The Resident Teen Rocker turned 16 while we were in Italy last month. Other than giving him a card that had our family’s required elements of butts, farting, or both, and singing Happy Birthday as horribly as we pridefully aim to, he didn’t have a candle to blow out. Now that I think of it, that’s kind of rude, but I’ll make it up before school begins.

Speaking of school and rudeness, the enormous registration packet came in the mail yesterday, and since he’s the one who retrieves the mail from our box each day, the look on his face told all. You’d have thought he had a bite of a bad frozen burrito. I mentioned that I wasn’t looking forward to him going back to school, either, and pondered the possibilities of running away from home with him to avoid the inevitable. Instead, I told him to get his calendar marked up so he could enjoy what was left of his summer, and start hitting the sack sometime before dawn, or at least make a half-assed attempt.  I still can’t figure out how in hell I raised a kid who dislikes school as intensely as he does.  Not that there isn’t much to dislike, mind you.

Every other summer of his life, the RTR has had an agenda. It hasn’t kept him hopping as much as the MoH would have liked, but that’s because it was organized primarily to keep him occupied while we were at work.  A variety of YMCA Camps, San Diego Zoo Camp, Balboa Park, ID Tech Camp at UCSD, Camp Gramma, you name it, he’s been there.

But not last year. Summer school was supposed to happen but mysteriously never did, so I gave the RTR some projects I thought he might enjoy, and learn from. I know. Deadly. Ironically, he was assigned a project in his art class last semester that required a bit of research and wonder of all wonders!  He remembered the summer work he’d done and was able to make use of it for his presentation. Amazingly resourceful when he wants to be.

Like this past weekend. We finally made it to Ikea to purchase the finishing touches for his bedroom. Not too long ago, we painted his room with colors he chose, the MoH changed all the dull switch plates, and  I put up some new shades. (Of course, the shade pulls are already hanging in shreds leaving one shade unworkable, but it was swell while it lasted.)

After cruising through the showroom maze at Ikea, the RTR chose a double bed, a larger work table, and a chair that looks way too comfortable for the homework that he will definitely have with the schedule he chose (Statistics, Physics, AP American History, AP Studio Art, American Lit, and Woodshop. Yes, that’s right. Woodshop.) He is soooooooo having homework. I’m wincing just thinking about it.

So yes, after the three of us removed the boxes we’d wedged into my mother’s borrowed Escape, we schlepped them into the livingroom to sit. I told the RT it was his job and that if he needed help, he knew where his dad was. I, on the other hand, went to the grocery store.

Bear in mind that for the RT to approach any aspect of this gargantuan task, he had to clean his room. Pigs would fly first. But he’s very creative and found a way to move things around so he could work. You know, have a bit of elbow room and squeeze space allowance for toilet use?

When I returned from the store, he’d made quite a bit of progress and was just beginning to take the big red bunk bed he’s had since his fifth birthday apart. I could get all misty-eyed right now, but won’t.

I heard him call from upstairs, “Mom. There’s a funny looking flat screw thing that has a hole in it with edges…”

Now, I knew this would get his attention, and called up to him about whether he knew where the allen wrenches were tucked in his dad’s trusty tool box. No he couldn’t find them, and yes, I walked up the stairs to show him where they were. I also stayed long enough to gently ask him whether starting with a screw at the bottom of the bed was a good idea, and whether there might be some unexpected happenings as a result of that decision.

“Oh. Heh,” he smiled and chose a top corner screw instead.

The only time he asked for help was when he noticed a screw was stripped. A whack of the hammer from the MoH fixed it, and that cute bed that has so many memories attached to it is now in parts leaning against a wall in the garage waiting for a “Free to the first Caller” Craigslist ad.

Monday morning, the RT and I moved his tiny desk down the stairs — or tried. It fell apart from the stress on an edge while we were resting, and unfortunately, my ankles we on the receiving end of the boards that fell. Hurt doesn’t quite cover it, but we did get the desk to a resting spot.

He put his new desk together, and the chair.

I figure if he wants me to put up the very cool tiny work light with the jointed neck, and the shelves for his army of thousands, he’s going to have to clean up the mess.

But I’ve been reorganizing the cupboards in the kitchen, so between the two of us, it’s anyone’s guess whether we’ll ever see the floor or counters in our house again.

Bets?

The unpleasantness of being in Naples wore off as soon as we were settled on the boat that would take us to Sorrento. Maybe it was the deep blue of the sea, or the cool breeze that refreshed our sweaty bodies.  Or Vesuvius, looming in the distance, reminding us of all those history lessons delivered so long ago and so far from here.  Pompeii…Herculaneum…

But it could also have been the tall, thin as a willow whip blonde that walked up the gangplank with the assistance of the crew right ahead of us who bore an uncanny resemblance to Diana.  The Diana.  Her hair was short, and she was dressed in a leather mini skirt and strapless bodice.  Her four-inch heels drew everyone’s attention, and we waited to see if she could balance herself on the boat as well as she could on cobblestones.  Most of the crew exchanged knowing looks, but one took it upon himself to sit next to her as we made our way across the Bay of Naples.

At first, she had chosen to settle in on the first deck in the cushy seats, but after we’d all dragged our luggage up the tiny stairs and flopped into seats where we’d get a good view in the open air, she emerged upstairs.  And as much as there were only a few passengers, and therefore, many open seats everywhere, she decided to sit in the row directly in front of us.

We must have appeared to have been harmless, or uninterested in young women wearing black leather.

I soon figured out I was on the wrong side of the boat to snap my next 500 photos and moved, with the MoH following.  We kept an eye on the boys and the woman as she sort of avoided, but not with any true energy, making conversation with the forward crew member.  He eventually gave up on her and disappeared downstairs.

At some point in a strong British accent, she turned to the boys, and with a cigarette posed between two fingers, asked if either of them had a light.  You just don’t know how hilarious that is considering that not only does neither smoke, but that they wouldn’t expect anyone to think they did.  Well, that anyone like her would ask anyone like them anything.  Ever.  Their raised eyebrows and quick glance at one another after she turned around told it all.

When we stepped onto the dock in Sorrento, she was already getting into what we thought was her mother’s car, because we realized at some point, that she wasn’t quite 20.  Goodness. Nothing like a bit of intrigue to take one’s mind off travel weary doldrums.

Officially, we were rested and ready to enjoy a small town where streets close to traffic in the evening so everyone can walk and shop, sit in cafes and watch passersby, or eat well into the evening.  We did all of that, and crowded into groups clustered around televisions in bars here and there to watch Roger Federer lose to Rafael Nadal at Wimbledon.  It was like a huge street party.

In a walled garden setting lined with lemon trees and dotted with impatiens, we enjoyed pasta, seafood, lovely wine, and dessert at ‘o Parrucchiano “La Favorita,” a restaurant housed in an old building and credited with inventing cannoli.  Who knew?  The wait staff was ridiculously tolerant of our horrible attempts at Italian, and the setting a perfect place to relax after an extremely long day.  Even the cat that wandered through the tables and brushed against our legs added to the perfect evening. And yes, I fed the cat. Incorrigible.

I now know that Sorrento was my favorite place on our vacation.  We never took the bus to Positano or Amalfi, nor did we take one of the ferries we constanly saw headed to the island of Capri.  But I have no regrets because we wouldn’t have been able to enjoy what was right in front of us:  balmy weather, delicious food, hospitable people, the Hotel del Mare, and a clear, warm sea to swim in.

Although everyone seems crazed to spend time in Venice or Tuscany when they travel to Italy, Sorrento is a place to be considered.  I know I’d go back so I could stroll through the quiet streets without an agenda of any kind and let time take its course, but maybe in the Fall, when others are back to work, and the idea of other places to go and things to see don’t exist.

Yes, I’d go back to Sorrento.

You thought you were rid of me didn’t you? At least it appears that you may have been considering I’ve not written since…I can’t even remember. I’ve been in food land. Go figure that after being involved in my cyber baking group for more than a year now, I had hosting responsibilities this past month. That means surfing through eight million Danish Braids, which is what myself and my co-host, Ben, chose for all those Daring type Baker people to experiment with. Hosting also involves visiting every single blog. Um, so that would be 20 pages of blogs split between the two of us to the tune of five hundred blogs each. Whoa.

I’ve read a page and a half so far.

But I’d rather do that than yet again try to purchase a Roma Pass or train tickets to save us some time. It isn’t that I haven’t tried four times already. For some reason, I can easily move things along until it’s time to pay. At that point, on each website, it states the page is no longer available. Frustrating.  They must not want my suffering U.S. dollars.

So I’m hovering here, with one eye on foodland, and the other on making sure we’ve got all that we need before we’re off to Italy tomorrow.

It doesn’t taste too horribly, although the RTR would disagree.

I have Chick to thank for the lead on Jen Lancaster’s writing. She’s completely hilarious. And Ann Patchett? Well, if you’ve read Bel Canto, you’d understand. When I saw the little pencils and their freshly sharpened points just screaming to be used I breathed life back into my dormant office supply fetish, I picked them up and chose a small notebook to write in as well.  You know — the old fashioned way. With a writing instrument?  Since I’ll be sans iMac for what seems to be forever, perhaps I’ll actually remember what it feels like to write in a notebook again. Maybe have a story or two to tell when we return.

Do you have any idea how decadent my feet feel in these shoes? Sure they look like some kind of warped cross between something an eco-friendly ballerina and a tree-hugging terrorist would wear, but still.  I’ve got some strappy black sandals to got out to a few dinners in, but after suffering from blisters within a day of landing in the UK on our vacation two years ago, I take shoes very seriously.  Oops!  I almost forgot — the “Keens” are actually Merrells…I’m such a rotten consumer…

I think this just about covers everything. Except now I’m worried about the pillows. And sheets. What if there aren’t any in the two rentals?  Um…I probably should have thought of this earlier? Maybe we do need the kitchen sink.

And I’ve got pistachio gelato whirling in the ice cream maker right now…

Since there are about 4 or 5 people who still read this blog, I’m trying to post something to add to your day while we’re gone. You know, in case you miss me.  Or not.

In the meantime, I hope your weather is perfect, that you treat yourself to excellent food, and that you dream lovely dreams.

Ciao, bella!

I know the rest of the world seems to believe that Memorial Day is the kick off for summer, but somehow, the whole idea of that particular holiday kicking off anything has never quite sat right with me.

Call me a party poopah, but there’s something way wrong about all those furniture sales, and car sales, and well, just any sale to get people up and out to slap them back into a consumer spending stupor.  On Memorial Day?  Okay, so the sales do help with all the purchasing that goes on for school promotions, and graduations, and weddings, you know, in case someone needs a futon or something.  OMG, Dubyah!  What in hell would we have done without your economic stimulus check?

It’s all nonsense, because today is our favorite day of the year.  Party, anyone?

The Summer Solstice is officially at 7:59 EDT.

And it is the perfect time to celebrate the beginning of summer and all that comes with it.  Things like heat, and humidity, stinking trash cans, more flies, and pets that scratch endlessly for fleas evening parties, warm ocean swims, and lazy afternoons in the shade with a good book.  Okay, so the ocean isn’t exactly ever warm here, unless you consider the not quite 62 degrees F that it is today, warm.

For years, we’ve looked to this day to make our way to a hill or a shore, gawk at the horizon, sip a beverage, and enjoy the sky show.  Well, if there is one.  You have to be a freaking optimist to want to engage in this ancient pagan ritual around here because there’s always a chance that we’ll be socked in and any possibility of seeing anything blue in the sky is slim to none with slim on a fast train out of town.

But optimists we are.

And when I look at that horizon tonight, clouds or no clouds, I know that I will be thinking more about what lies ahead instead of what has passed.  I know that I will wonder about it with anticipation, and not dread, or fear.  I know that I will feel opportunity and possibility, because that’s who I am. I will also feel good fortune because my home’s not flooded. Or my sons in Iraq. Or my family unhealthy.

Somehow, this day has always felt like the real beginning of a new year.  Not  January 1st.

With all this sun gonna come up tomorrowness in me, I often wonder how I missed out on getting a bit of perkiness from whomever was passing it out when I was put on this planet, because perky I am definitely not, nor will I ever be.

So cheers to you on this longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.  Turn your eyes to the sky,  grab some palm fronds, light a bon fire, and watch the sun come up over your horizon.  Maybe do a little dance.

Or do it our way, and watch the sun set tonight instead.

Think about possibilities and tomorrows.

Take action and participate in Candle Night and “take it slow.”

This is my first entry for Sky Watch, an idea started by Tom Wigley of Wiggers World. I spend so much time looking at the sky, I knew it was the place for me to be. Take some time and look at all the photographs the skywatchers collect each week.

In fact, join in.

OH-EM-GEE (as the RTR would say) OMG!

It’s FRIDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yes! And I have so much to feel giddy about I fear it will bowl me over. Or something like that.

The sun is up, the air is bracing (well, I think it is, but I’m not sure because I only cracked the door enough to let Her Fatissima out for her morning constitutional). But you know, cold. Like 48 degrees F. Bwhahahaha! Er…I mean Brrrrrrrrr….!

My first cuppa coffee was swell so I think I’ll have another.

As of this writing, Dubyah will only be in office for 347 days, 1 hour, 38 minutes and 56 seconds according to the countdown clock on my monitor.

American Idol will FINALLY be starting the good shows next week — and I can’t wait — instead of all the up close and personal stuff we forget after all the tweeners start calling and choosing their next heart throb with big hair and the shadow of a mustache not quite ready to be shaved.

Marcos, my colorist did not fire me as feared. I just got the usual lecture about needing for my hair to be lighter so my roots won’t show when they, well…show. Duh.

And Dan, the cutter man pretty much cut most of my hairs off. It grows, yanno?

I’m almost ready for the soiree I’m hosting tomorrow night featuring lip smackin’ Greek-Turkish-Moroccan cuisine prepared by myself and my VBF to celebrate the birthdays of two very dear friends (VGF and She Who Has No Blog Acronym) Oh. And their husbands.

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I guess with the upgrade that didn’t quite go as I wanted it to, I’ll be working on redoing the entire thing again. January is a good time for that…I’ve been avoiding it for quite a while.

And if I don’t tackle these things, then my learning stops, and what’s the point of that? I’m wired to keep pushing to understand things that intrigue me. And this whole business intrigues me. I know I can sit down and write, but the way this looks is an extension of me as well. So I guess I better get busy and figure out how I really want it to look.

I’ve changed over the last year. And as fond as I am of that woman in the header, she isn’t quite me anymore. That’s not a bad thing. I’m not quite ready to give her up, though, so I’ll figure out that, too.

I deplore “shopping” for themes, and with the WordPress upgrade, there seem to be so many kinks about what works with what. Sheesh.

So, I’m off to watch the Chargers play the Colts in the playoffs! GO BOLTS!

Hang in there with this thing. Okay? I promise I’m not going anywhere…

Clearly I’ve uploaded a new version of WordPress and well…I have a mess to clean up now. At least I won’t be bored this weekend, huh?

There is simply nothing quite like waking up on a Friday, looking forward to actually eating something before 1pm and screaming at the latest supervisor on the phone with Best Buy. But I’m not going to bore you with the sordid details because I’ve recovered from my searing anger, am no longer shaking, and have managed to pull myself up knowing that sometimes, telling myself that I should have more patience simply does not work. I ran out, okay?

I opened a book my mother-in-law gave me a few years ago called Simple Abundance. It’s one of those hefty tomes that is somewhat of a day book with a page designated for each day of the year. January 11th’s entry for thought is entitled, “Is it Recession or Depression?” It begins with some words from Hellen Keller: “No pessimist ever discovered the secrets of the stars, or sailed to an uncharted land, or opened a new heaven to the human spirit.” The entry then proceeds to inform me that I must put thoughts of lack behind me, but to do that, I must change. I must make a fundamental change — but have to take a deep breath first. I have to learn to be an optimist.

Um.

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