Monday, February 29, 2016

Priced Out

I had to explain to my kids what it means to be "priced out" and why it matters that they know it's a real possibility; it could quite plausibly affect our family and is already affecting our friends and community. It means that the place we live is now perceived to be more valuable than it used to be, and so people will pay more to live here, and so the people that own the houses will charge more to rent them, or will sell them right out from under your feet to get in while the market is hot. It means that the people who currently live here may not earn large enough salaries -- no matter how modest or ample -- to continue to live there, moving them out of houses, away from their schools, inconveniently located to jobs, and disrupting their community. It means that somehow, we are told that we are less worthy of the places we call home. 

I told my kids that we are so very lucky to have a roof over our heads and a school right next door, but just so they know, contingency plans are being discussed. The owners could decide to sell. The rent could be raised yet again. And again. And again. 

Even if Trump doesn't somehow manage to steal this election, Trump America is already here. Being Priced Out in Portland isn't something that I should have to explain to my children.

Monday, February 8, 2016

writing compulsion

When you need to share a story but you can't find the right words, or maybe the words are there but they're fleeting and inconsistent because you don't have the time to tell the story in the way you mean to tell it. It will come out wrong. You'll tell it to an uninterested audience. Or a combative one. Your timing will be off but your comedic timing will be waaaay off. It's possible you've forgotten how to write, you've certainly forgotten how to write for the sake of writing. Because now writing must have a purpose, it must be productive and connective and earn a fair living and inspire and revolutionize. It must be alerting and new, but familiar enough that it draws validation and social media engagement. It must lend itself to yourself as a brand, something/someone that can grow and be provided opportunity. Opportunity to do what or be what? You're not sure. You just know that writing is the thing you must do, but you're afraid every time you share a story or an idea you'll be sharing for the sake of your own brand awareness, a targeted missile of writing as a self-marketing tool. You miss writing for the sake of it, without updating all of site and social with optimized click-bait headlines. Without carefully curated photos, cast in a light by which you align you and your brand. Your own filter. You wonder what a world without tilt shift and lowered highlights must look like. No more X-Pro. No more vignette. Immersed in an illusion. You want to write but you're afraid of adding to that illusion. You're compelled but convicted. So you write less and less and less.

And then you say fuck that noise.

And you just start writing.

Monday, August 24, 2015

fear of missing out

I need to write. Like need. to. write. Like when you need. to. eat. pie. Or when you need. to. go. pee. It feels urgent. It's been awhile you see. I write every day. Website copy. Ad campaigns. Doodles on the whiteboard in my kitchen. But those don't scratch that need to write. It's like sniffing the pie. Or having two people in front of you in the bathroom line. Almost there. But not close enough.

So for the sake of needing the fuck to write. I'm going to just go right here right now, stream of consciousness, no editing. (Except spelling. Because I'm a grown up.) And so unapologetically I'm just going to write until Cat Boyfriend beckons me away with his adorableness or the stream simply turns to a trickle. I'm going to write like I'm fearless, but of course I'm really, truly not. I don't flinch when I walk into a spider web for any reason other than I'm afraid of the tiny 8 legged bug that might now be loose in my hair and doing god-knows-what so very close to my face and that scares the shit out of me and so I avoid the places where those webs might be. Not fearless. Not at all. But I'm going to write like I am. Like I'm wearing wordy kevlar. I might swear. In fact I'm pretty sure I already did. I'm not going to worry about who might read this, or even what I might say. I don't know what I'm going to say. At the end of all of this I may have finally revealed my plans for a fashionable nose warmer called The Shnozzenwarmen, the kids version being called Cozy Nozy. At the end of all of this I may tell you who I have a crush on, and this time it might not be Matt Damon. I am going to tell you, fearlessly, that right now I'm carving my way through a pint of coconut milk mint chip ice cream. I won't finish it. But you bet your ass I'm going to go as far as I can. Because commitment.

But there's commitment and then there's the fear of missing out. Coconut milk mint chip ice cream, I am committed to eating your delicious guts out for as long as I can. But at some point, you're no longer going to feel wonderful. And in fact, seeing that commitment through to your waxy, cardboard bottom might make me throw up. I'm committed to you. But I won't vomit for you. Not tonight. But the fear of missing out on those last few scrumptious bites, it's a tasty temptress. I could push through. I could do it. The fear of missing out compels me forward sometimes. I'm not going to blanket statement anything about the fear of missing out. At times that fear can be the final piece in the equation that leads to new experiences and memories, or prevents lethargy and bed sores. But usually I've found I have to let go of the fear of missing out, and make a different decision.

For the last two years I've produced the Portland Listen To Your Mother Show alongside the witty and ridiculously organized Carisa Miller. I will not be returning to produce a third season. I know what I will miss out on, and each little bullet point will tug at a section of my heart and will own at least 37 tear drops from my leaky ducts. I'll miss ...

  • Being a part of this giant squishy hug that is the national Listen To Your Mother movement. All the honesty, grit, humor and love bravely shared in front of a live audience, and then again on YouTube which, though isn't live, never dies.
  • The thrill of hosting auditions and the pain of choosing the cast. No, I won't miss that pain. I take that back. But I will miss the rush of a 12 hour day and watching the tissue box get emptied, a story at a time.
  • The. Cast. All those strong and inspiring arms that will no longer be mine for the hugging. Maybe they'll let me just stop by and be a mascot.
  • The Laura to my Mary, Carisa Miller. I have no words for this. There's no one on earth I'd rather stomp through puddles on a trek for sponsorships than this woman. And now she has a puppy! The heart ache worsens.
  • The sponsors! It isn't easy to love a giant multi-national corporation, but it IS easy to love local to Portland small businesses who see the significance of sharing our stories. They're my neighbors and friends, my bar where I sit to work, my favorite dress shop where one day I hope to have Sarah design me something gorgeous for an undetermined event of memorable proportions, they're where my babies were born, they're the delicious cupcakes I eat, they're a nod to my favorite city and the people that make it so. 
And so here I am, pretending to be fearless, making a decision to stop doing something I love, without any reason other than this: I'm ready to do something else. A new project. A new craft, perhaps. I may have mentioned this already, stop me if you've heard it, but I need to write. Need. To. Write. But the truth is I have no idea what kind of writer I am. I'm not a blogger. I don't want to submit my pieces to HuffPo and hope they get picked up and go viral. I'm not a character or a persona, an image I need to maintain to keep that which I write tied to a central theme so others will follow along and become invested in my story or seek out wisdom from my "now let's try this on" kind of life. I'm not that funny. But I am honest. And I am open to newness, perhaps slightly addicted to upheaval, and definitely subject to distraction. 

I have my dream projects. But for now my dreams are where they must live, because as it turns out, the soft and fluffy wonderment of dreamland requires cold, hard, super real cash. So for now I will focus on what's in front of me: the privilege of telling brand stories for small companies with big heart, the two short people who are rapidly gaining ground on my 5'4"ness, the exploration of loves both old and new (I can't quit you, Matt Damon), and the practice of not missing out on this rich and rewarding life that I've been granted. 

fearlessly yours,

Kelli Martinelli

at the top of Mt. St. Helens because fuck it, why not. 

Friday, July 10, 2015


This was the piece I wrote for the 2015 Listen To Your Mother Portland show. I was careful this time to not reference anyone's vaginas ... but there's always next year. You can watch the video of my reading below (find my fumble!), and watch the entire Portland show with the whole incredible cast. 

It’s a Wednesday night in North Portland and you are a goddess of the moon. You are carefully outfitted in bendable lycra, and a top that won’t fall over your face when you head into that first downward facing dog. Your kids are at their dad’s house, and you take a moment to whisper a prayer of gratitude. “Thank you, divorce goddess, for granting me this late night yoga class.”

You stretch back into child’s pose, forehead to the orange mat, the one that bears the transferred newsprint remains of a toddler’s art project from long ago. You breathe and set your intention for the next 90 minutes of serious mom-time vinyasa. You still don’t really know what it means to “set your intention” but enough yoga instructors have said it so you trust it must mean something worth doing. Your intention: to be present. Your body is here and accounted for, held in by technical fabrics, but willing the mind to quiet is like asking your kids for the 17th time to not talk while chewing or to refrain from farting at the dinner table.

The yogi opens the class with a calm and smoky reminder to stay present and you think “Holy shit she’s a mind reader! What else does she know?” and then you chastise yourself for already drifting away from the present you had committed to just a second before. You remind yourself to stay.

“Stay, mama, stay.”

The yogi coaxes your class through their cat cows; inhale as you point your ass toward heaven, exhale as you pull your gut into your spine. Repeat. Regret your choice in underwear. Mentally acknowledge the laundry that sits wet at home in the washing machine, where it’s been since the night before. Inhale.


How “stayed” can you possibly ever be? How can you stay when all of the other minutes, days and hours are somehow simultaneously holding you together, pulling you apart, and swimming all around you, like an army of lotus blossoms adrift on your tranquil pond? How “stayed” can you be when you chose divorce and agreed to terms that life without one person meant a sacrifice of 50% less time with your kids? You didn’t stay. You left.

The yogi shushes your mind as she asks you to come to a deep squat, elbows to the insides of your knees, hands at heart center. “This is how we should go to the bathroom,” she reminds you. You consider removing the toilet from the downstairs bathroom in the home you rent, and you wonder how easily the children would take to squatting over a hole to take a poop.  Then you remember camping trips and know that they would take to it with swift expertise.

You move from the squat to bakasana, crane pose. You lift your toes off the mat and hover, supported by your forearms and fall promptly on your face. You suck at crane pose. Bakasucka. But at least you showed up right? Isn’t that half the battle? You’re halfway to something. Halfway. 50/50 split.

You wind into eagle pose and choose a point on the wall to stare at so you don’t topple over. Again. The yogi believes in story time and takes the class on an adventure through the birth of Ganesha. One version of the story, she clarifies. Of how the goddess Parvati wanted a son and how the gods finally granted her one. But her husband Shiva was off in the mountains meditating and was left out of the kid conversation, which is kinda what happens when you go off to meditate in the mountains for NINE years. So when he did come home from his long sit-and-think in the hills, there was this kid at his front door, and the kid did not know Shiva, and Shiva did not know the kid. And when the kid wouldn’t let Shiva in, Shiva cut off the kid’s head, of course. When Parvati heard what he had done and Shiva was like “oh shit”, she threatened to destroy everything in creation. So Shiva pleaded with the gods and was like “uh, what now?” and he was instructed to go into the jungle and bring back the head of the first animal who presented itself to him. So Shiva did as he was instructed and a short while in to the jungle an elephant was like “Here, take my head.” And Shiva carried home the elephant head triumphantly, stuck the head on his kid’s body, and a deity boy was born.

And the whole time that the yogi is impressing upon you the knowledge of yogic history and you’re searching for clues as to how it will help you master an unassisted head stand, you can’t help but think “How the fuck can she remember all this? I forgot to put on deodorant. I have to make a list every morning that includes “eat lunch” and “find the cat”” and she’s able to remember detailed goddess folklore whilst tangled in an impossible pretzel.

Exhale. “Stay, mama.”

You ease into a pigeon pose and lament your tight hips. The hips that opened up for birth like automatic sliding doors at Target on a Black Friday zero dark morning, but with slightly less pushing. Now they’re like a rubber band that’s been left to bake in the sun.

The yogi chants “Exhale deeply, audibly, like a bellows fully compressed.” The man to your right exhales deeply, and then lets fly his bellows, audibly. Only nose hairs react. You and your class pretend you’re so focused that you don’t notice the stink. But if your 6 year old daughter and your 9 year old son were here right now they’d be pink-cheeked with tears in the corners of their eyes as they fought to contain the giggling intensity of a million carbonated bubbles pushing at the top of a lidded bottle. But they’re at their dad’s tonight, remember? And this is mom-time vinyasa.

The yogi gently leads the class into camel pose, a back bend. You’re good at this one, and you lean your head back, shaking it slightly to overcome the sausage roll of neck fat that has recently moved in. She asks you to feel how your heart has opened.

You feel it.

She lowers the lights and nurtures you into savasana. “Be present,” she reminds you, “and breathe. It’s all about the breath.” You breathe in and feel a warmth surround your heart, you breathe out and for a brief and blissful moment, you are fully present, connected all at once to your intention, your choices, your circumstances, your body, your heart, and your family. You are whole. Your family is whole.


Thursday, May 21, 2015

Listen To Your Mother, Portland, 2015. Magic happened.

I'm all out of analogies, folks. I've been in a bit of a word hangover for 2 weeks. Except I'm not craving greasy eggs and a bloody mary. In fact, it's rather ethereal and mildly electric, like the surface of the ocean just after a thunderstorm. More like the soft-lit hours after giving birth than the hazy morning after tequila. I'm craving a return to words, but am rather content at the moment just floating here. Because Listen To Your Mother, Portland sold out the house at The Alberta Rose Theatre! What. Something is happening in this awakening of live storytelling, something juicy. And because my loquaciousness has left the building, I'd like to share a re-cap of that juicy, magical night, through the artful and talented lens of our photographer, Johann Leiter.

Our venue, two years now. We love it here. Also it smells of freshly baked savory pies.

In the green room with storyteller, Christi Krug and storyteller/director, Carisa Miller.


For the audience.

I bought my copy of LTYM the book from our on-site booksellers. Then the cast signed it. Then I cried for the eleventieth time.

THESE GUYS! Our local sponsors: Women's Healthcare Associates, Crafty Wonderland, Radio Room, Folly, Paleo Sweet Cheeks, and Johann Leiter.

In the green room with Michelle Borum, laughing out the butterflies.

Storyteller, Michelle Porter, getting lip-prepped.

Giddy over sweets from my dear friend, Ocea, of Paleo Sweet Cheeks. (And that's her mom! Hi Lisa!)

Mothers are pretty great at sitting and listening. 

Mic check. Dance like oompa loompas. Just for a sec.

Ellen made us do it. Again.

Lurking in front of someone's beautiful driveway. Thank you neighbor!

The 2015 cast of Listen To Your Mother, Portland!

Leanne Goolsby, LTYM Portland 2014 storyteller joined the audience!

Deb Stone of the 2014 cast came, too! Storytellers are like snowballs. We just gather and gather. Unstoppable. 

The midwives of Women's Healthcare Associates came!

And then we began.

Christi Krug shares her story about nobody in particular.

Gypsy Martin squeezing an imaginary breast.

Mary Mandeville shares a game we wish wasn't real.

Carisa pushes out her story and pulls at every mama heart.

Noelle Guest compromises. And wins.

Nicole Rardin wows the crowd with her bravery.

Susan Domagalski Fleming says, "Redddddddd."

I try to breathe, even when it smells of yoga farts.

Michelle Borum advocates for her mother, and women and children everywhere, with her gut-wrenching honesty of domestic violence. 

In case you hadn't yet discovered, Kathryn Leehane reminds us that motherhood is disgusting.

Susan Moshofsky brings him home.

Kylie Menagh-Johnson advocates for our children, because little white lies aren't helping anyone.

Michelle Porter relives a morning you'll be grateful wasn't yours.

Thank you for another amazing show, Portland! See you in 2016!

Friday, May 15, 2015

That's Mamoré! Anniversary Gratitude Giveaway

The only constant in life is change. Forever is only as far as we can see, and then the horizon shifts and forever looks different, it's new again. And it will change again, and again. But we can't waste our breath on lamenting our choices, or our circumstance, or our hearts. We can't shy away from change because we're afraid. Instead we stand where we are, confident in the space that our bodies occupy, we hug those who are near us, we connect and we grow. And we smile knowing that change can be filled with grief and love in equal measure, in balance, and we honor the forever that no longer is with gratitude.

And so we grow!

On January 1 2014 I left the familiarity of a 7 year position with my dear friends at gDiapers. I swam into a new part of my ocean and explored life at a creative agency as their social media strategist. I learned so much in a very short amount of time, very short. Within just 4 months it was clear to me that I wasn't telling the stories I needed to tell, and I wasn't using all the tools I wanted to be using. I put out my probing feelers to a few of my favorite local brands, "Hypothetically speaking, if I were to quit my day job and head out on my own, would you be interested in having me tell your brand story?" I was met with yesses. I was floored. And freaked the hell out. I consulted a friend and freelance mentor, Zach King, and felt empowered to make another change. I began working as an independent marketing consultant and writer under the name MamorĂ©, my intention was to help small brands with big heart Love Bigger and Reach Farther. And here I am, a year later, still afloat in this ever-changing ocean, telling stories that I adore, supporting brands who support women, children and the earth, and leaving me with more time to play with my kids, to explore this city, to volunteer and to breathe deeply. 

I am overcome with gratitude to those who have supported me on this journey, and to my brilliant clients. I hope you'll join me in celebrating. Enter any of the following giveaways below, courtesy of some of the coolest people I know (open to US residents 18 and older, sorry Canada kids):

GladRags - I'm loud and proud when it comes to reusable feminine hygiene, and it's because of Tracy, Meagan, Eliana and Heidi at GladRags. We say we love our bodies, and then we plug them up with garbage. Disposable pads and tampons are toxic to people and the planet. That's the biggest ick factor there is, way grosser than "Ew I might touch blood that came out of my own vagina!" Win a GladRags Day Pad and Pantyliner and love that rockin' body of yours.  Enter the GladRags Giveaway Here

MOBY - Babywearing has moved away from being "that thing that Sacajawea did" to an increasingly normal way to be with baby, which benefits parent and child alike in so many ways. MOBY is to thank. Their wraps and carriers have made babywearing approachable and easy for new moms and dads. If I had a baby, I'd have one of these Moby Wraps designed by Lotta Jansdotter. But I don't, so you should score one for your own baby (or to be the coolest auntie or uncle ever). 

Baby Wit - My kids rocked some kickass clothes thanks to Rosalee Rester of Baby Wit. A onesie with Sarah Palin, devil horns and oil derricks? Yes. A t-shirt that irreverently displayed Obama as Jesus and asked "What Would Obama Do?". Yes to that, too. And a bitchin' rainbow dress. And a life cycle frog tee. And a custom-print skirt for me. I love them all so hard. Are you more Bernie than Hillary? Nab a Bernie t-shirt in the kid or adult size of your choice and wear it into and long after the campaigning has ended. Because that's what cool does. Cool doesn't give a ___. 
Enter the Baby Wit Giveaway

goumikids - Co-founders Lili and Linsey have these gigantic, juicy, supremely kind hearts. They're making baby goods that don't just decorate baby, they work and work well. Their stay-on mitts keep baby from scratching, the hats retain critical body temperature, and the boots stay put when all others fall off and go missing. And goumi gives. These mamas are introducing their goods to the tiniest and most vulnerable babies and are working to bring an end to human trafficking, a HUGE issue here in Portland and worldwide. They love big. And I love them big back. Score a pair of their signature stay-on mitts and booties for a little one that you love. 
Enter the goumikids Giveaway

Gaia Couture - Disposable clothing isn't doing anyone any favors. Clothes are made cheap, sold cheap and then sent off to landfills. Humans suffer under exploitative manufacturing practices and the earth suffers under the heavy use of pesticides and waste. Joy Martinello of Gaia Couture knows that sustainable is beautiful. Buy less, choose well. Win a $50 gift certificate to spend on Joy's collection of slow fashion: dresses, skirts, tops, cardigans, yoga wear, leggings, tunics and more. 
Enter the Gaia Couture giveaway

Thank you!


Kelli Martinelli, Mamoré Communications

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Swearing with my 9 year old.

"Sometimes S-H-I-T can be a funny word," my 9 year old explained to me as we hung out in the kitchen while he unpacked his lunchbox.

"Yeah, it can be. When was it funny to you?" I asked.

"Like the other day, when Ian was opening this thing and ..." And here the details didn't matter so much. My son had decided to open up a conversation with me about swearing! With complete confidence and zero trepidation. I tried to maintain my mom cool but I was afraid my giddiness was showing through. I was in Buddy the Elf mode. "Swearing is my favorite!" I clapped to my happy elf self. 

"... and then Ian was like 'ohhhhhh, s-word' and it was really funny. It was the right word for that time." He chuckled, remembering the good times. 

"Yeah it totally can be funny sometimes. I say it, too." I laughed with him.

"I know. I can hear you sometimes," he said. "But you don't sound angry when you say it. And I don't really hear you say the f-word." 

"Ha! Oh I do." Oh darling son-o-mine, just you wait. You'll hear it. And then you won't ever un-hear it.

"It's not that swearing is bad, you just don't want it to become your first language. Use your brain and your incredible vocabulary first, and sometimes, those other words just fit, and that's okay." I said. God, I hope I'm not f-ing this up, I thought.   

"Yeah, some of my friends think it's cool to swear all the time when their parents aren't around. They just sound like stupid kids with nothing better to say." 

And this is when the love balloon inside my chest filled to near bursting and then floated out of me, into a dreamy sky.

"Well I'm glad to hear you say that. I'm sure you probably swear sometimes, right? When I'm not around." I prodded.

"Yeah I do. Just the other day when I was with my friends I said 'crap'." 

"Ha. Well, I think there's some debate over if that's an actual swear word or not." I smiled. "But it definitely was a swear word in my house when I was a kid. I got in trouble once for saying the word 'sucks'!"

"Oh ouch. That sucks." We both laughed at that one. 

"I think there are two things to keep in mind about swearing, kiddo. Always use your bigger vocabulary first. Find the words that fit, and learn new words constantly. Language is so rich and helps you become a better storyteller. And the other thing is know your audience. I mean, like, know who you're talking with. Is it Noah? Then by all means drop a 'crap' or even an s-h-i-t. Is it your teacher? Well I bet he's gonna wanna hear that big vocabulary of yours more than he'll want to hear what he can read on the bathroom stalls. Just be respectful of those around you, but be authentically you. You can do both, believe it or not."

"I get it. We've read three Percy Jackson books now and there hasn't been one f-word! But still, sometimes swearing is funny."

And that was it. A brief kitchen conversation with my kid about swearing. About using your words wisely, but celebrating the full spectrum, and goddamit, be respectful. 

Fuck yeah. 

I love the crap outta this kid.