kellementology

life according to me

Author: K. Peacock Wright

  • Top Ten Wordless Wednesday Words

    My top ten words for this Nearly Wordless Wednesday — not to be confused with Wordless Wednesday since I’m incapable of being wordless on any day of the week — are (you know, in case you were wondering, and waiting, and thinking perhaps that you, too, might feel some ridiculous remote affinity to me):

    1. mundane – which is rude since this is not Monday, which is usually mundane, but wasn’t this week.  Mundane even sounds mundane.
    2. lackluster – like an old piece of silver you might find in a box of baubles saved for reasons you’ve forgotten but which remind you of when you saved them.  It must have been important because they were shiny once upon a time, like a lot of things.
    3. preoccupied — but not “in a brown study” as some nutjobs might be wont to describe it — as in, “She was preoccupied with the concept of nothingness and its effect on boredom during the Dog Days of Summer, which were missed, and so now are being rewound and reviewed in case she missed anything.”
    4. morose — which sort of reminds me of moron or maroon, which makes me think of Bugs Bunny who is never morose.
    5. doldrums — which is far more interesting than “blah” since it actually sounds like it exists somewhere physically, as a suburb might, or a shopping mall, which means you might be able to go there and find something interesting, unless its residents were blah, and whom you’d not want to spend time with since you already find your own self, well, blah.
    6. humdrum — like sitting on a park bench staring at nothing and finding it interesting since it passes the time, but is not in anyway something you could do while in the doldrums since “being humdrum in the doldrums” would attract the attention of others such as shadow puppets.
    7. quotidian — which is nothing like it sounds, unless you’ve been forced to take a Latin class by your parents who swear it will make you a better writer  (Um, right.) because you’d know that quotidian has to do with repetitive daily actions, which can be mundane, and having nothing to do with something unexpected or surprising, as in winning the Lotto, which would never be quotidian.
    8. pedestrian — which is, when you think of it, only a person walking, but can also be lacking inspiration.  So picture a humdrum person in the doldrums walking across the same street to get to the same bus stop to go to the same job to earn the same paycheck to pay the same bills at the same desk at the same time every month.  You know, a pedestrian pedestrian.
    9. ho-hum — as in John McCain.  As in plain baloney on Wonder Bread.  As in this post.
    10. meh — as in, “I feel like pwning some noobs since it would be way more interesting than sitting here and trying to imitate the writing style of Dave Eggers in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.  Wait.  Maybe it’s A Staggering Work of Heartbreaking Genius — which is anything but meh.  Like me.

    p.s. Gratuitous Wordless Wednesday Photo courtest of my mother who bought this card for my middle son’s recent birthday.

  • Does My Rear Look Big Like This?

    The Yackstar has to be nearly twelve.  I should know, but I don’t, and each time I wonder, I have to count.  That wouldn’t be easy either, but the day I use is the one I met with the RTR’s principal.  He was going to be in the first grade, and I was going to enroll him in our neighborhood school.  It was April Fool’s Day and we’d just had to put our dear old cat Holis down.

    You don’t forget things like that.

    Her name isn’t really the Yackstar.  It’s Precious, but you’d never know that because in much the same way that our dog’s name changes, hers does as well.  But I only really called her the Yackstar when I was referring to her and her proclivity for yacking on the rug near the laundry room, which is now beyond all possible methods of repair.

    Right now, I call her Fresh Nuts.  Yes, I know she’s a female, and no, she’s not crazy.  It’s more of a deriviative:  Precious, Freshness, Fresh Nuts.

    Get it?

    Probably not, but I think it’s hilarious.

    But when she’s finally decided to venture outside in what seems like weeks, and then decides to sneak into the cranky neighbor’s yard, and then yeowl loudly about not being able to figure out how to get back into our patio, I don’t think it’s hilarious at all.

    There’s no way I’m hissing, “Here  Fresh Nuts!  Here, kittakittakitta.  Heeeeeeeerrrrrrreeeeeee Fresh Nuts!”  No.  I have to use her proper name so  when the cranky neighbor slams not one, but two of his windows at 11:30pm even though I’m barely making a sound, he won’t think I’m being derogatory.

    She slept outside all night, and when I hissed over at her the next morning, she ran from the bushes sporting spider webs and dried leaves, yeowling to get through the fence.  Even the guaranteed to get her complete and undivided attention sound of a catfood can being tantilizingly opened and the droolworthy aroma of Friskies Turkey & cheese Dinner In Gravy waved under her nose couldn’t inspire her to remember how to squeeze through the fence.

    So I left her there.

    Her appetite must have encouraged her to remember.
    Fresh Nuts

  • Yeah? So — what of it?

    Last week, one of the bloggers I’ve come across in foodland wrote a post inquiring about what readers like or don’t like in a blog.  Although I always enjoy this particular person’s posts because she’s extremely smart, very opinionated, and an excellent writer, they’re unusual in that they aren’t always about recipes and food porn shots.

    No, not THAT kind of food porn.  This kind.

    She attracts tons of comments, also unusual for much of foodland. No, not the sheer quantity, which is quite impressive, but the quality. Nearly every commenter has something substantive to say about whatever she has written.

    I know I’ve been hooked more than once to chime in — whether it’s in response to what she has written, or to what one of the commentators has mentioned.   And although I’ve taken liberties before with her generous space (she allows 3000 character comments…whoa!) to respond in a near post, I’ve waited on this one, just to see if the slow burn that I developed reading that day would dissipate.

    Nope.

    Maybe it’s because everyone has an opinion and that’s annoying.  No, that wouldn’t work since I’m the leader of the pack.

    Or, it could be that a blog is such a personal thing as compared to a magazine, or a newspaper, and, well, it’s free. So as much as we all wonder at times who reads our blathering and who doesn’t (or why), it isn’t like we’ll go out of business and stop the presses if no one reads.  We just hobble pathetically along, right?  Uh-huh.  Whatever.

    I think my favorite comment had to do with “lengthy blog posts” which is probably why I’m still simmering.

    When have I NOT done a lengthy post? Excuse the hell out of me, but Hell would freeze over first.  I found it quite ironic, since the person making the comment was doing so on a blog that publishes lengthy posts. Excellent posts, mind you, but lengthy.  Glad I’m in such good company.   In much the same way that there are political cartoonists who turn huge issues into a few words and an image, some choose to write, far too many talk whether anyone is listening or not, and some joke.  I’d rather not read blogs that only publish one short silly post after another.  What’s the point?  They didn’t invest any kind of thought, so why should I?  *Tsk, tsk.  Cranky, aren’t we?*

    A few comments had to do with changing things on the blog. They were concerned that something would change.

    News Flash.  Things Change.  You know, like the planet?  Or haven’t you noticed?  Half the fun of having a blog is to CHANGE things.  What?  It’s difficult to read the words and the thinking behind the words if the font changes?  Or the header?  Or the widgets…wait, I need to fan myself…

    Some of the commenters groused about music players on blogs — you know, where you open a blog and the author has a favorite piece playing?

    I’m thinking that it’s not TOO CHALLENGING to lower the volume if you choose not to listen.  But perhaps for those individuals, finding the volume button is.

    Even better?  Some mentioned that since they read blogs while at work, the players were on loud and that others might hear.

    WAIT.  Let me get this straight.  A person is reading blogs at work instead of working, but she wants YOU to not have a music player on your blog so HER coworkers can’t hear it...  Okay, the line forms to the left for egotistical maniacs.  Seriously.

    Another chimer-inner and subsequent dittoers voiced their complaints about blogs and awards. That they’re tiresome.  That they know the only reason people give out awards is to get credit for links.

    Actually, at least from my speck of perspective, when I pass on an award that someone has given me, it’s because I believe that person deserves it.  Go back to the point about investing time in reading blogs.  When you do that, you can actually say thanks to someone else, and recognize that effort in a meaningful way.  Oh, but wait.  That would be a long, involved post, wouldn’t it?  And you’d actually have to be able to say why you enjoyed someone’s blog for a reason other than it’s short. But what do I know?

    This one’s the doozie.  Some mentioned that the only time people comment on their blog is after they’ve posted, and only because they want that individual to come comment on theirs.

    Huh?  You’ve got to be kidding.  And then some people defended themselves over this crap, like they actually needed to dignify it with any kind of response other than bull*hit.  So let’s see.  I spend my time writing which is no small investment of time, and then my reward is to visit those I enjoy reading AND look around for new ones, and that’s categorized as fishing for comments?  Bear in mind this is BEFORE I do my housework for gawdsakes. What if I read other’s blogs first?  Wait.  I do my email first, and that actually takes a while.  So if I read blogs first, and commented — which I almost always take the time to do — I’d never get around to posting.  Who are these people and why are they so whiney?

    Last, but not least.  Advertisements. I bet you knew this was coming?  Several people mentioned the ads and how annoying they are.

    Fine.  Ever looked at a magazine?  Newspaper?  Watch television?  I know.  I don’t like commercials, either, which is why TiVo exists, or why I wait to go to the bathroom on the commercials — you know, to piss off the advertisers.  Except for Target.  I love their ads.  Where was I?  Oh yes, advertisements on blogs.  Guess what?  Don’t pay attention to them then.  It’s really not that difficult.  Sure, if a site has ten pop-ups then it’s a problem, but you should have figured out how to block those a long time ago.  Tune into this Bat Channel, yanno?  As for the sites that run lots of those square tech ads?  Hell.  Click on them once in a while.  They actually lead to sites that have good information if that’s what you’re looking for.  It’s not like some boogie man will pop out and bite your head off.  But now that I’m thinking of it, that’s not a bad idea.  At least it would spare us the inane comments.

    And while I’m on the subject…my ads pay for my hosting service.  Would you bend over and pick up that check if it blew up against your shoe?  Now it would be swell if they paid for all the time I spent writing and managing, cooking, shooting, and editing.  But it doesn’t.  The MoH pays for that, and I’m sure he’s wishing I’d get off my butt and actually write something that involved an advance and some sales.

    But he’s a very patient man.

    So, what’s your take on all of this hooplah?  I’m being overly sensitive, right?  I should just shut my mouth and get back to work?

    Pass you a slice of that cake?

    Hell, I’m relieved none of them said they were sick of people who plastered stoopid photos of themselves all over their blogs all the time.

    Heh.

  • Babysitting 101? Not.

    Your husband asks you if it’s okay that a nephew comes to stay for a few hours one night while his family is out on the town.  You say, “of course,” because how difficult is it to watch a 5-year-old?  After all, you’ve raised three boys of your own, and taught countless children.  Right?

    You:

    • are fairly certain you still have some of the trillions of Legos your boys collected and that you begged the two older ones to take away, to sell on eBay, or maybe build a shrine to their mother with — somewhere.
    • feel more than a little anxiety when you can’t find the Legos, but resourcefully drag the little pool table that no one ever played with from the dark fuzzy region under the RTR’s old bunk bed so your nephew will have something to play with.
    • tell the RTR that since his older brothers entertained him endlessly when he was growing up that he needed to entertain his little cousin and that this would be called Paying it Forward.
    • order pizza because that makes everybody happy no matter what
    • finally remember that the box of Legos you saved are shoved in the garage with the Christmas decorations — somewhere
    • ask your nephew if he wants to play with the Legos or go to the pool with the MoH who’s planning on doing some laps
    • should remember that five-year-olds don’t always completely understand the concept of a choice
    • smile when you see that the RTR has gotten out the army men and know that should keep them busy for about 10 minutes
    • How to Babysit a Younger Cousin

    • tell the little guy after he says that now he wants to swim, that Uncle MoH has already gone, and should be back any minute now
    • feel relief when the pizza arrives
    • smile when he quietly asks where the trash is, then sticks his head in the can and barfs up more than you’ve ever seen a little boy barf — and you’ve seen a lot of barf.
    • feel his cool forehead, wipe his little face and let him rinse his mouth, but think, “Dang.  He must do this a lot.  He’s not even upset.”
    • watch him run back up the stairs to play like nothing happened.
    • see him come back into the kitchen and barf again, then ask him what he had for lunch, hoping nobody else in his family was barfing since that would sort of spoil their evening at the theater.
    • point to the clock explaining where the big hand needs to be for his mother and father to come get him.
    • carry your Mac into the livingroom, placing it on the floor so he can watch Star Wars with the RTR and get comfy with a blanket.
    • hope he nods off even though he doesn’t look like he’s going to.
    • watch him barf again even though there’s not much left to barf.
    • wonder what his parents are going to think we did to him when they get back.
    • know you’ll probably never be asked to babysit your nephew again.
    • decide babysitting is different than riding a bike or jumping rope.

    Who knew?
    IMG_2504.JPG

  • You, Too, Can Organize and Decorate with Teens

    Guitar 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. Teen Project Mess

    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.

    Old mattress 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?

    More Teen Project Mess

    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.
    Owwwwwwwwwwww.

    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?
    New Work Table

  • I don’t think my neighbor wants cake

    I pour cold creamer into my second cup of coffee and set it in the microwave to heat, pushing in my usual 45 seconds. The beeps seem loud in the early morning quiet and I wonder if my neighbor can hear them through the windows that will stay open well into the fall. Next Door

    I’m a respectable neighbor, but I won’t drink luke warm coffee for anyone.  And at this time of year, I’m not closing my windows to keep our sounds of life from annoying a crank next door.  I will try to muffle the sharp clacking my extra bold Italian Roast coffee beans make in the grinder, though.  That’s not a pleasant sound at any time of the day, but at 6:30am, it’s something I wouldn’t appreciate — especially if I worked late each night.

    If you were to walk down our street, you would notice that, like many other neighborhoods today, the houses look exactly like one another.  Some are attached, others aren’t, and although they are reasonably sized, they’re lined up right next to one another.  It’s quiet except for when the morning and evening commute begins, and other than an occasional dog walker, or nanny strolling a baby, it can seem as if no one lives here.  Rarely do children play outside, or neighbors stand to talk between the perfectly manicured strips of lawn.  Windows are shuttered in most homes.  When a car passes to enter a driveway, the garage door glides open, allowing the car to pull in, and then closes behind it like it was never there.

    Blinds In the six years we’ve lived here, the monotony of who does what and when is only rarely interrupted.  We’ve learned most of our cul-de-sac neighbors’ names, and may hold up a hand in a salute of, “Hey,” and a single nod before heading for the mailbox, or pulling in the trash cans.  But that isn’t the case with everyone. 

    There’s the older man who walks intently from one end of the community to the other, back and forth, quickly, one foot slightly scraping the surface of the asphalt, never acknowledging anyone.  There’s the woman at the end of the cul-de-sac with the dark grey Mercedes who drives too fast, and doesn’t brake at the speed bumps, her small body comically bouncing upward each time she hits one.  And the tiny woman who walks with her much larger friend, eyes darting from one open garage, or window to the next, watching, and listening.  Always aware.

    A year after we bought our home, a couple moved into the unit directly across the street and began renovations.   Although they were never friendly to begin with, we were doomed after the woman knocked on our door one day to ask whether we’d sign a petition to prevent our homes from being painted.  The MoH and I had taken the time to preview the proposed color scheme and liked the new rich tones which were quite an improvement over the pink we then tolerated.  Yes, I said pink. Picture a flamingo, and you’d have the correct image. So, no, we wouldn’t be signing the petition.  Since others in our area of the complex were against the new color scheme, evidently, there must have been quite a bit of gossip about those of us who wouldn’t help stall the work.

    I can begrudgingly admit it’s impressive that after working each day, the man has come home for four years to work on that house.  It must be beautiful inside.  But considering that a kitchen and bath contractor took care of that aspect of his renovations, I wonder exactly what took four years.  They seem to be very precise, so perhaps there has been a lot of detail work. Bird's Eye View

    Each Sunday morning after I drag my ugly self out of bed, I can hear the couple already outside for their weekly car washing session.  Same time.  Same day.  Every week.  I don’t have to worry about going out to scrounge for our newspaper in my hag state, because after all these years, I know they won’t look at me. I could don my son’s Arnold Schwartzenegger mask and they wouldn’t acknowledge my existence.  Instead, they remain bent over their task, rubbing intently at some microscopic mark on a window.  I’ve been tempted to yell a chipper, “Good Morning,” to their backsides, and flippantly inquire about whether they’d be interested in wiping the week-old seagull crap off my windshield while they have the Windex out, but know the humor would be lost on them.

    It’s funny what you learn about people you see regularly but never talk to.  My dog barks when she hears the UPS man stop outside their house almost daily.  That they spray the lids of their trashcans with Windex and wipe them more frequently than I clean my fridge.  That in the five years they’ve lived here, only once have I ever seen anyone visit them.  Or that the one time the woman actually spoke to me, it was to question why the gardeners had killed the grass in front of our house, and when I explained it to her, then ask what bermuda was, anyway?  That she doesn’t like the color of the house next door to her because when the sun hits it, the reflection distorts the color of the inside of her house.  That she stays up late at night to read our community by-laws. That you can, on more than one occasion, look directly at the man and say, “Hello,” and he does not respond.

    Close I’ve thought more than once that somehow, this must be my fault, and that I might share a cake or some bread with them.  That I’ve done something wrong or that I’m not friendly enough.  That my dog leaves yellow spots on the grass where she pees even though I try to rinse it with water.  That our cars aren’t as shiny as theirs.  But at some point, I know that some people are just not capable of being friendly to those who don’t share their opinions — even if it’s about something as inane as paint.

  • Wordle and Other Excellent Friday Distractions

    Have you spent time with wordle yet?

    It’s fun if you don’t have anything better to do. In fact, it’s perfect if you do have things to do, but just can’t seem to motivate yourself to do them.

    Cleaning the house seems more attractive by comparison considering the dark mood I was in after spending some time pencil writing last evening. I actually accomplished something while sitting in the late afternoon sun, thinking, remembering, questioning. And then my neighbor came home and wandered over to talk.  This would be the neighbor who feigns neighborliness until one’s out of earshot.  The one who puts his trash out on Sunday morning to sit for an entire day so the rest of the neighborhood can enjoy its loveliness.  The one who who seizes any moment to mention that our dog barks when she doesn’t.  And who lets the spindly trees that are supposed to be a hedge grow without trimming them.  Robert Frost had something to say about good fences making good neighbors, didn’t he?

    Sometimes, I like to think that things happen for a reason, and the exercise was enough to make me really wonder about whether some aspects of our lives need to be put down on paper — even if they’re fictionalized. And if they actually happened, then why the need to fictionalize?

    I’m just not sure.

    But my mood was with me through the night, and it wasn’t until after I returned from my early walk with my friend that I realized the mood was gone, my spirits lifted.

    That’s what exercise, non-stop blathering about everything under the sun, and laughter will do.

    Of course, finding more interesting ways to distract myself also works.  I haven’t been able to decide whether I look best in Mucha,

    Modigliani,

    or Botticelli, 

    but I’m leaning toward the latter since we saw La Primavera, The Birth of Venus, and other beautiful works while we were in Italy.

    Well, and the eyebrows are right.  Nonexistent. Or very nearly.

    In my next life, I will have eyebrows.

    Perhaps I will write about that.

  • Finding a place to begin

    Finding a place to begin

    Nike was smart when they launched their campaign admonishing those of us who sit far too long on our ever-expanding rear ends to “Just do It.”  But when you’re someone who is more inclined to first think, then talk about what you are thinking about — like writing — then think about writing before you actually write anything,  clearly those words have no effect.  None.

    I haven’t “Done It” yet.  In other words, I’m still getting warmed up to the idea of possibly thinking about wanting to write something.  Not just anything, but the piece I am supposed to write.

    The problem is twofold.  On second thought, it’s got quite a few more folds than two. Tenfold might be more accurate.  I have no excuse for this.  It’s pathetic.

    And so when I find myself in this particular situation, I review what I know.  I mull over every detail and experience much like one might sort through an old recipe box, thinking about what is on each card instead of pulling one out, and actually cooking and serving it for dinner.

    I could go back through the books I’ve used in the past whose authors have helped me sort out my thoughts.  People like Zinsser and Lamott, or Goldberg or E.B. White, because they force me to think about what I’m not doing. But I’d have to have something, anything, to work with before I’m compelled to pick up one of those books again.  Otherwise, it’s no different than reading travelogues and never traveling, or buying yet another cookbook when never intending to cook.

    Somehow in my wandering today, I came across Vonnegut and his take on style.  I’d not seen it before, and I read it through several times acknowledging his advice, but thinking more about his writing.  I read parts of it aloud, as I often do when something is written just right, needing to hear the cadence of words as each works with another.  Then I considered the advice.

    One thing was missing.

    Find a place to begin.  And therein lies the rub.

    Since it’s not a dark and stormy night, I’m taking myself out into the sun that has finally decided to grace us with its presence to sit and read something well-written, take a few notes, and find a place to begin while I’m distracted by green bugs in the vicinity.

  • Books, Brioche, and…Boredom

    Finally, finally, all things Italy are done.  The planning, the packing, the photos, the writing.  And when you’ve spent the time that I have getting ready for a trip like this, there’s a kind of void after it’s over.  A huge void.  Kind of like the Grand Canyon.

    I just might be…

    …and I’m not quite certain…

    …but thinking perhaps that…

    I’m bored.

    Wait.

    I’m never bored.

    Ever.

    I’m not quite sure what to do about this feeling.

    And even more strange?

    Because I’ve been up to my ears with all things flickr, Photoshop, iPhoto, and Blurb,  I’m not in the mood to sit here, either.  It’s Friday and the whole weekend is yawning ahead.  It is Friday, isn’t it?

    I thought so.

    I’ve got three cookbooks opened to some very nice brioche recipes all requiring overnight refrigeration, (I can’t decide if I want plain or chocolate…) and I’m wondering whether the MoH would like to go down to the water tonight to sit and stare at the horizon with a bit of food and something nice to drink.  Or maybe go see Mama Mia…

    But there are other things to consider as well:

    • Like how to get my doggo to stop her incessant scratching and my cat’s interminable yeowling. The fleas are beyond nasty this year, and although I’ve sprayed, and vacuumed, and washed, brushed, combed and yes, finally broke down and bought some Frontline (disgusting poison…), it doesn’t seem to have put a dent in them.  I.  Hate.  Fleas.  Which is why I hate carpeting.  And whomever conducted that study that reported simple vacuuming daily will eliminate up to 99% of the fleas because it destroys their shells?  What-ever, dood.  Sounds good, but no cigar.  Well, not around here, anyway.  My cat is the world’s greatest fleabus.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  We have almost NO dirt anywhere.  There are flagstones, and concrete, a few flowerbeds that are predominantly damp, a patch of damp grass…WHAT GIVES?
    • I need a new book. I loved Such a Pretty Fat by Jen Lancaster (laughed my ass off…well…not quite since my scale still insists upon telling me the gawd awful truth).  It lambastes Jenny Craig and the whole concept of a weight-loss plan that includes packaged food AND has the greatest kiss-off line I’ve heard in a long time.  Click the link and watch the video.   I also just finished The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Pachett, one of my favorite authors.  It was her first novel, and I’m letting it stew a bit before I say what I need to say about it.  But her books have that effect on me.  And since I’m on a “thinking about writing seriously” kick (again) and still have 8 gazillion books here I haven’t read that can inspire me from one perspective or another and keep me from actually doing my own writing, Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is next up.  It looks to prove that when you want to write a book, you can write whatever you want, and sometimes, people notice.  Yes, even people like myself, who notice, then let it sit on their bookshelf for, oh, about five or six years.
    • I need to sign up for a photography class and a writing class (you know, because sometimes, homework is a good thing…) through one of the university extensions here.  I seem to have recovered from my post traumatic distress syndrome over all things “school,” and both of these classes will occupy my time, feed my creativity, and give me yet another excuse to not actually start my own real writing. Okay, so writing somewhere other than this blog.
    • I have to make a fix-it list for this house. I know I used to joke quite a bit about it, but jeez.  I’m tired of putting money into having the carpet cleaned and want to rip it out of the house and heave it out the windows.  I need a painter to even out the walls where boys incapable of standing up without hanging onto the walls have left smudges that can no longer be wiped.  And the fence on the patio needs replacing (along with the neighbor it shields us from), along with the drip sprayers and lights.  Then there are the screens the cats wrecked (and the one I totaled while we were trying to break into our house last night after swimming because we were locked out….) because the extra key wasn’t in it’s normal place… and…yes, things need to be fixed.  I checked.  There is a Handyman section in the Yellow Pages.  My fingers will be walking.  Soon.  They will be walking miles.
    • And last but not least, try not to feel so wistful about this blog. It’s sort of crawling along while my food blog is roaring.  Okay, so, not like the Internet Market type roar, but everything’s relative, yes?  As much as I enjoy both of them, this one is special because it’s just about whatever comes to mind.  It’s me.  And sure, so is the other one, but it’s about my food, which isn’t necessarily me, even though they say, “You are what you eat.”  Um, thank-you.  Next?  But the crickets have been chirping loudly here lately, and I’m trying to adjust to the idea that it’s okay and that I didn’t set out to write here to do anything other than expend energy and get back into the habit of writing.  From that perspective, it’s all been worth it.  One step leads to another, right?

    Right.

    So shut up and write.

    On to the brioche…

  • You’re so over the Italy stuff, right?

    Trenitalia Alta Velocita

    The train ride to Florence was easy.  There were no delays, the air conditioning was refreshing, and it actually seemed as if we were really skimming along at 300 km/hr, leaving cars on the autostrade in the dust, which is saying quite a bit.  We were able to look out the windows the entire time, unlike our first trip, when a man sitting across from the boys yanked the shade down without the slightest acknowledgment that three others were sitting at the same table. Okay.

    Small towns appeared along the way, their terra cotta roofs clustered on hill tops in the distance.  Fields of sunflowers stretched away from us one after the other, but their heads pointed down and away, revealing only a yellow fringe in the midday sun.  I wondered if I’d have the chance to drive through that countryside some day to explore those towns.

    From the moment we arrived at Stazione Santa Maria Novella, it was different.  The area inside the walls of Florence is traffic controlled, allowing only those with a special permit the opportunity to enter.  Yes, there was traffic, but far less.  And absolutely, we had to be wary crossing streets, but not as if we were taking our lives in our hands each time we did.  The streets seemed more organized, neater.  Less frenetic.  And… not quite as intriguing as Rome, nor as quaint as Sorrento.

    (more…)