her own poll given to neighbors, family, and friends) motivational speaker has been injured in the rigorous process  of elevating herself to a new level of fashion. Weapon? The Bedazzler. Criminal? Self Inflicted. And you choose this woman to be your fount of wisdom? We were fortunate enough to reach Kelly for comments. So let’s hear it from Kelly – how something like this can, and usually does, happen only to her:

Yes, you heard me right Geraldo –  it’s exactly as it sounds. I bedazzled my foot. Again. Let me back up for those of you who have been living under a rock and don’t know what a bedazzler is. It’s the rockin’ tool they came out with in the eighties (probably around the time of the Chia Pet – ch,ch,ch, chia!) that allows you to adorn items with studs. Studs come in all sizes and colors, including rhinestones. And they can be attached to anything with the help of the Bedazzler that serves as something similar to a staple gun. You can imagine my glee when I was in the craft store (buying 400 dollars worth of scrapbooking materials that would end up in a dusty unopened bag under my bed beside the “make your own dollhouse” kit) and I saw the Bedazzler for just 19.99 including 57 studs. Apparently 57 is a magical marketing number to make you buy the product. Well, it worked. I bought it, and set out to bedazzle my way to a happily ever after – being a firm believer in the idea that bigger is better and if you can bling it, you have hit the mother load.

I bedazzled everything I could get my hands on – jean jackets, hats, purses, the trim of my boots, my bedspread, and the tail of my cat, which I recommend you choose to do when he’s sleeping.  (Just kidding, I didn’t bedazzle the cat – good grief – lighten up!)  I bedazzled four velour jumpsuits to wear when I’m eighty and my favorite bra, which I don’t recommend doing while you are wearing it unless you want to bedazzle some parts that are probably better left unbedazzled. Unless you’re my cousin Juanita who dances third shift, and it’s probably better we not go there.

When my son asked if he could bedazzle his Spiderman pajamas, my husband scheduled another one of his Kelly Swanson interventions, much like the one they held during my blue eye shadow years – where friends and family sat around my living room on my bedazzled sofa, wearing their matching bedazzled sweatshirts, drinking hot tea out of bedazzled coozies – and told me I had a problem.  They took my bedazzler, hid all the studs, and planned out a schedule where they would each take turns sitting with me while I went through a shaking sweating bedazzler detox period. Now I go to meetings where I can proudly announce I am thirty-one days bedazzler-free and call myself a survivor – which I’m just sure will get me more speaking gigs.

But apparently they were not able to find all the studs, or were unwilling to go into some of those dusty dark recesses of my house where the wild things live.  Normally, I don’t go there either, but my gumball rolled away from me  (long story) and as I was climbing behind the exercise bike (that stopped working in 1983 but makes a great hanger for my purses) I stepped on something very sharp that pierced the ball of my foot. At first I thought it was a jellyfish (Soul Surfer still on the mind) and then I thought maybe it was the tse-tse fly (not sure what that is, but have always wanted to use it in a sentence) and now that I had been bitten it was going to start eating away at my flesh, and why couldn’t that darn fly bite my butt instead? And again, the word “survivor” flashed into my brain and I saw the marketing potential. I’m not proud.

But when I looked down to inspect the bottom of my foot (and made a mental note NEVER to let anybody see that if I was ever single again) instead of bug eaten flesh staring back at me, I saw a nice shiny round rhinestone planted in the middle of my newly bedazzled foot – right in that place where the nail lady buffs during a pedicure and it tickles so bad I start laughing hysterically which apparently she interprets as me wanting her to buff it harder. Not my proudest moment. But I digress.

“Bill! I bedazzled my foot!” I yell down to my husband, who unfortunately is no longer phased by anything I say anymore, having become as calloused as my foot to the antics of his crazy wife. “Come quick!” I yell. Which he didn’t, just like he didn’t come quick when I got my hair stuck in the drain while I was washing it in the kitchen sink. And just like he didn’t come quick when I was convinced someone had broken into the house and stolen my favorite pair of Spanx. ( I’m still convinced that little man walking his dog every morning is a good two sizes smaller and has incredibly smooth thighs.)

Hubby didn’t come at all as a matter of fact. Apparently he doesn’t consider a bedazzled foot to be life-threatening, even though I told him for all I knew it was a rusty stud and now I only had twenty-four hours to live. (He didn’t buy it,  told me to quit watching so much TV, and questioned the intelligence of our decision to home school.) Oh but he was super eager to get it out for me – telling me he had just the right tool – while I had a flashback of the time he had just the right tool to fix the dishwasher and I pictured my foot in thirty-seven pieces scattered across the kitchen floor hearing him say for the hundredth time, “I’ve almost got it.”

“No thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll keep it.”

“You can’t keep it,” he said. “It will get infected.” Which is my husband’s answer to everything.

“I’ll show you infected,” I said in my best Jersey Godfather accent. He, of course, didn’t appreciate the humor – or the accent – or the memory of our anniversary when instead of showing him my new lingerie, I showed him my ingrown toenail. We have a special kind of relationship.

So I stubbornly stuck my chin out and insisted on keeping my new adornment (despite the fact that it killed to walk on it) but I was convinced I was going to start a trend, and kept surfing the tabloids to see if Posh Spice was walking with a limp. And that’s where the story ends, like most of my stories. With a trip to the doctor. Don’t tell my husband. I hate it when he’s right. Good-bye short-lived fashion statement and the trend that almost was. Hello curtains that are now calling my name to be bedazzled as my fingers shake. I guess once an addict, always an addict.

Until next time, stay on the funny side of life. That’s where you’ll find me.

And this has been another peek into the life of your favorite or maybe only wacky motivational speaker, Kelly Swanson. Good night Gracie.

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  1. Nicoa Dunne08-24-11

    You are always so damn funny – and I’m not proud either, reminded me of the time I was headed to the doctor to get my “melanoma” cut out and I said to my friend who called to wish me well …”So, the good news is I’ll get a lot more speakin’ gigs now that I can say that I’ve had Cancer!!” She thought that was just awful and deplorable and I thought that was just lookin’ on the funny, and hopefully the more profitable, side of life! :)
    Thanks for always makin’ me smile

  2. kelly08-24-11

    Thanks Nicoa! Here’s how pathetic I am. We’re at the beach with family and my sister tells me I’ll get cancer because I just ate out of a plastic container that I put in the microwave. And for a second, I was actually seeing the marketing opportunities. And I pointed out to her that I would put a bright spin on it, and use the cancer to my business advantage. Until I realized that I would lose my hair and not have a place to clip in my new hair extensions. To which my other sister reminded me that I could get a wig – which got me really excited because there is this really cool one I saw in the wig shop window – and now I could change my hair every day! And then my sisters told me they would help me through it and make sure I lived, so I could get even more work as a survivor. Then my brother in law said if I was gonna get cancer, I should shoot for some melanoma they could just scrape out – and he’d be happy to scrape it out for me and save me some money. Leave it to me and my family to make jokes about a serious subject. Then again – what better way to have power over something scary than to laugh in the face of it! My aunt, who is a breast cancer survivor, heard the story and laughed loudest of all.

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