kellementology

life according to me

Month: April 2007

  • Effin’ Tuesday’s Poetic Crapulence

    The Unrelenting Scale

    so much depends

    upon

     

    the callous silver

    scale

     

    lying about my

    virtues

     

    every effing

    Tuesday.

    Everyone…It’s… weigh-in day! And since you’ve all been so pleasant about my hysterical rantings each week, I’ve decided to recognize that another week has bitten the dust and celebrate National Poetry Month all at once! A special thanks to one of my favorite poets, William Carlos Williams, whose fine work has made it easy to express my dissatisfaction with being a member and victim of a numbers fixated society. Er, or something like that. (more…)

  • Comprehending the Edge

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    If I ever needed a group of people to discuss a book I’ve read, it would be now. I’ve finally finished reading Sarah Dunant’s Mapping the Edge, and don’t quite know what to think. Whenever it takes me this long (two weeks at night in bed for about 20 or 30 minutes if I’m lucky) to read a book that size (a mere 301 pages), well, something’s wrong. For days, I have had the book on my mind like some strange puzzle and have found myself talking to the MoH about it — which is just wrong. He doesn’t read. Well, he reads, but would rather not. Numbers. He loves numbers, remember? Mmmm…numbers. Plus, he just finished David Sedaris’ Naked, so his brain is permanently fried now and he probably won’t be able to read ever again without twitching and burping colorful expletives from time to time.

    Like a complete loser, I looked around different sites for what other people thought about Mapping the Edge, and found myself commiserating with those who had the Huh? factor going on. I know, pathetic. Misery loves company — the kind of company Amazon dot com provides in the review section where you can commune with others who need a refresher Reading Comprehension 101 course, or a simple smack upside the head.

    (more…)

  • Curling Up with Old Movie Stars

    When I cook, if no one else is at home, I like to watch movies I’ve seen before. Usually, it’s a movie I’ve seen so many times, I only have to look up on the very best parts; when the music swells, or a dissonant chord lets me know that something important is going to happen. Now, these movies are more current, and popped in with a DVD that I choose from my “feel good” collection of sappy chic films. You know, the kind that you grin through, sigh about, and avoid telling your friends you really like? Like Sleepless in Seattle, Notting Hill, or Cousins with Isabella Rossellini. But the real films I long to see are the ones I spent my adolescence watching on our first color TV. Hilarious when you think about it, because most of these old movies were in black and white. Cable shopping channels, and craft shows were nonexistent, so local channels ran old movies. In the summertime, or late at night and on weekends, I could watch one movie after the other in blissful, non-thinking, oblivion. I could fry my impressionable young self on Esther Williams, who was my authority on smiling under water, or holding breath even longer than Houdini, or Rock the Hunk Hudson and Humphrey Bogart. They’re more difficult to find these days, though. If I took the time in my not so busy life, I could check the guides for Turner Classic Movies or American Movie Classics and maybe I’d get lucky. But I don’t. I rot my brain with this blog now, instead.

    Unfortunately, these two movie channels, although continuing to show “classic” films, also show… ahem…classics like Conan the Barbarian, Halloween, and Basic Instinct. Huh? Oh, I get it. Someone in ratings land thinks thirty-somethings wax prolifically for films like this to re-live the great days of their adolescence. Sharon Stone’s shadowy nether regions? Classic? Uh…Nope.

    What I want to watch are those glorious black and white movies that that loser Ted Turner colorized thinking he could dupe those less fortunate from a younger generation into watching. It’s sort of an “oooh — look at the pretty colors” concept instead of think about the films themselves, because, well, it’s all about making money, right? He should have been arrested for that.

    The really good films are ones you just want to curl up in bed with on a cloudy day. They’re even too good to cook by, because although you’ve seen them what seems like a million times, you don’t want to miss anything. Films like The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, the most haunting love story you’ll ever see. Or Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window — yes that creepy guy is really Raymond Burr, the old Perry Mason and can you believe how great Grace Kelly and James Stewart are together? I never could see what that whole go to Monaco and marry that prince guy was all about. Any movie with that hunky Cary Grant, and especially North by Northwest, the ultimate twisting chase movie, is worth watching. Or The Philadelphia Story, or Laura. Does anyone even know who Gene Tierney is anymore? You should have seen her in Leave her to Heaven. Or any and all of the Frank Capra films — especially if Carole Lombard was in them.

    Who? I know. You’ve never heard of her. This is Carol Lombard with Jimmy Stewart who were both in another fabulous film, Made for Each Other.

    I’m not sure about why I’ve always had this love affair with movies in general, but old films and movie stars in particular. Maybe it’s the result of spending about five years of my early childhood living without television. We went to the movies instead. Watching all those gorgeous people on that huge screen was the ultimate fairyland for a little girl who wanted to be as gorgeous as Audrey Hepburn was in Roman Holiday, sing like there was no tomorrow, and clack across an enormous stage just like Fred and Ginger.

    Life just looked so grand. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t dance by myself like that in our living room.

  • Comfort Food and Snail Orgies

    He arrived home last night in good spirits after a few days of reciprocity with his cousin, microscopic military figurines in hand, battle rule books, and two bags of stiff, muddy clothes which were casualties of a serious paint ball massacre at the OK Corral.  I got to hear about the whole thing.

    “No blind firing or the ref will nail you, and there were these sissies hiding behind the church.”

    I had to ask him about “the sissies” because I haven’t heard him use this particular word before.

    “Because they were all huddled together acting all Wah. Yah know?” he answered.

    “But how old were they?” I continued, thinking it was probably the first time they were out playing paint ball, and know that it really hurts to get hit by those gelatinous globs, so don’t blame the sissies.

    “Like my age,” he tells me with a look of “old enough to not be afraid of getting hit with paint balls.”

    Well okay. Actually, I’m thinking that nerd-like closet commandos are a force to be reckoned with, and the sissies were expecting G.I. Joe instead.

    To put the finishing touch on his soon to be over Spring Break, the RT cooked dinner for the Master of the House, who dragged himself in from the tax mines at about 9:00 last night. The menu? Kraft macaroni and cheese with sliced weenies served in big plastic bowls. Mmm…

    “What do you call it? You know,” the MoH mumbled between shovel fulls.

    “Comfort food?” I supplied.

    “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, scraping up the last pieces, spoon clacking against the microwave scorched bowl. I thought about the notion of comfort food and pictured that it was more like Baked Ziti with Meatballs, or Cornish Hens stuffed with Wild Rice, but clearly, I am wrong. They went to bed with their bellies full and sappy smiles on their faces.

    Life is good.

    But not for the snails and sadly, it’s their kind of day today. That’s because I finally bought some snail candy. I figured they needed a treat after they murdered all but two of the coleus I planted. Perhaps you remember the ones it took so long for me to plant.

    Going, going…GONE! I busted all of those carry-your-house-on-your-back slime bags yesterday after I found their hiding place. They were down between all the leaves, close to the water having a big party–17 of them!

    Yes, I absolutely know that if I’m going to put defenseless plants in the ground, that I better put some snail food down, too. But it’s so tiresome knowing things and sometimes, you just want to give all the rules the big fat finger. It’s so freeing, don’t you think? But the glee is fleeting, because, well, your plants are gone and you’re left standing in your yard with your big fat finger in the air and an even bigger sign around your neck that states, “LOSER.” Your baby plants are down to the nubbins’ or worse–not even there.

    So today, the Sluggo is gone, and so are the snails. They took their food and left to die in the dark moist cracks of my neighbors’ yards. Hopefully, they went to snail heaven with sappy smiles on their faces, too.

    Wait. Do snails have faces?

    Well if they did, they don’t now. And don’t even go thinking they’re cute, either.

    Are they even on the food chain? I mean, come on.

     

  • Don’t try to follow this train of thought…

    Okay, who’s the person that found my blog with a “motorcycle butt creme” search? Come on, you guys. I don’t write about that sort of thing…yet. But I couldn’t resist checking it out, and Golly Wally, I was the first hit! Of course, three hits down I found what the person was actually looking for — assistance from his online buddies about his Alaskan Buttpad:

    “I have a med on my strom seat as well, but my issue is the nose flying up when I stand up on the pegs. Then I have to spend the next minute or two pulling it out of my crotch, which results in weird looks and just general discomfort and a lot of frustration on my part.” Huh?

    Well, actually it looks like a pretty cool site, and you don’t even have to be a motorcycle owner to join their community. All righty then. My previous googlized reference to butt + creme was the odd connection between the advertising selected to sit alongside this commentary, and this snark session referenced here. But they’re both old news now. What’s really hot today is….you guessed it… American Noodle!

    Evidently, we’re all going to be sucked into the sensation of Fan-jaya-land soon. How about if I say let’s not, and say we did. I’m tired of his hair and charm as much as I’m sick of Haley Scarnatto’s blatant display of boobs (can’t call it cleavage because they just, well — hang there) and legs. UGH. Blink, blink, jiggle.

    What’s really news is that the Democratic Big Dogs are neck and neck in amassing their political war dollars so that we can be doused with rhetoric for the next, well, according to my desktop widget, 600 or so days. You do have one of those Bush countdown widgets, don’t you? I have mine wedged right next to my beloved whoopie cushion widget so that I can release pent up tension at will.

    As stated in Reuters “corrected” article today, Obama’s recent surge in the cash department or,”‘overwhelming response, in only a few short weeks, shows the hunger for a different kind of politics in this country and a belief at the grassroots level that Barack Obama can bring out the best in America to solve our problems,’ said Penny Pritzker, the finance chair for Obama’s campaign.”

    According to other sources, there is a new threat on the horizon to at least keep things interesting for Mrs. Clinton and her camp, who must have called Reuters this morning shortly after the first story aired about campaign funds, forcing the “correction.” Fred Thompson may be close to throwing his hat in the ring. Huh? You know, the guy who’s been in Tom Clancy movies and that TV show, Law and Order. He is a former U.S. Senator from Tennessee. This guy. Evidently there’s some serious potential voter lust growing for him out there in cyberland. It’s hilarious that he’s from the same county whose paper recently dropped Snarkann Coulter’s syndicated column for her continued inability to control her vomitous oral emissions. I wonder whether she thinks Fred is hot, too? Maybe she just likes guys from Tennessee, or guys with Southern accents in general and doesn’t know how to properly express herself. Buy enough batteries for this one, gentlemen.

    But enough of this drivel. Today is a day with no one at home but me. My Spring Break slacking RT and his cousin, who have been at our house on a major war monger toot for the past few days, have been:

    • blowing up minute military encampments that took hours to set up;
    • shooting air soft pellets at cans before 8am in Paradise;
    • engaging in lengthy sessions of Dawn of War online; and
    • sucking down copious amounts of Black Cherry Vanilla Coca-Cola without asking.

    But they have moved on to share themselves with my sister in law for a few days where they will most likely engage in similar behavior. Everyone. The future of America is safe.

    Silence. Ahhhh….

  • Loving but cheap Birthday Present

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Today is my sister’s birthday. You know. The one who was smart enough to leave Paradise and move to VA where the leaves actually turn colors and fall off the trees. On the Right Coast where there’s weather? That one. And in spite of her abandoning me, right when I am actually beginning to have a real life as a stay-at-home mouse potato, and could have influenced her in a variety of tainted ways, I still love her and want to wish her a Very Happy Birthday. Here’s a brief trip down memory lane to celebrate in a very cost effective way (even though you bought me that cool bag packed full of pajamas, unmentionables, and smelly bath items for my last birthday).

    Key West, FL 1962

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Key West, Florida. 1963. You can tell it would be difficult to love someone who had a scowl on her face until she was about 6 years old. I mean look at the little one in this picture of swell kids. What is her problem? Does she just need sunglasses? A bonnet? Who is her mother, anyway? And whose idea was it to have an Easter Egg Hunt in the rocks?

    You probably don’t remember, but this is the place where Mom used to make us wear our tennis shoes in the water because there were so many crabs, they’d pinch our toes — especially your chubby morsels.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Chipiona, Spain. 1964. Maybe it’s because she was abandoned on the beach as a young girl, left with other, non-scowling girls with untangled hair who were bound to be simply gorgeous when they grew up and were destined to live in Paradise, bab-i-fied and married to Prince Charming. Poor urchin. Where is her mother?

    Do you remember that bathing suit? It was red with a little skirt and had white turtles on it, or something, didn’t it? And you loved to roll in the sand until you were covered in it. I think this is the only picture that exists where you weren’t cranky about having your picture taken. No wonder the nuns smacked you around in that Spanish school.

    But clearly she came out of such a painful childhood caused by years of tolerating vinegar rinses after community, mixed gender bathtub shampoos, and monotonous lunches of “only baloney” and peanut butter without the jelly. Developing a passion for modeling poor eating behavior for the children at the dining table by playing with her mashed potatoes has assured all of us, that she is just fine.

    Today, she’s a serious butt-kicking name taker. Don’t even think about approaching her at a gas station while she is on her cell phone and interrupting a serious conversation with her gorgeous older daughter, who, like a good daughter, calls her mother 12 times a day. She will snap you up one side and down another. You will be toast. And be glad that you were not the woman behind the counter at the DMV in VA who made the mistake of asking her far too many questions about her seemingly incomplete paperwork. What was that innocent government employee’s name?

    She’s a fierce mom of a competitive cheerleader and gymnast girls, who, after showing everyone she could graduate summa cum laude with a degree in Accountancy and nail a job from an international firm, turned her back on it all to stay at home and boss her family around while her husband has been off fighting wars and stuff. She’s really good at it.

    She’s also good at remembering all of our birthdays and I never remember theirs — or get them royally mixed up. They tolerate me with flat expressions and murmurs of, “What do they feed her?”

    She’s a tiny thing, but she’s scarier than hell. And I’m thinking that I’d really love to get old with her in VA some day before we can’t walk, talk, or eat salsa on everything anymore.

    This is your Birthday Song…It isn’t very long…

    Cheers my sister!

    Now just for hoots, watch this and have a splendiferous day and indulge yourself somehow. It’s swell.

  • Weigh-In Methodology: 101

     

     

     

     

     

    Well, it was weigh-in Tuesday this morning and I’ll confess to being open minded about the results Thinner had for me. And while I’m on my knees, I have another confession to make. I always weigh on Monday morning so that I’m prepared for Tuesday. How ridiculous is that? You know, like, I might be less morose or on the verge 24 hours later or something.

    Take into consideration the shenanigans that go on with my weighing-in methodology:

    Before beginning, remove heavy items of bed time attire: (slippers, pajama bottoms and sweatshirt)

    1) Gingerly step onto the scale making sure there is no jolt up to the serious hefty range thereby keeping you from finding out that’s how much you really weigh.

    2) Hold onto the bathroom counter or door frame and then gently release after you’ve stepped onto the scale, thereby easing UP to your real weight. Repeat: Lift…and release — like kegels.

    3) Squat on the scale (so you can see it without having to get your glasses) and try to balance long enough to see which line you are on before falling backwards onto the tile.

    4) After getting back on the scale, do a few little knee bends in rapid succession to jiggle the scale and see if it gets stuck on a lower number.

    5) Take a flying leap onto the scale to see if it can be shocked into submission.

    6) Record the final products of all of the above, add them, and divide by five.

    It looks like I can only claim a total six pound loss at this point. It’s hard to tell with my stupid scale. That means I’m still in the two pounds a week range, which is what I’m shooting for on the Phoodplan. Nothing exhilarating–just satisfying. I know some of you are still saying, “Why bother?” and I’m remembering that old tale about the Tortoise and the Hare. I’ll get there slowly but surely and pay attention to the non-numerical benefits of weight loss I’m learning:

    • Large cotton unmentionables fit a bit better in stretchy jeans now;
    • My knees don’t ache as much climbing the stairs to the office;
    • When pounding the streets, my shins no longer burn in agony;
    • Four miles + 45 minutes = sweat like a hog
    • I have duped myself into thinking that 3 orange or cherry-flavored prunes are candy and savor their juicy sweetness nightly;
    • A 2 oz. shot of red wine in lime-flavored mineral water tastes absolutely disgusting; and
    • If you add orange juice to this, the taste improves, but what’s the point because the whole concept is pathetic. And yes, I drank the whole glass.

    Have I strayed from the Phoodplan? Not too badly. I have walked an average of five days each week (not seven) and have walked about 40 miles in three weeks!

    I drink two cups of coffee (not one) and I’m feeling that caffeine buzz daily as I merrily update my blogs.

    Portion control is going well, but it’s challenging to fit all that pasta in that small bowl unless I mash it with the back of a wooden spoon.

    Wine on the weekends has been more than two 4 oz. glasses on two days — but not horrifically more (we haven’t resorted to straws in bottles again, yet).

    And there will be more partying in Paradise this weekend for Easter. I haven’t figured out what Jesus has to do with parties and drinking wine…Oh, wait…“Bless me Jesus for I have sinned…” but know that it will be consumed, making it easier to filter out the crying baby and howling toddlers in our extended family. “Help me, Je-sus, Help me!”

    Trick.