life according to me

Month: July 2007

I found a way to post. Yes!

We made it to Tahoe, and clearly, I’ve found a computer. Do I get points for that? I should. But I can’t be rude and sit here talking to you (as much as I’d like to.) We’re planning our time here. There are lovely things to do. If only I could afford it.

You should see the water. It’s seriously blue. B-L-U-E. And I was right. It’s not much colder than our lovely cove. Except I don’t think there’s much to see in this lake. It’s pretty deep.

Thanks to those of you who checked in. I’ve already taken a zillion photos. I am always amazed at this country and its landscape. It’s staggeringly beautiful. The sky has been lovely, and I wonder about people who at one point set their stakes down in the middle of nowhere to dig for gold. Amazing.

More later. Don’t hold your breath.

July 29, 2007
Spectacularly Scintillating Snippets
Today is the day. You will finally understand what you have suspected all along: that I am, in fact, not a person, but a trained seal. Offer me a meme, and I bark on cue. For free! I have Mark to thank for this one. Mark over at Mark Base – Helsingblog. He who runs an interesting series of posts on pub toilets. Yes. I know. But he does have quite the way with words and has an interesting spin on the “8 Random Facts” meme. He’s put out a challenge to choose those who are perched in our “Friends” categories, but who we may not frequent or comment on much…How does that happen? Too many blogs, too little time? Fickleness? Attention Deficit Disorder?

Rules:
- Post the rules before you cough up more exciting gossip about yourself give your facts
- List eight (8), not 7 or 9 or 19 like I have done before
- At the end of your post, sucker punch unsuspecting and innocent bystanders unfortunate enough to be in your “friends” category choose (tag) eight people and list their names (linking to them) which takes freaking forever.
- Leave them a comment on their blog letting them know they’ve been hornswaggled and then bamboozled tagged.
Yes! More excruciatingly droll information about me that you may not have known because it isn’t buried in my archives. And yes, I’m tagging today, so look for your name at the bottom of my drivel, then count yourself as one of my anointed “friends.” I hereby solemnly swear that I will stop by your blog more than I do, which sadly, isn’t very much. And for that I am wholeheartedly sorry. I know it’s worthy of my time, but in my addled state, I meander around the web and get lost, never to return, but happy that I’ve collected a few new bright, shiny things along the way.

Now let’s proceed, randomly:
1. It’s official: UCSD and Harvard have announced that “Obesity is ‘Socially Contagious.’” I’m a heifer because of my friends. It’s all their fault. Well, not all of them. Just the other heifers. Listen carefully and you will hear us lowing in the meadow while we chew the grass. We do have skinny friends who have resisted our evil influence, however. Uh…one. I’m thinking of challenging the study’s findings, questioning the impact a particular profession can have on an individual — especially when colleagues are also friends. But hey! Good news: the study has proven that fatness and thinness are both contagious. That means if I make a concerted effort to rub elbows with those less than gifted in the adipose department, I’ll drop some lubs.
2. I do not have a gazebo. I know this comes as a shocker, but it’s true. Nor a pergola, a belvedere, or summerhouse. I used to have a sort of shed, though, on the property of our old house. My oldest son built it when he was fifteen to have a space away from The Rest of the Family. It didn’t work, because we’d all go out there to bother him. He used to sleep in it occasionally, even though he neglected to build it large enough to stretch out in. Dreams of it rolling down the bank it was perched on stopped him from spending the night there. When I last drove by our old house, I saw the shed still standing, nicely painted, and glad that the new owners were taking care of it.
3. I routinely have to suppress the urge to label all my closets. There’s just something about the notion of having little stickers beneath sweaters and shoes I no longer have to wear or want to wear that say, “Black Pumps,” or “Black Sandals” or “Black Loafers.” The urge lasts about 2 seconds, and then I snap out of it. I have purchased a label maker, and now realize that others have this same disturbing tendency.
4. Less than two hours after posting an ad on craigslist yesterday for a free BBQ, the old black grease behemoth was gone. Bah-dah-bing. I even helped the guy hoist it into his truck. After nearly five years of living in this pseudo hoity Gated Reach Out and Touch your Neighbor McHood where we are not allowed to put our trash cans out before a certain time on trash day — let alone park things on the curb — I have discovered the free section of craigslist. So now you know that I not only recycle, but I’m a bit slow on the uptake.
5. I don’t really get jokes. Or comics. Or the “funnies.” If laughter is the way we’re supposed to measure whether jokes and comics are humorous, then there’s something wrong with me. On the rare occasion that I laugh at a joke, I promise that I will commit it to memory, and tell it to a group of people who will howl with laughter. But I can’t. Not only can I not tell it, I don’t even remember the whole joke. The only joke I will even attempt to tell is one that the MoH rescues me from every time he hears me try to tell it. The one about the man who goes into a bar with a monkey that ends up eating a cue ball…
6. I love to watch people. They’re interesting in all their individual glory. The entitled folk get me going once in a while, but for the most part, I don’t get too worked up over the others. Okay. So, occasionally when they’re completely obnoxious. Arrogant. Single-minded. Loud-mouthed. Entitled. Jerks. Entitlement doesn’t necessarily equate with being “moneyed.” Therefore, a woman in Target (men don’t do this) who leaves her cart in the middle of the aisle while she is 10 feet away blathering loudly on her cell about her latest Brazilian wax job while trying to decide which celebrity gossip magazine to purchase can be equally as annoying as the person in the Jag who is sitting in the middle of the street waiting for someone to vacate his parking place. Someone who isn’t yet at his car door. Isn’t even walking in the direction of his car. Both types fascinate me with their complete and utter self-absorption.
7. I’d like to not notice that people use it’s when its is correct. Or their instead of they’re. And affect when effect is the accurate word. And use then instead of than. No lesson is coming, but allow me to introduce the best little book ever published — The Elements of Style. Yes, we all have fun torturing the English language with our blogs. For me, it’s a large part of my enjoyment. But knowing which word to use, or more importantly, how to spell it is not the same thing. I know. I’m a bitch.
8. I love words. I especially love it when others over use them, such as in this book review of Breaking the Rules. The reviewer pulls out all the stops AND his thesaurus to try an impress with phrases such as “malleable and amorphous body of generalizations,” “copious research and data compilation comprise compelling evidence that lends credence…” Or slings around words such as iconoclasm, dictum, morass, execrable, and quagmire. But I have never heard or read the word foredoom. Why would anyone choose to use it and expect to be taken seriously?
Now for my “friends.” Aren’t you sorry you clicked that button at Blog Catalog or My Blog Log? Blame it on Mark, though. It’s his fault. But I did enjoy visiting your blogs today, reading your writing, smiling at your memories, and admiring what you’ve done with your blogs. I’ll try and be a better “friend.”

WRITING TRUE

Word Strumpet

“Sleeping Kitten – Dancing Dog!”

Finding Flabuless

Life 2.0

I Eat Snowman Poop

Goodness Graciousness

the rogue professor’s blog

I haven’t put a message on your blogs yet. Sorry. You can Un-Friend me if you’d like. That will serve me right.
July 27, 2007
Robosapien Spares Bloggers
Over the past few months since I’ve developed an interest in blogging, I’ve begun to notice other’s reactions to the idea of blogging in general. Several weeks ago, someone mentioned to me that “blog” is one of the “most annoying words” connected with the Internet. I get it. The word is annoying, hence, bloggers are annoying. I’ve encountered a person here or there who will inquire at a get together,”What exactly is a ‘blog?’” hesitantly, trying to feign interest after they’ve learned that “blogging” is what I have been doing since leaving my job. The conversation goes like this…

“Hey, how have you been?

“Great, thanks. Good to see you,” I reply.

“How is work going? What school are you at again?”

“I don’t work any longer. I quit a few months ago.”

“Is everything okay? What are you doing instead?” the person inquires because no one sane would give up their job for no reason.

“I write quite a bit each day.”

“Really. What do you write?”

“Personal essays and other pieces. I’m just getting back into the habit of it after several years of not being able to find time the time. I’m really enjoying it.”

“Oh,” blink, blink…

Another person approaches us. “She has a blog. You know. On the Internet.”

“Oh,” the first person repeats, and looks uncomfortable, like I might grab my wallet and throw a photo accordion of my 13 children at her. I’m tempted, but I wouldn’t do that to my kids even if I had 13.

She and others are most likely thinking, how sad that she has come to this, wasting her time on the Internet all day. Doing nothing. One individual reacted to my writing, struggling to read what I’d written, and succumbed to muttering the words aloud as one might tackle a treatise on an Analysis of Glucose Cycles in Mammals Indigenous to the North American Piedmont and uttered in confusion, “What kind of writing….is…this? Exactly…?” I completely understoond her reaction and was sure it must be the very stylized syntax of sentences. like. this. Or, btw—wtf, yanno? Perhaps a Bwahahahahaha or a snort. Or two. Huh? = )

Ahh, the frustration of one’s writing being in the hands of an audience it wasn’t intended for. Not exactly a novel dilemma, is it? I say this knowing that writers have always struggled with how their work is received. Anything that requires another’s interpretation is subject to the same risk. I do believe, however, that a person should have an idea about a piece of writing well before getting involved with it. But maybe that’s just me. I’ve lost the source, but I remember reading a particular author who believed his readers “write his books.” Said differently, any reader brings a massive amount of information, experience, and of course, at times, ignorance to a particular reading. With that, a book is understood in an infinite number of unique ways. That perspective either allows the reader to enjoy the book, or to question why it was even considered as something which might be enjoyed. Not everyone will appreciate every type of writing. I certainly don’t.

I believe it is important to note that those of us who choose to write in this very public way, do so for a variety of reasons. I also believe that as much as it is enjoyable to have others read what I write, not everyone will appreciate all of it. Some may not like any of it. Is audience appreciation always the reason for our writing?

I write because I want to. Because I need to. Because I can. Although my mother has kept personal journals for more than 25 years, to my knowledge, no one else in my family has been interested in writing. Just more proof that I must have fallen off the turnip truck. I can’t say that a teacher in my past had anything to do with motivating me to write because very few of them assigned writing — let alone taught the craft of writing. No, I was never even forced to write the venerable Five Paragraph Essay. Ahem. And we know how many of those are published annually.

Most likely, reading has influenced my need to write, as well as a well-developed ability to observe and remember nearly everything I see. Each author has a new perspective, a different voice, a way of allowing me to see through their thoughts. With that information, words and stories of my own evolve. As much as I enjoy writing my thoughts and observations, that is all they are. The way I choose to write them is exactly that: a choice. One that I value.

Yesterday while I was perusing others’ blogs, I came across one that featured a book review. The point of the review was clear: People like myself are amateurs. The business of writing is not something we are good at. In fact, people like myself are to blame for destroying the foundations of society, and card-carrying readers of “drivel” who will hardly be lining up “to read Shakespeare.” It was stated quite plainly that writers such as myself are only about “monkey business” and that all those who count themselves as “professionals” should work to find solutions allowing “those with talent to flourish.” I do have a suggestion: Write something others would enjoy reading. Fairly basic. Writing a few sentences about writer’s block doesn’t quite cut it, though.

So let me get this straight. I’m a professional if I write about education because I was employed as an educator. But if I choose to write about my life, my observations, my opinions, my ideas—which all belong to me, are connected to me, and referenced with that which is relevant to said life, observations, opinions, and ideas—I’m an amateur? And I need to stop this “monkey business” so the “professionals” can get a word in edgewise? Interesting.

I have to confess that reading the post, some of the comments, and comments made at amazon got the best of me. I haven’t been that worked up about anything for months. Embarrassing, actually when I consider all of the very important issues I should be worked up about. But I recognized what was causing my irritation. It all seemed so like the junior high students I had worked with for many years. Smug, egocentric, cliqueish. Very much a case of, “Hello? I’ve done the seat time required for the label I’m applying to myself, and while I’m at it, I’m going to pass judgment on you, on your admirers, and hell, our quickly disintegrating society in general because:
1. Bloggers exist.
2. Bloggers attract attention.
3. The attention is distracting others from noticing those who are more deserving.
4. Like me (The Professional).
5. Society is falling apart because no one reads Shakespeare.
6. Or gets in line to buy Shakespeare.
7. Because they’re bloggers.
8. Or readers of blogs.
9. Bottom dwellers.
10. Destroyers of the English Language.
William Faulkner said,

“Read, read, read. Read everything— trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the masters. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write.”

Well said, Bill, even though I never really enjoyed reading your writing when I was in college. Mind you, I know you’re called one of our best writers, and that you were A Professional, but I just didn’t “get” your style. Maybe I was too young to truly understand considering the experience I approached your writing with—or lack thereof. Did you actually write Sanctuary for college sophomores? You’re in good company, because Will Shakespeare isn’t my cuppa tea either. Was he A Professional? If I remember correctly, he had some issues with written English. But who am I to bring that to anyone’s attention. I’m only an amateur.

One who is contributing to the downfall of society one post at a time.

What will become of us all? Will we drown in technobabble? I doubt it. We’ve continued to survive legalese and eduspeak. We are engaged in trying to survive Dub-Yah.

But Monkey Business still abounds. Damn technology.
July 26, 2007
There’s No Vacationing in Bloggsville.

This business of blogging during the summer is rather interesting. I have come to realize how much I expect certain individuals to just “be out there” and when they have the audacity to go on vacation? Well, it’s kinda quiet in Bloggsville. The kind of quiet that happens when you arrive at a friend’s front porch and knock on the door expecting them to be there, and then they’re not. But you’re still there under that porch light. The one with the golden glow that hasn’t stopped the moths from practicing their persistent dance around its perimeter. Standing there. Alone. Holding the tuna casserole you baked especially to share. *ewww* I’m thinking a few nights there were actually crickets chirping just loudly enough to punctuate those bloggers’ absence.

Vacationing?

You were vacationing? Is that allowed? I mean, come on.

There’s no vacationing in Bloggsville.

What? Your life matters, and you have a family? Whoa. Where’s your commitment to the cause? Your dedication? Your principles? Sheesh.

And no, I wasn’t getting even by not writing since Friday. Technically, I wrote that wonkin’ meme on my other blog, so that counts. You know we have weekend-itis around here. We christened the opening of our local race track this past weekend by flopping down in our sand chairs, stretching out our legs, lazing in the overcast greyness of the day and slapping two dollar bets on the “grey horse,” “number 8,” “that good jockey,” or the “50/1” horse.

Okay, so those are the kind of bets I make. And I usually make the bet to place or show — rarely win. Why? It’s economical. More chances to actually win something. I think I cashed in on a whole $3.20 on one horse. Is that cool, or what? That’s like income to me about now. Let’s see — earn over 100% on an investment that pays out in less than two minutes while I’m sitting on my caboose. Not bad. Not bad at all. My husband does the whole numbers thing — of course. The Racing Form, past performance, adjustments in class, blah, blah, blah…I usually do as well as he does for all his analysis. It’s a numbers addiction. I’m telling you. Numbers…Mmmmmm…numberzzzzzzzzz.. On the way home, we were treated to a lovely sunset and a view of the hot air balloons that launch from Del Mar each evening. Wouldn’t that be something to do… Um… Honey?

If you add up all the weekends we’ve been making like tourists, it comes close to a vacation. It’s fairly easy to pretend to be on a vacation here, which is nice. We have successfully avoided the Zoo and Seaworld — which is about 10 minutes from our house — but I did see a gleam in my husband’s eye the other day when the Zoo came up, because they have “Nights at the Zoo.” Has anyone figured out all the animals are asleep? What do you look at for hoot’s sake? Owls?

It looks like our turn for a real vacation is just around the corner. We weren’t sure we were going to make it, but it looks like we’ll be gone for about eight days with friends and their families. No hotels. No maids, no room service, and lake water as cold about as warm as the ocean in Paradise. All night poker games and trashy romance or crime novels. We’re chipping in on a Lake Tahoe rental near the beach (completely more cost effective to stay on the Left Coast). So we’ll be cooking up a storm, and making beds ourselves. Raiding the refrigerator in the night. Parading in “public” in our jammies. And swimming, and hiking, a possible sunset cruise on a catamaran, and horseback riding? Water skiing? Kayaks? Maybe. I’m sure there’s a casino visit or two on the agenda as well. Fun will be had by all. Well, except maybe for my youngest whom we’re dragging along. We were hoping to bring along his cousin, but that didn’t work out. The doldrums of pseudo only-childness at the age of 15. We’ll keep him hopping and he’s a good sport, so all should be quite well.

My older boys will hold down the fort while we’re away and put a dent in the food in the freezer and fridge. I’m sure I’ll have a wealth of hairballs and pet yack to scrape off the rug when we return. I think it’s the way the mules get even with us for leaving them.

Of course, like the very responsible person that I am, I will try to keep you enthralled from afar. I’ll bet you just can’t wait. But if I can’t figure out how to do it, then I want you to remember those crickets chirping mournfully in the dark when you click up to my bloggstep and I’m not home.

Just don’t throw your Swedish Meatball Delight at me.

July 25, 2007
And another one leaves Paradise.

My mom has loaded up and is getting into her little white car tomorrow at about 3:00 AM. She’s sold her casita in the hills, and the last few real possessions other than clothes have been gifted, donated, or bartered away. Although she has had to make the difficult decision to leave a dear Tabby with a neighbor, she has Emily, a cat abandoned at birth, and close companion for nearly ten years accompanying her. She also has one of her own three sisters, packed and ready to go along for the ride. The 3,000 mile journey is sure to be Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. And they will take no prisoners.

Tomorrow morning before the crack of dawn with Willie Nelson blasting on her radio, her neighbors will be treated to “On the Road Again” well before they’re ready to rise. They’ll know that “E” is gone. That she’s left town. She’s outta Dodge. And a Hearty High-Ho Silver — Away! Any person unfortunate enough to stumble out of bed to figure out what all the racket is about could be treated to a couple of flying fingers of fate extended from the car windows– one from each side, barely visible, but recognizable through the dust.

She’s off to Virgina to start over again. It’s for the last time, she has said, but I’ll believe that when I see it. No, she’ll not likely be back in Paradise anytime soon, although she’s lived here since 1968. A lifetime of wanderlust has finally taken a gentle hold and nudged her to head somewhere else. Anywhere else but here. The expense and the summertime heat has gotten to her. The dust and the grit of living out in the hills. The unwillingness to tolerate for One. More. Day. the motley assortment of individuals who inhabit the community she has called home for more than six years. My sister moved to Virginia in December and that has been another factor. No, she’ll not be back. I know this. Although she has lived in Arizona, California, Florida, South Carolina, and Spain, the decision to move from one place to the next has never been hers. For the very first time, it is.

Quite a milestone.

She’ll be 70 this December, so those of us stuck in Paradise will head to the Right Coast, gather ourselves into a little bunch, and launch her into her eighth decade on this planet. She’s always been full of piss and vinegar, of fire and brimstone, of little insecurities and quiet regret, but she’s healthy as a horse.

For a while, I wasn’t sure she’d go. First she was, and then she wasn’t. Elation, then dejection. Emails flying furiously across the miles, and phone calls that should have been on conference call with everyone involved throwing in their two cents. Angry words, less than pleasant thoughts, and depressing Google searches for “senior services” or “jobs for senior citizens” and “cheap rentals” filled our time.

Her desire to move to a place away from here and into a small home next to a big tree waned. It all became too large for her. She exhausted herself and us with it all. We ran out of ideas. Out of suggestions. Had no patience left for any of it.

Time came to the rescue like it always does. It passes more slowly than desired, forcing hard thought about choices. The act of planning is constructive, but at the same time a struggle with emotion always accompanies any decision made. Is this the right thing to do? Will I be okay? Who am I leaving behind? Will I regret this decision, or will it be the best I’ve ever made? I’ve always said I’ve wanted to go and never have. This is my chance…

I wish I could afford space on a billboard somewhere along a winding road that she might see which says, “Bon Voyage.” Or purchase a message to display across the silver surface of the Goodyear blimp, looming slowly over the horizon one day to encourage her along. Perhaps a plane to script a message in the sky to send love. But I can’t.

And I don’t quite know how to tell her how proud I am of her and her decision. That I wish the best for her and know that this is the very best thing for herself she has ever done. Ever.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

It has guided me for so many, many years and I wish it to carry you along as well.

You go, Mom! Kick butt and take names the entire freaking way. Find a hundred great places to write, “E Was Here.” Make your mark. Beep and wave at people you don’t know, just because you can. And absolutely make sure that you slam the door as hard as you possibly can on the way out.

No mooning, though. Kay?

July 20, 2007
Macro Views: Avoidance

I have no energy today. No “get up and go.” It all got up and went. I’m not sure what has sucked it out of me, but I’m non-existent. Evaporated.

When I’m like this, I struggle to find humor in anything. I’m flat. Everything feels heavy and in need of microanalysis. Things that shouldn’t matter, matter. I don’t dare read the newspaper or I will find myself sobbing at my inability to help some poor soul in a country whose name I can’t pronounce. When I realize a funk is upon me, it’s too late. I can’t do anything to correct it. I meander. I drift from one task to another, my heart not rising to any worthwhile occasion. I clean up my email in box, filing and deleting. I give a weak effort at collecting a few things from the RT’s room while he’s away for the week, knowing I should thoroughly clean the entire place, but rationalize not doing it because it’s his room. Not mine.

The patio and sunlight are a magnet, and I want to be outside so the soft breeze can soothe me–or distract me from constructive activity. I take hold of my pruners and move from plant to plant, dead heading, snipping the spent blooms to encourage another round. They fall to the flagstones as I cut and scatter around the base of each pot. It’s quiet, contemplative work.

As my eyes focus on minute characteristics of my small garden and its population of tiny insects, my mind works to hone in on what is troubling me, because I know something is.

It’s a game of sorts to decide how easily to acknowledge that I know what it is. Do I admit it to myself? Or do I immerse myself in the possibilities, all the while chastising myself for having anything at all worthwhile to be preoccupied with.

My camera usually comes out because it’s a good excuse to play with the macro setting which often finds objects I can’t see — even with my glasses on.

Some of what I find is lovely, even though few would admit to thinking a bug is beautiful. What I see in the images sparks a bit of wonder, curiosity, and effectively deters me from thinking about myself and whatever was on my mind.

I could use this time to sort through what’s troubling me, but I don’t have to. There isn’t a deadline, no one is waiting, and nothing will happen if I fail to pinpoint the annoyance. If I acknowledge what’s bothering me, I may have to rise to the occasion and take care of it. I don’t want to take care of it. My “Take Care of It” window is closed. I’m only now realizing that it may not ever open again and that I’ll just crouch behind the counter in the dark, waiting quietly for whomever knocks to go away.

Because I have to immediately see what I’ve aimed my tiny Canon at, I end up back at my monitor loading and examining the images. I turn up the volume on one of my play lists and begin my writing, thinking…and avoidance. Fiona Apple or Liz Story’s Night Sky Essays and “Valse d’Amelie” are perfect accompaniments to my thoughts, but today, they’re only encouraging my dreary mood. As is Elton John’s “Belfast.”

I’m a laborious writer. I don’t have difficulty deciding what to write, or being motivated to write. I edit as I write, then review paragraphs and the entire text many, many times. I rarely write in a free thinking manner. Every comma, sentence fragment, run on, ellipsis or series of dashed phrases are thought about. Mulled over. Ridiculously.

The editing works wonders today because time passes, the songs on the play list change, and my sadness has shifted into an edgy kind of irritability. I’m annoyed. At least I’ll get something done now.

Hell, even the insects on the patio are being productive.

I’m lower on the food chain than a bug, not getting anything done.

But I’ll be out in that ocean today at 5PM, burning calories, and working my sore muscles, pretending like I want to have a different body than I do. One that I didn’t want when I had it. One that I didn’t want anyone to notice. Ever.

We’re supposed to want that, right?

Thinness.

Is that one of the rules?

July 19, 2007
I told you.

All of you faithful short hair scientists know that I’ve been making a weak assed attempt to lose some weight over the past few months. The real focus has been to eat and live in a more healthy way — not just lose weight. The noble thought would be that if I focused on being more healthy, then the pounds, or lubs — as I affectionately refer to them — would melt off over the course of about six months. Uh…nope. And I’m not going to point any fingers at anyone but myself for this pseudo attempt to gain back a body I haven’t seen in the mirror for about 15 years. Time flies when you’re stuffing your pie hole. Ahem…

But you also know that I have been exercising fairly diligently. Not as much as I could, mind you, because well, I dunno why. I sit in front of this thing all day talking to you? Because I have that food blog and I cook food that isn’t always conducive to anything but making sure our taste buds are extremely happy. That would mean our waistbands aren’t. Happy.

You would think I’d give myself a break. You know, like since I’m exercising, eat more intelligently. Sheesh. Not. I’ve decided I need some kind of an electronic device that is strapped to an appendage somewhere — you know, kind of like Lindsay Lohan’s anklet. My device would be a talking device. It would let me know — in a very perky voice (NOT Rachael Ray, well, okay, Rachael) — that as I burned calories, I had earned particular types of food I might woolf down enjoy later.

Okay, so imagine with me a sec:

I’m walking: Sweat, huff…..trudge, trudge, trudge…I wonder how far I’ve gone? Puff…huff. Ugh….I can’t stand this…oof…

Calorie monitoring device:

You have burned enough calories to earn one charbroiled Porterhouse smothered in carmelized onions and sauteed portobellos finished with a port wine reduction…

You have burned enough calories to earn a slice of a decadent boca negra served in a pool of raspberry coulis and topped with a mascarpone cream…

You only have to burn 12,000 more calories to make up for what you ate yesterday…

If you walk for the next two weeks straight, you’ll only put a dent in the calories you consumed eating that biscuit glace aux noisettes yesterday and the day before…

Okay, so maybe that isn’t such a great idea. But I have been exercising. You know I’ve been challenging myself and struggling a bit to overcome some internal squeamishness about swimming in the ocean. But I thought I’d show you the route we took this past Sunday, and the one we’ll be taking again tomorrow. Mind you, we’ve also been getting up at 5:30 to do pool laps for 30 minutes in between the ocean gigs.

It’s pretty far, isn’t it? When my friends said we’d be swimming to The Shores, I thought, Uh, I don’t think so. I figured I’d swim out part way with them, and then turn back by myself and wait. There was much discussion at dinner Saturday night about where cars would be parked, what time we’d arrive, who would pick up whom, and all kinds of other nonsense. The truly tough part is remembering the next day what we decided to do. Thank goodness the MoH is always tuned in and is able to steer me in the right direction. He sets the alarm, and he confirms what I vaguely remember about the previous night’s conversation. The MoH doesn’t drink wine like the rest of us.

So two of us finally pick up the third who has her car parked at The Shores. The three of us travel back to The Cove and make a big production about realizing that all we could take with us was our largesse and our fins. We even had to figure out where to hide the car key. No cell phones, no camera, no bathing suit cover up…..Ugh. That meant we had to walk by people sitting on patios of some very chic restaurants enjoying Sunday breakfast. Thank goodness it was still very early — 8:15 — and that my fins are quite large. I strategically held them so that they’d dangle in front of my upper thighs, and then averted my gaze away from the touristy on lookers. We walked quickly toward The Cove.

The water was a teeth jarring 66 degrees.

The water was much calmer than the last time we went out. Less sea grass. I don’t want to discuss the kelp. The way it crawls along your legs as you pass over it. I know. I said I wasn’t going to talk about it. I get used to the water temperature fairly quickly, so that isn’t horrible. What’s creepy about the whole thing is that you can’t see the bottom once you really get out there. And if you think about that submarine canyon beneath, the one that sends absolutely frigid upwellings you have to swim through, gasping in surprise…the one that’s about 40 feet deep near shore and reaches depths of more than 900 ft. about a mile off the beach. That one. Totally and completely creepy. When images of creatures from the deep and very large fish with sharp teeth arise, we don’t say anything about them aloud. We talk about “stuff” — anything to ease the nerves. And we paddle faster.About half way across, my friend whose car was parked at The Shores realized that she hadn’t brought the key.

So the rest of the swim was spent organizing for effort on how to get back to the car at The Cove.

Swim back? Uh….Nope.

Walk back? In our swim suits with all that traffic? People commenting about it not being whale-watching season. Uh-uh.

Okay, then. How about a couple of unanswered collect calls to the MoH from a pay phone. You gotta love Caller ID.

But finally, the Life Guard came to our rescue with a trusty cell. The huzbinks arrived not quite on a white charger (because we had caused a detour from their golf date–scuzethehellouttaus) and took us back to the car at The Cove. The swim had taken an hour. With wiggly legs and swaddled derriers in damp cover-ups, we walked to a coffee place and snarfed down three breakfast burritos and lattes.

I can’t figure out why in hell I even bothered to go to the salon last week. At this rate, I’ll be back to square one Hag-ette status in a couple of weeks.

But will I have a great tan? Hell no. The sun doesn’t shine at this time of the year in Paradise. Are you kidding? It’s all a big lie.

July 18, 2007
No Palm Trees — Just Reality TV

I know you are sick and tired of hearing about how seriously no whoop-tee-doo great it is to live in Paradise: endless days of grey blue skies and overcast sunny weather; squawking birds and lawn mowers waking me up and the crack of dawn palm trees rustling gently in the dank air warm breeze; and the cold and murky glistening blue Pacific at my doorstep whenever my friends drag me kicking and screaming I wish to go for a dip, or sit on the beach to completely wreck my skin relax.

But isn’t it better than having me blather about Search Engine Optimization? Or monetizing my blog? (Yes, I know it says that at the end of my posts, but I didn’t put it there, and I’m seriously not going to try and take it off now that my blog is working fairly well) Or how to increase traffic to my blog? Who cares? W-H-O?

It reminds me of someone who has heard that they can make great money if they open a restaurant. They don’t know how to cook, they aren’t especially great at creating ambience, they may not even enjoy food that much. But hell, they’re going to get people to think they want to eat there anyway. They’ll do absolutely anything to get people to think they need to eat there — even if there’s nothing to eat. Even if there isn’t a menu. At least with Hell’s Kitchen you get a show.

Speaking of Hell’s Kitchen, we’ve been rotting our brains with quite a few summer TV shows I’ve been meaning to bring it up from time to time, but my self-indulgence always gets in the way. Although I’ve got my opinions on whether the shows are actually worth watching, one can get quite the education on the various ways the f-word can be used syntactically. That’s fairly entertaining coming from Gordon Ramsay. I like the way his mouth is scratched out when he’s ripping someone a new sphincter. Why bother watching? Because I don’t like the shopping channel? Or re-runs. Because we watch them together — en famille. *sigh* What a concept, huh? The RT isn’t tied to the sofa or anything, so occasionally he drifts upstairs with his iP-OD. Or the MoH will grab his laptop so he can look at Arctic Basket Weaving stats, or Hungarian Handball updates. Numbers, remember? He’s gotta see those numbers or he gets pretty cranky.

I get the shows we watch mixed up. Not just the nights they’re on, but the people who are in the shows. Somehow, I thought Adrian who was recently booted off The Next Food Network Star was the chef from San Diego who’s really on Top Chef — Brian. And don’t get me started on the issue of why I am challenged to know exactly WHICH episode of Top Chef I should record from the 89 that are shown in one day. Gimmeabreak. Of the three cooking shows, at least it seems some of the individuals on Top Chef can actually cook — the real reason I like the shows. I keep hoping they’ll really show cooking. Stupid me. And I can tolerate most of the contestants — well except Hung who is completely and arrogantly obnoxious, reminding my of the less than tolerable Marcel, the runner up of last year’s competition. They have got to tell the contestants to act like this, right? They can’t possibly be that insufferable all on their own. And can he cook without putting foam on something? It truly looks like the remnants of my dog’s yack, and who would want that on their plate? Blech. What I’m not good at tolerating are this guy and this woman. They’re so wishy-washy with their comments. So…sanctimonious. But I love the fact that Anthony Bourdain did a guest blogger spot and agreed with me about Hung and Marcel. Smart man. Okay, so maybe he isn’t quite agreeing with me, but I wrote it before I read that he thought it, so, close. He also had some interesting advice that I found quite useful…A little humility; a willingness to accommodate what people are likely to enjoy and appreciate, instead of pursuing that which honors only his own perceived genius, would be a good adjustment.

A man after my own heart. Ahem…revisit paragraph two above.

Speaking of “perceived genius,” I’ve had some trouble with The Next Food Network Star show from the beginning. So why am I still watching it? Amy’s from San Diego, and I guess I’m rooting for the home team. Plus, she actually knows how to cook. What completely pisses me off is that it seems they’re not really interested in that. She uses vocabulary that it too challenging, or uses correct terminology for her equipment, or isn’t baring an ubsurd grin and dropping food down her cleavage. She refers to herself as “The Gourmet Next Door,” and I guess that won’t go over well with Wall Mart shoppers. As for the show, there’s too much drama, and we are continuously reminded that The Food Network is about food. Oh, okay. I forgot.

Can TV execs get a serious clue that not everyone in the TV audience is stupid? Those of you who completely avoid TV — yes, I know you think the rest of us are stupid, and I was like you one upon a time — but you need to get over it, okay? I’m glad you think television is mindless drivel and I agree with you about 95% of the time. Now, what was I saying? Nothing important, I know…

I know the execs conduct their perfunctory market analysis crap and that drives everything, but a TV show where a grin is worth more than knowledge or experience? Really? Oh. I forgot about news anchor folks. Yah. Shit then. Sign me right up. I’m there. I want to be one of those people on CNBC in the morning who talk about stocks, trading, and the economy. They look like they have fun arguing about all of it. I love it. And I could do a fairly great job of faking it. I’d just need to occasionally mention things like “leading market indicator,” “hedge fund,” European Market,” and “Consumer Index” or something like that. At least someone would fix my hair for me every day and pat makeup on my face. Okay. That rant is over. Back to reality TV. Are you still there?

The show I actually enjoy is So You Think You Can Dance.

It takes skill to move your body like that. And your face. They have to learn their routines in five hours. Five. Okay, you might be able to convince me that making something edible from vending machine items is also very difficult, but save it, okay? Because I can make meals with crap I find in my refrigerator. But that’s a post for my food blog. When I watch this show, I think about how much our society does ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to encourage or support the arts in public school. If someone learns to paint, or dance, or sing, it usually isn’t because of the public school system. You’ll occasionally hear someone who has managed to gain some attention or a bit of fame thank a particular teacher for their support and influence, but that isn’t because of the public school system. No. It’s because of the passion and dedication of that particular teacher. That one person who spots a kid and just knows there’s something special about her — before someone else gets their claws on her and tells her success is all about getting into the corporate world — whether she wants to or not. Whether she’s good at it or not. Whether that world wants a kid who isn’t interested in, nor particularly inclined toward Technology, Science, or Math. I’m not going to say those areas of study aren’t important — they just aren’t important to everyone. Shoving a kid into a program full of Science and Math when he just wants to dance is like cramming a square peg in a round hole. It’s painful, and it doesn’t work. If you can actually pull it off, the individual suffers forever. Our schools do it every single day. Unfortunately, so do parents. Ah…rant number two?

I love to watch people dance. It makes me want to dance. To sway and move with the music. To have dancer’s legs and muscles — but maybe not their aches and pains. To leap and spin and wonder how it would feel to be tossed from another’s arms and land exactly as I should. Except the guy would need a hydraulic lift for me. And the strains of Tschaikowsky’s “Swan Lake” wouldn’t exactly work as I landed on the stage in a lump. I love the costumes, those high-heeled dancing shoes, and all that heaving and sweating they do. It’s so much more difficult than getting on a stage to sing.

And it’s definitely more difficult than sitting at home on the couch watching people who can’t sing…well, not singing.

But maybe not quite a difficult as reading to the bottom of this page today, right? I do appreciate you and promise to work on my humility.

July 17, 2007
Schmoozer, Schmoozetta & Schmoozerino

Ahhh…the beauty of the skies we’ve been having here. It’s been such a break from the gloom and overcast skies we so often have. So lovely to be outside and wallow in the glory. Don’t you think? So I’m off to do that again today, but not until I take care of some very important business.

My food blog, Sass & Veracity, has been recognized by a lovely person — The Mad Goat Lady. Don’t you just love that name?Â I found her in Bloggsville one day with her post on Lucky Lucy that had us truly hooting over the hilarity of it all. I can’t imagine!

The Schmooze award was begun by Mike of Ordinary Folk and Danielle of Pink Reviews to recognize people who have a positive influence on the blogging community by developing and nurturing relationships. You know — commenting on other’s blogs, joining in on and sustaining a “blogversation.” Yep. That. And of course, it’s my turn to pass this along. This is one of the easiest awards for me to nominate others for. It’s easy because they’re the ones who consistently respond to my posts, and to comments I make on their blogs. Oh faithful followers of my short hair science here at kellementology, and dutiful foodies at Sass & Veracity. You are what helps to make this so much fun. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you and the time you take to read and respond. Truly!

I hereby annoint the following humans with the Power of Schmooze Blogging Community Involvement Award. Tah-Dahhhhhhh!

Lis at La Mia Cucina is a lovely human and cook blogger extraordinaire. And she’s completely hilarious. Lis cofounded a group called the Daring Bakers of which I am a part. Each month, one of the members puts out a baking challenge to the rest of us. We have a month to all cook the same recipe, then post our results on the same day. It’s a tremendous amount of fun with all of us checking each other’s posts and drooling over each other’s photos. The group now has more than 80? people in it. Is that right, Lis? Unbelievable. Talk about blog community? It’s incredible. Lis, you have an amazing presence in bloggsville. If you ask me, you are The Queen of the Schmooze and totally deserve this award. What size crown do you wear so I can get right on that?

Phil at Thought Sparks is another person who looks out for others. He not only chimes in to my odd world of short hair science, he creates very thoughtful and useful posts for the rest of bloggsville. When I read Phil’s blog, it’s always a pleasant surprise to find some new kind of learning — and not just blog or computer info (which really comes in handy). His posts are kind, thoughtful, and always very refreshing. He’s always on the lookout to lend a helping hand. When you comment on his blog — he’s right there with a response. What a Classy Schmoozer!

Going back to my cooking world I have to recognize a foodie who always take the time to let me know what she thinks of what I’m cooking — and it’s always supportive. Cheryl at Gruel Omelet. I enjoy her blog because she tells it like it is about what she’s cooking. It takes time to comment on a person’s blog, and I appreciate that she does that. And take a look at her archives. There’s some tasty stuff there if you have a sweet tooth — she’s sure to Schmooze you!

Dave at Wandering the Ether is a great person who has very involved conversations with his readers. The comment section of his posts are even more involved that his posts at times. The ideas he puts forth, and the content of his writing is mind-boggling. He is actively involved in getting people to wake up and get involved themselves. But he also takes time to put up with my less than mind-boggling content. Pithy Schmoozer, that Dave.

Meleah at Momma Mia Mea Culpa is a blogger who is everywhere! When I’m reading other’s blogs, I see her doing what she does so well — supporting other bloggers with her comments. She always takes time to comment — no matter how unworthy my content is at times. She’s funny, touching, edgy…but above all, someone who is a star in Bloggsville. She’s an electric Schmoozer!

And I have Rockin’ Blogger Awards to hand out, too. And Creative Blogger Awards. But I’ll save that for now. Awards will be coming out people’s ears. And I’m pooped. Completely. I sucked it up and went for another ocean swim this morning. News at eleven.

July 16, 2007
Hair Truce at the O.K. Salon

I survived the salon. I was described as “glowing” by Marco and Jocelyn — before the big equipment rolled out. It must be those hot flashes I endure nightly. People are beginning to notice. I must be singed around the edges or something. Crispy crunchy. It most certainly can’t be my personality, which isn’t exactly electric. Magnetic? Hmmm… Nevertheless, they were glad to see my money —the MoH’s cash —my plastic that the MoH pays for me again. And that’s the RT in the photo. I just wanted to see your jaw drop onto your keyboard.

No matter how much I try to get the lovely people at the salon to understand that I don’t care what they do with my hair, they’re fairly conservative. I beg for layers. For dark hair. For sassy. But I get, “Blonde works best for your grey areas because it blends as it grows out.” What they’re most likely worried about is whether I have lawyers ready to slap a suit on them for ruining my hair. Paradise, remember? Like a good client — well, except for that 10-month lapse — I give in to their suggestions every time knowing that they really don’t want me to look like Pepe le Pieu. I tell them, “Short is okay.” But I get layers that only I notice. Conservative ones. They must know how much I’m damaged by having to wear underwear on my head when I was little. They must know how much I like hair that goes where it is supposed to go. And they totally understand that I have to have a pony. They probably figured out a long time ago that I’m fairly high maintenance even though I love to suggest that I’m not. Might I lobby for being discriminating instead?

It was a relaxing catch up session, and a leisurely perusing of Fast Company magazine — my attention captured by an article on Travis Knight, the man who will inherit Nike, and another about Al Gore’s $100 million makeover. I should have been looking at a magazine with humongous photos, because I didn’t have my glasses. But I’m a great masochist — especially with an audience, so why not act like I can see the page? The fact that my arm was extended as far as it could possibly reach most likely gave away my sham, but the ordeal kept me occupied during waiting time between coloring, and accelerating. Shampooing and massaging. Cutting and blow drying. Ironing and trimming. It was a serious challenge to yank the magazine in each time a stylist dashed by to greet a new client. Or cruised by to check on someone’s foils. And if they hadn’t moved me from the spot where I was braising under the hood, my extended arm most likely would have been the cause of one client hitting the deck. The one who caused the whole salon to freeze.

For about four seconds.

Then Marco whispered to me that it was only Mary, a mature client who usually arrives for her appointments loaded on OxyContin. Do drop in, Mary! Unfortunate, actually. The salon used to offer red or white wine in addition to hot herbal tea or mineral water, but can you imagine Mary imbibing? Evidently, there was some concern about clients oozing out of their chairs and on to the floor in mid cut. It was thought that might not be good for business to have clients in Paradise laying on the floor with their drawers showing.

I can’t imagine why not.

So what do you think?

Is it better than this?

I hope so.

And you should feel quite special, because it was a bit damp outside this morning on my walk, and damp and my hair don’t exactly mix. I was a veritable fuzzball by the time I got back home. A poodle. An urchin. I had to fix it up again. Just for you. There.

I’m thinking Keira can have her gorgeousness. I can muster up some glam myself — sans the battery operated fan, of course. Because it would mess up my hair. Not quite Grace in the Fabulous Fifties, and no, not Shelly in the Esoteric Eighties.

Just me, in the…um… ah…well, now. Oh-tees? Whatever.

So Tah-Dah. Aren’t you glad that’s over? And just in time for Friday. The sky is completely gorgeous today, a soft breeze is ruffling the trees, and an amazing 76 degrees is helping things along — including the eau de dog whiz wafting through the window.

I’ll have to find somewhere to swish my hair tonight.

Somewhere other than this room and for someone other than PhotoBooth. I’m thining the MoH is elected, lucky dude.
See what happens when you drop out of society? It’s all down hill from here. But with great hair.

Kind of like dying with your boots on.

Okay, perhaps not.

July 14, 2007