The Google Influencer

As I get older, I find that I’m more and more like my little self. I’m her, but with money to spend on dumb stuff and a husband who enables me. Good news, though. He is also turning into his unhinged little self as he ages.

My husband, Eric, was destined to be a star. Picture this…

Alaska, sometime in the 80s, an elementary school on International Day. Eric stands on a lunch table, all eyes on him. He takes a pair of chopsticks, and sticks one in each nostril. Cheers all around as he lets everyone take it in. But wait — he pulls them out and then licks both to wild elementary school applause.

He got a note sent home that day, telling his parents about the chopsticks. It might or might not be related, but he was moved to special ed not long after that. I prefer to blame the chopsticks incident, but it was probably because he refused to learn how to tell time on an analog clock, which, let’s be real, isn’t that important now in 2025 anyway. Kind of like the whole “you won’t have a calculator in your pocket” reasoning back then.

In positive news, Eric didn’t spend long in special ed. They realized that he was actually highly gifted. Special, but not, special.

He spent his childhood being chased by moose, setting tire fires, and creating booby traps around his community. Essentially, he had an ideal childhood. I was, sadly, limited to setting small fires in the woods or talking the neighbor boys into doing it for me when it was likely we’d get in trouble.

I try to live my life like little Eric would. He’s a constant inspiration. That kid grew up to be a proper online influencer. Seriously. He’s a “Google Influencer,” and I write that with absolutely no sarcasm. He’s glad to let everyone know that his photos and reviews of such places as Lazy Dog at Fair Oaks, Hooters Fairfax, and The Shady Maple Smorgasboard in Lancaster, PA have millions of views.

He also knows how to tell time on any clock now.

The Hard Streets of Fairfax

From the archives: Written by a 23-year-old Kelly in 2005 who knew nothing about anything

Just one half of a neighborhood street holds almost all of my childhood memories. The better half (or, at least the hilly half) of Dansk Court not only had The Big Circle (known to arguably more sophisticated people as a cul-de-sac) but my best friend M.

Before M’s family moved in across the street, there was a lot of quality only-child alone time to be had. I was always content playing on my own, but one day the peaceful summer quiet was dreadfully interrupted. I had gotten brand new Fisher Price over-the-shoe roller skates for my 3rd birthday, and I loved them dearly; however, a 3-year-old doesn’t have the best balance ever. My mom solved this problem by getting me a 2-ft-long, ¼ inch diameter dowel from the craft store that was dubbed “Kelly’s Skating Stick.” I used my skating stick like a hiking stick, I guess, but regardless of how silly I must have looked, it did the trick. Well, one day I was happily shuffling around the driveway with my skating stick when, out of nowhere, the Doberman from two houses up came barreling down the hill at me and knocked me over. I was left with dirty Oshkosh B’goshes and skates in the air, wheels still rolling, silent, hardly knowing what to do. Obviously I cried after that pregnant pause. It was that day that I learned to fear dogs. Years later, our next-door neighbors had a wiener dog that they kept tied up outside, and I refused to walk on the same side of the street as that dog. You never knew what could happen if that vicious beast came untied.

Growing up, I spent a lot of quality time with the Stragands, our neighbors and my parents’ closest friends at the end of the street, who I remember best for always having Jell-O Pudding Pops. There are two stories that the Stragands still love to tell new neighbors at block parties—one of a memorable toddler rebellion and one tragic tale of my first big girl bike.

I think the only time before age 13 that I made my parents beyond furious was the Nasal Spray Incident. Mom and Dad were dressed up, ready to go out to dinner, and I was staying home with a sitter. Before leaving, my mom had sat me on the kitchen counter to give me a few squirts of nasal spray to alleviate whatever illness I may have had. I wasn’t having any of that. I pushed her away a few times, and once I realized that she was still persisting, I got the heck out of there. I shimmied off the counter and ran like my pants were on fire out the front door and down the street as fast as my 3-year-old legs would carry me, past the Stragands and my dad sitting on their porch, through the intersection, and down the other end of our street. It had only taken moments for Mom to fly through the front door, hot on my tail, delicately running in her heels. She was, as my grandma would say, “mad as hops.” My dad scooped me up and carried me flailing back to the house, plopped me on the counter, and said, “Now, Susan, this is how it’s done.” Not so much, Dad. I wouldn’t let him do it either, and he got so angry that he threw the nasal spray across the kitchen. Kelly: 1, Nasal Spray: 0.

Another time that all hell broke loose while my parents chilled on the Stragand's front porch was the demise of my first bike. I had spent many hours riding around The Big Circle on my pink-tired, training-wheel-bedecked first bike, which eventually resulted in a bald front tire with a node sticking out. On my bike’s final day, I rode it down the hill to the Stragand’s. I took a load off and had a puddin’ pop, and when we were done, my dad went to push my bike back up the hill. Unfortunately, he rolled that bulbous node over the pavement for it’s last time, and my pink tire popped. Obviously it was Daddy’s fault. It was even more Daddy’s fault when Toys ‘R Us didn’t carry pink tires to replace it with. I had to deal with white tires, and I was bitter forever after.

Luckily, before too much bitterness set in, M’s family moved in across the street. The first day I met him was Easter, when my mom forced me to share my gummy bears with him and his brother. M soon became my best friend. We watched Thundercats together, played He-Man and She-Ra, and made plans for the future. We told my dad one day that M and I were going to get married and live in my parents’ guestroom. He was going to beat up bad guys, and I was going to do all the cooking. Sounds like a plan. We spent our time playing outside, making forts with the boxes from his family’s new washer and dryer, and playing Legos in front of afternoon cartoons.

My first day of kindergarten, I wore a gigantic blue paper triangle on a string around my neck to denote that I was a part of the Blue Triangle table. This became a problem when I saw that M was wearing a huge red square around his neck. After kindergarten, M moved to a private school, and we started to drift apart as I met more of the little girls from school in our neighborhood. Boys suddenly got cooties, and it was way more fun to walk over to J’s house and play in her pool, or to play Barbies with K.

When M returned to public school, he was suddenly in a band and was a stud in all the other girls’ eyes. We didn’t hang out anymore, and I think it’s because, at least on my part, he was still M, my future husband and the little boy whose parents took us all to see “An American Tail” for his 5th birthday. Friendships may fade, but memories don’t, and it’s hard to shake off what you knew of someone to let in who they now are. M's family has moved away, I no longer live at home, and The Big Circle has been devoid of children who know it's proper name for years now. Let's just hope they learn that the best sledding is not on our hill, but in The Pit at the other end of Dansk Court, that you can cut through to 4 other neighborhoods on your bike if you look hard enough for the trail, and that the cemetery our neighborhood backs up to really is haunted...according to the older kids.

A Vandersluis by Any Other Name

Our family doesn’t give half of a hoot about names. My dad's name is really John, but he goes by Pat. One uncle's name is William, but he also goes by Pat. Another uncle's name is Howard, but he goes by A.J., which is short for Apple Jack, because of course it is.

Instead of being a normal kid with a Grandma and Grandpa, I had Grandma, which is pronounced Grandmall, and Poppy. This history runs deep, since on my dad's side of the family, they called Grandma "Mamoo," and their lesbian aunts Aunt Betty and Uncle Lila, but that's another story.

Grandma(ll) could never get my name on the first try. She'd first go with Susan, my mom's name. Then, no, wait, Judy, my aunt's name. Then she may get to Kelly before I say, "Grandma, it's Kelly," but that was rare.

The first names were plenty of trouble within the family, but outside of our circle, Vandersluis was even harder. Vandersloooooeees is the popular and understandable one, but mail used to come to our house address to Vanderslice, Vandersliss, Vanderloo.

Vandersluis also led to great nicknames that we only now appreciate with some years in between their origin and present day. My dad was called "Vanderexcuse" for always having a, you guessed it, excuse. I was called Vanderhooter because I was (only retrospectively) awesome for getting boobs in 4th grade.

Now I have a first and last name that can both be first or last names. This leads to the obvious interchangeability where I'm called Kelly Morgan or Morgan Kelly. Sometimes, though, people go for the less obvious mixtures of my name. I had a professor in grad school who insisted that my name was Morgan Vandershoes, and still feels that way to this day, many years later. You do have to give him credit for a great pen name. Now, to figure out how to use it.

Carbon-14 Dating

From the archives: Written by a 23-year-old Kelly in 2005 who knew nothing about anything

I’m having my quarter-life crisis early, it seems. I’m at a crossroads of desperately trying to regain my recently-lost youth and being a big girl. When I go to the mall, I suddenly feel frumpy next to the svelte 17-year-olds shopping at Forever 21 and Abercrombie. Although I wish I still looked like them and still had their responsibility-free lives, I’m starting to realize the merits to being 23, which, as Jessica Simpson said, is “almost 25, which is almost mid-twenties.” And everyone knows that those in their mid-twenties have it all figured out, are dating someone seriously, or they have Tiffany settings so massive that they can barely lift their young-professional left fourth fingers.

There are 3 types of males that can be logged at the quarter-life: the guy who just wants to hook up, the one who’s messing with your head, and the guy who’s looking for a wife. Any girl who went to college knows how to deal with the first type, and almost appreciates the familiarity that the situations with these gentlemen bring. We know exactly what to expect, exactly what he’s thinking, and exactly what he’s going to say, and we accept or reject…no gray area here.

Although those in the group of head messers are the most hurtful to us, they are far and away the most important people we will meet. I’m not going to limit this category to just guys; almost every girl has entered this category at some point too. These are the people we learn the most from. Everyone has had one of these, and has looked back and said, “What was I thinking?” Anyone, no matter how good-looking, smart, or cool they are can act as this type. They become a pure emotion to you, and exist not as a person with strengths and faults that you see in a realistic way, but as an entity that represents something to you. Eventually they’ll become a walking, talking symbol of your own stupidity. I’m a total glutton for punishment, so I’ve had an overwhelming number of these guys in my life. I figure I’m the guinea pig for my group of girls, and what doesn’t kill me makes me better at giving advice to others that I am not yet smart enough to follow myself. Bottom line: if someone wants something (you, namely) badly enough, they’ll find a way to get it. My mom said that. I hate when my mom is right. I’m sure you think I’ll now reference the Sex and the City episode that said “he’s just not that into you, it’s that simple.” You’re right. I just snuck it in (little known fact—snuck is not a real word). And it’s true. The sign of maturity at your quarter life is to recognize these people as a learning experience, material for your next novel, or as an example of what you should not do to others. Recognizing this is the easy part. Maybe at my half life I’ll actually put my own advice into practice. But, I digress.

The final and by far most disturbing classification is the uncharted territory of the looking-for-a-wife type. This type did not exist at UVA, so we’re left defenseless to their seemingly-charming wiles. There are two subsets of this breed: those who want you to settle down and stop drinking so much darn Jager and those who already settled down once before, have since unsettled, and want you to settle for them. Are you ready to become a country club wife before the other side of 25? Great! Do you still have some party left in you? Run! The first subset tends to be older and has already lived the glory days that you have not quite finished. They don’t mean harm, I promise. You just need to take responsibility for living your life to what you deem to be the fullest.

The second subset, also known as “damaged goods” is one that should be avoided. Anyone can fall prey to these guys, because they are super-tricky. One guy casually said to me, “So, do you like kids?” I said yes without thinking deeply into it. Turns out that “do you like kids” is code for “I have (1+) kids or will have (1+) kids in 9 months or less. Do you prefer ‘Replacement Mommy’ or ‘Daddy’s Special Friend’?” For the love of cupcakes, guys! What makes me look like a good choice for a mom right now? In just the last year, I’ve run down a beach naked for no good reason, considered soft tacos to be a major food group, and hugged my teddy bear with fiercer intensity than my boyfriend.

Dating at the quarter-life changes drastically from what it had been before. I’ve reached a zen-like state of calm where I’ve realized that I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to stand and talk to someone. I don’t have to go on that second date. I was talking to a guy who seemed reasonably nice, smart, and good looking while Mehrnaz and I were out in Arlington one night. Everything was cool until he said, “Yeah, and in my Match.com profile…” I’d tell you more of what he said, but it was right then that I thought I had hallucinated for a second, and I stopped paying attention. I quickly realized that, no, no hallucinations, he really said “Match.com profile.” I turned to him and stammered, “Hey, I’ll be right back, I need to…um…*shifty eyes*…bye.” I disappeared into the crowd with very little guilt. My new mantra is “he’ll live.” And he will. I’m not trying to be mean here, guys. But really, what’s the point of continuing a conversation, dating, and everything in between if you’re just not that into it? See, there’s that logic again.

May the sweet baby Jesus help you if fight me, but my 5-year plan does not involve a husband. After graduation, my dad said, “Alright, honey, you’ve dumped Al (a lawyer), and that’s all well and good, but how are you going to have the lifestyle you’ve grown so accustomed to?” I rolled my eyes and said, “Oh, Daddy, please. I have a college degree, good friends, and my whole life ahead of me. I don’t need a man to support me…I have you.” A few months and about two paychecks later, I realized that I have myself. And my daddy for backup. Come on, let’s not be rash here. But that state of independence is the very basis of quarter-life dating. It’s like deciding on a new pair of shoes. You know you don’t need them to survive, but you ask yourself if you want them and would continue to enjoy them next season. So, here's to the quarter life, the wrinkle cream I just bought, and the hope for full maturity by my half-life crisis.

And baby makes three

From the archives: Written by a 23-year-old Kelly in 2005 who knew nothing about anything

From the start, you can tell who's in control in our little family. My dad wanted to name me Jennifer or Kimberly, but my mom hid my birth certificate in her hospital drawer until my dad left for coffee and scribbled in "Kelly" instead. She's always been my buddy. Mom stayed home with me growing up, and I credit her for my turning out okay. Whatever we did in those early years must have been intellectually stimulating, because my first sentence was the astute observation, "My daddy eats ham." Genius.

We used to have a cat, Muffin (Muffy) Vandersluis, who while she was loved dearly, met an untimely and unintentional death. Muffy was known for being a trouble maker, as she couldn't resist knocking down Christmas trees and otherwise wreaking havoc on the house. One Christmas was apparently the last straw with Muffy. She not only knocked down the Christmas tree again, but she decided that the tinsel looked particularly tasty. My parents learned an important science lesson later that day: tinsel does not break down in a cat's stomach. Poor Muffy ended up running around the house in a panic with a few inches of tinsel hanging out of her rear. Something had to be done; and when something has to be done, you call in my dad. He pinned Muffy down, braced himself, and yanked the tinsel out of her. That caused a horrifyingly unnatural cat noise, "MRRRRRAAAAAAAAOOOOOW!" but she felt better moments later. My parents, however, did not feel better. They decided that it was time for her to find a new home with another family's tinsel to eat. They took her to Happy Meadows Catland where they promised to care for her and to find her a new home. Not long after doing so, the Washington Post reported that Happy Meadows Catland had gone bankrupt and gassed the kitties. Rest in peace, Muffy.

If you have witnessed my parking abilities, you will not be surprised that problems with depth and height perception run in my family. As a toddler, my dad had me on his shoulders, joyously gallivanting around our house. It was naptime, so he took me up to my room and did not account for the fact that: (HeightDaddy - Head) + HeightKelly > HeightDoor. He smacked my head on the door, and I'm sure that all hell broke loose after that. Physics seemed to be a problem too, as one day my dad took me out in my stroller and swung me around in it (whee!) and I flew out. Objects in motion stay in motion. Important lesson. You'll be disturbed to know that my dad has advanced degrees in science.

I was a pretty durable kid, which comes as a surprise since I stopped drinking milk at 5 when my dad told me it was cow pee. I used to let it sit untouched all through dinner, trying to out-stubborn my parents. They'd finally get up, and I'd pour it down the drain. I wasn't too smart then, so I didn't rinse out the sink after doing so and they found out. I was finally relieved of my milk-drinking responsibilities when we stopped at Denny's on a trip, and my milk came out chunky and yellowed. I have not had a glass of milk in 18 years, and I'm still in one piece. I reject the theory that milk does a body good.

My family is so wholesome that it would really make you gag. We're Southern Baptist and can Bible verse you at will if you begin to get out of line. Growing up, I was never allowed to say "sucks" or "fart" (excuse me) but for some reason "crap" has always been acceptable. Must be in the Bible somewhere. But let me tell you, if I were to transgress and say any forbidden word, you better believe that my mom would hear it from 2 floors away with her bionic mom ears and yell, "Kelly Susanne!!!" We never believed in intercoms. We had an intercom system for a short period of time, but it crossed with our neighbors' that we never actually liked, and since that would have meant some form of talking to them, we got rid of the intercom. The common belief seems to be that God gave all three of us ample lungs and voices, so instead of using technology to communicate, or walking to find the person, we bellow, or holler even. Sometimes full conversations were held at top volume from 1 and 2 levels apart.

My parents were always fun when I lived with them, but I think they saved their best stuff for when I left for school and moved out. Just in the last year their antics have moved from quirky to just plain ridiculous. 4th year, my mom and I were talking on the phone and she said, "Oh, geez, that's like the time your father drove the car off the cliff and nearly killed us." What? Apparently they were looking at new homes and went to check out one that was still under construction. Dad overshot the driveway and ended up hanging off the edge of a steep drop-off. They stayed in the car not moving until a tow truck came to save them. They were unscathed, but learned not to be so adventurous.

The same year, my dad called me laughing, and said, "Haha...your mom...hahaha, oh, man...she put her foot through the wall." Again, what? He can't stop laughing and in the background I hear, "PAAAAAAAT!" Well, mom was on the treadmill and something happened, so she shot off the back and punched her foot through the wall. She got stuck there with the treadmill still on scraping her knees. I think my dad was kind enough to turn off the treadmill before calling me. There was a hole in the wall for a while, and it might still be there behind the new dresser they put in the same place. Who knows.

I realize everyday that I've grown more and more like my parents. Crazy mom-isms like, "Quick like a bunny" and "Well, that doesn't amount to a hill of beans" sneak out every so often, and I actually uttered the phrase, "Doesn't that seem a little revealing, honey?" about something I would have worn less than a year ago. I eat Cheerios straight out of the box (no milk), and I'm on a first name basis with the cleaning lady at work, just like my dad. I figure, if I'm going to become something, a hybrid of my parents isn't too shabby.

"From curls to pearls, we're still our daddies' little girls"

From the archives: Written by a 23-year-old Kelly in 2005 who knew nothing about anything

In October of 1981, God smiled down on Fairfax, Virginia, and I was born. I grew to love strained carrots, Cheerios, and boxes. All the mainstays of a toddler's life. I was always an indulged child, and since I loved those Gerber strained carrots so much, my mom couldn't stand to deprive me. I turned orange, and she rushed me to the pediatrician thinking I was diseased. He said to lay off the carrots and all would be well. Everything's okay now. I've lost my lust for carrots, and I've returned to a less intense shade of peach.

At 2, I almost died. My friend K decided that he'd had enough of me when we were playing, and he tried to hit me over the head with a fish bowl. Luckily I have a hard head, and our parents were nearby. K ended up being a mild-mannered guy and has not tried to kill anyone since age 2, as far as I know.

At 3, my goals in life were to either be a princess or to work at Hallmark. Back then things were simple. I was a mini fashionista, my best friend was Teddy (Theodore E. Bear, to be exact), and my hero was a mentally-constructed cross between Barbie, She-Ra, Smurfette, and Lion-o from the Thundercats.

In kindergarten, I had my first boyfriend, J. He irritated the hell out of me because he always wanted to sit together and get the same kind of milk as me for snack time. On the bus home, kids used to sing, "J and Kelly sitting in a tree...k-i-s-s-i-n-g..." It honestly pushed me to my 5-year-old wit's end because I heartlessly dumped him. I think that relationship set my pattern for the next 18 years. I'm sure he's over it by now. His family moved to Culpepper, Virginia, which, until I drove to UVA 13 years later, I thought was some mystical place that didn't really exist. Kind of like what I thought Tappahannock, Virginia was when I was 21.

The first time I ever got in trouble was in 4th grade when I wrote on the bathroom wall. I won't tell you what I wrote, but it got me in a lot of trouble. No swear words or anything...come on, I was 9. I think that can be cited as the point when I became a closet trouble maker. In 6th grade, my 'tude started to show a little more. My friends L and A and I found the sex ed video Dr. D's Birds and the Bees to be extraordinarily funny. Why? PENIS. Yeah, that word is still funny even at 23. I was the one who got kicked out of the classroom while L and A stayed. I sat in the hallway with the 2 boys who had gotten kicked out of their respective classroom during the same video. It was a crucial moment too, because the kids in the video had yet to cross the Bridge of Puberty. I long to know what's on the other side of that bridge.

Later in 4th grade, I changed classes after writing on the wall (but not because of it), and I met H, who ended up being my good friend all these years later. She came to my birthday party and we gorged ourselves on jelly beans, swearing we'd never again eat them. I'm actually eating jelly beans out of my Easter basket right now, so I guess that solemn swear meant nothing to me. H and I went though a lot together in the years after 4th grade. We pioneered the Clueless-inspired short skirt and knee sock look in 8th grade, survived "dates" with guys at the Fairfax Ice Arena (I swear it was the cool thing to do at 14), both got B+'s in chorus class for talking too much and partaking too much "sass back" to our interim choir director, and forever scarred her brother by scattering his tightie-whities all over his room. Luckily their mom had done laundry the day before, so there were plenty to scatter.

The freedom of high school- no more assigned lunch seats, cars, dreams of college- led to adventures where we got in trouble, adventures where we never got caught, too many memories, and too few pictures. Life was filled with cheerleading, shopping, and skipping school to tan at Burke Lake (sorry, Mom). H and I became friends with D and S who taught us the fine art of setting stuff on fire just because and sneaking out (sorry again, Mom); I ran over a tree at 16, but I maintain that Lexus made a faulty car, and I was an innocent victim (sorry, Daddy); C and I decided we were "so over" Woodson guys and discovered that Lake Braddock and PVI were amazing resources for fresh hotties; A could always be counted on for a shopping trip when we were stressed or some comic relief from intense competition practices before districts; and C and I have some real stories about dating college guys when you're just a kid of 17.

To anyone who is not from Fairfax and lives here now complaining of nothing to do, well, you're just not looking hard enough. If you haven't visited Bunnyman Bridge in the middle of the night during the summer, you've missed out. It was way scarier back in Freshman year when the bridge was spray painted with "Bunny Back for Blood," and there weren't cameras and cops lurking, but you'll get the idea. I peed my pants, not much, but enough to count, one night when we were down there Freshman year. C and I had made friends with a Senior because he had a car. He drove us there, stopped the car under the bridge (which is required of all guys trying to scare girls there), and yelled, "Oh my God!" I screamed, "BUNNY!" and proceeded to trickle a little. C says she didn't, but she so did too. If you haven't been to Clifton and raced down the country (well, as country as it gets in Fairfax) roads, you're missing out as well. Take some time to go do that and pull the E-brake for me. Doesn't get much better.

C once said, "The world will end if you don't cheer in college. I swear it will." Maybe that would have been so. Who knows. I got accepted to UVA in November of Senior year- which is lucky since it's the only school I applied to- and I tried out for UVA cheerleading...and the rest is history. Head injuries, extra laps for being late, disastrous pyramids, and all. The idea of leaving all that we had even known cast a dark pall over the Class of 2000. Most of us had known each other since elementary school, and now we were supposed to be okay with spreading out across the country?

I remember the night before H left for school so clearly that I can't believe it was so many years ago. We sat in my car over in Fair Lakes listening to Nelly not knowing what to say other than "thank God we're only 45 minutes away from each other!" No matter how close our schools were, it didn't compare to "4 minutes exactly if you don't stop before turning right on red onto Burke Station." There would be fewer adventures, and so much less would be exciting and taboo as we got older and learned more about people and the world.

H and I have the kind of friendship where, no matter how far we are from each other or how long it's been since we last talked, things will always be the same. She's still the girl who I can rap every word of Snoop's Doggy Style album with and who thinks farting is as funny as I do. I've lost touch with a lot of the others, but I know time with C would be just as awesome as 5 years ago, I have faith that A is still as beautiful as ever, C probably made it to Boston and is selling her own fashions, and the rest of the Woodson cheerleaders are alive and well somewhere out there.