kellementology

life according to me

Author: K. Peacock Wright

  • That Summer Feeling

    Pelicans

    It’s the last day of school and because 99.9% of us have spent time in a seat in a classroom counting the days and minutes and seconds until we could say, “It’s the last day of school!” we know it’s a special day.

    And then there’s another portion of us who stood in that classroom in front of those kids, and later, in front of those teachers, and thought the very same thing. This particular experience gave new meaning to the phrase, barely contain my glee…

    Okay, so for some — those of us who still have children at home — this day conjures conflicting emotions:

    A. You’re ecstatic that you no longer have to get up at 6:30 (or even 6:57) for your 7am car pool responsibilities.

    B. You’re in a quandry because your almost 16-year-old son will be home every single day for 10 weeks (too old for camp, not able to attend summer school to make up crappy grades in Spanish and Algebra II because his perfectly delightful and generous but most likely too indulgent parents are taking him to Italy) attempting to put a pet rock to shame with inactivity and behaving quite charmingly the entire time. Lifeguard Tower

    A. You’re seriously glad that you no longer have even more children — little ones — at home who now need you to be the summer tour director, organize appropriate television viewing time, snack time, nap time, play group time, reading time, craft time, and errand-running-time with said children in tow which was always so much fun.

    B. There’s no B on this one. Trust me. Ice Cream Stand

    A. You no longer have to ask (prod, cajole, encourage, motivate, hold a mirror under his nose to see if he’s breathing…) aforementioned teenager if he has homework to do, classwork to finish, quizzes or tests to study for, papers to sign, grades to keep an eye on, or projects to complete, and compose yourself long enough to stimulate chronic eye twitching.

    B. You no longer have time to do all of the above because it’s the last day of school and all of the above didn’t exactly work, so you’ve resorted to Plan Z in preparation for the next school year. Already.

    A. Even though you’re a million years older than you once were when you couldn’t wait for the Last Day of School, you still remember that the Day After the Last Day of School was a very special day that meant you’d lay in bed as long as you possibly could waiting to feel that feeling you’d waited for all year. You know. The, “IT’S SUMMER AND YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL!” feeling. The one where your days stretch in front of you, yawning with possibility. Evening Boardwalk

    B. Since The Day After the Last Day of School is Tuesday this year, and that’s normally a car pool morning for me, see the first “A” above.

    A. You’ll finally, finally get to see your wannabe artist son’s art portfolio knowing it will make you smile, appreciating his ability even though the world wants to browbeat artists, guilting them into thinking that begging on a street corner spouting formulas and quadratic equations in Spanish will gain them more handouts than painting or playing a violin. Okay, so an electric guitar maybe?

    B. I’ll finally get to maybe think about possibly considering looking in his backpack, hoping against hope that there are no apples in the bottom, left to ferment for weeks. But if there are apples, I’ll be reminded that sometimes apples do fall far from the tree, and that is fortunate.

    Happy Last Day of School!

  • The effect of Paradise and marine layers on golf.

    I think by now you know that I have a “maybe like – sorta meh” relationship with this palm-laden place I begrudgingly refer to as Paradise. I know that there are many cities I could live that pale in comparison are much more interesting, but my grousing is about more than the monotonous weather that draws people here.

    It’s about mindset — as in the mindset of many long time residents and other self-elected expert representatives of the region as a whole. Somehow, as large as this city has become over the years, the only thing that ever seems to matter to visitors is the weather.

    So why am I on this particular toot this morning?

    (more…)

  • Sunday, Sunday…So good to me…

    It’s quiet now.  So quiet I can hear the refrigerator running — a strange way to measure quiet, but still.  Okay, so if my Mac was in the bedroom where it’s been recently, instead of on my kitchen counter, then I guess being able to hear the refrigerator would be huge.

    You know.  The distance and all?

    Okay, so maybe not.

    Everybody’s gone.  The MoH and the RTR are on a hike.  Do they hike?  Erm…no.  But we’ve sort of decided that we’d kind of like to think about possibly learning.  Maybe.  Notice that I’m not with them.  I’m in the kitchen, of course, again indulging myself in an on-line baking gab fest with other passionate foodies.  And the Gramster got in her car to go for a walk.  That’s where you drive somewhere more interesting than Reach-Out-and-Touch-Your-Neighbor-Gated-McCommunity-Hood to park your car and then get out and walk.

    Did you notice I missed Friday?  (Insert affirmative response here.) I thought about it, and somehow the time got away from me.

    You’re not dying to know why?  What?  Are you cranky today?

    Well.

    I’ve been using two guide books to assist my vacation planning.  One is Rick Steves‘ Italy 2008 (lotsa advice in black and white text from someone who has a great reputation) think Nitty Gritty — and the other, a very colorful guide published by DK Eyewitness Travel:  Italy (you know, lots of cool drawings, photographs, color, and less text) think Bright and Shiny here.  That one would be for the menfolk.  I figured I’d go light on their attention spans.

    Anyway, having gotten all the lodging taken care of, I decided to tackle the recommended strategy for avoiding long lines.  Now, it isn’t that I don’t particularly enjoy standing in long lines.  I am an SDSU grad, after all, and back in the day before on-line registration, all we did was wait in line.  Serious ones.  It was the beginning of my quest to develop some semblance of patience in my time on this planet.

    Where was I?

    Lines…oh yes.  Avoiding them.  It would be the heat.  I’m spoiled rotten.  Completely and thoroughly.  Like today.  It’s a non-balmy, somewhat breezy, wannabe sunny but not quite makin’ it 69 degrees on this Sunday in Paradise.  So I’m beyond worried about heat, and sweating, and well, honestly, my tongue lolling about on the pavement while I’m there.  How gauche.  Erm…quanto viscoso!  Or something like that.

    I am so not someone who can do heat unless it’s in a kitchen, and even then, it’s not pretty.  And I know none of you are feeling the love over this right now since I’ve taken a gander at your temps and you’re sweltering.  Most of you!  Okay, so not you, paisley, but still.

    So, getting reservations in Florence to see Michelangelo’s David and the Uffizi are highly recommended.  Now here’s your quiz.  Do you just ignore the suggestion to call, or get on line because you are a firm believer that anything is possible on line?  (Insert Jeopardy music here)

    You are correct!  I got on line.  And yanno?  The booking fee is more than the fee the museum charges and I am so not interested in paying anyone for their network, or whatever it is they spend on their servers.  So I decide, with my tail firmly between my legs, to call.  You know, punch the umpteen gazillion digit number into my phone, and then rely on redial until I get through…

    Monday: after 10 or so calls, I decide to refer to the business hours, and realize they’re closed on Monday.  Fine.

    Tuesday: after 10 or so calls, I do notice that the phone rings in two ways — a regular “busy” signal, and another odd-sounding, and irregularly buzzing type sound which I figured was a “ring.”  And no, I’m not on speaker phone because the phone’s not near my computer.  Gawd forbid that I have to get off my ball, trip over the Doggo who is laying on her bed to get to the phone should someone deign to answer my call.  I also learn that if you let the phone “ring” more than 40 times, a recording tells you all lines are busy.

    This is key information. (Lick the end of your pencil and write that down.)

    Wednesday: I told the MoH to set the alarm for 3am our time so I could call then.  Really.  But the idea of getting up to engage in this rapidly expanding exercise in futility, going back to sleep, then getting up again at 5:00 to beat the streets with my VBF seemed pointless.  So I spent another morning analyzing Italian telephone rings and busy signals.

    Thursday: After the MoH telling me that I should just suck it up and book on line (consider that this would cost almost $80 for the four of us for ONE museum),  I spent the morning making more inane phone calls that no one answered, stressing the entire time that I was not accomplishing anything.  Horror of all horrors.

    Disclaimer:  Okay, so I have to qualify “not accomplishing anything.”  That would be accomplishing anything for the trip.  Picture the whole forward motion thing on a football field.  The ref blows the whistle, right?  The rest of the stuff I should be taking care of is well, being taken care by the Gramster who needs to stay busy.

    Friday: I have a renewed burst of phoning energy, really looking forward to the crick I know I’ll have in my neck and a beet colored ear before I’m done.  I plan to arise at 3am and proceed downstairs to the MoH’s laptop.  In the dark. Pick up the phone and “dial” the phone number I’ve  dialed for what seems like the millionth time.  It sounds so loud in the quiet house, and it already feels different since there’s nothing to occupy my mind while I’m listening to the beeping of the busy tone, or the odd ringing.

    I decide to log on to Concierge to surf through the info they have about Italy.  After about the 4th attempt calling, I notice the phone number Concierge has for the place I’ve been trying to contact. The last three digits of the number catch my eye, and in the dim light cast by the screen, I look back at Steves’ book noticing that something isn’t quite right.  I see an 883 in one place, and an 833 in the other.

    Oh. My. Gawd.

    I try the different phone number.  It rings three times, and an English speaking voice, cheerfully and heavily accented in Italian answers.  In less than three minutes, I’ve booked two reservations for four people.  Three.  Minutes.

    After how many days?

    I smell a letter coming.  And it’s stinky.

    Dear Rick Steves…

    And newsflash.  The menfolk are back from their hike.  In case I’ve swayed you about Paradise and palm trees, here’s another look without the Pacific.  Makes you want to move East, doesn’t it?

    No, it’s not smog.  It’s that lovely June Gloom that we get.  If you’re into pure sunshine, June would not be the time to visit.

  • Through my new lens…

    Garden Mirror

    It’s interesting, this new writing venue of mine, no longer in our office since my mother’s taken up residence there. My used to be vanity is now my desk, positioned in front of one of my bedroom windows, allowing me a gauzy view of the palms outside, and my neighbors, an unearthly glow sometimes after twilight.

    Today, the palm fronds are damp and tossing about in the stiff breeze that Mother Nature has put upon us, taking the June Gloom we’re accustomed to in Paradise to a new level. It’s cold and grey, the street is actually wet, and I’ve had to shut all my windows or freeze my ass off while sitting here, pretending to be pithy.

    (more…)

  • Italia! 30 days and counting…

    It looks like the theme for June will be food and vacation planning. All fun and games, right? Sheesh. I don’t think so! It’s only the 2nd and my tongue’s dragging on the ground. Okay, so not exactly, but still.

    On the vacation front…
    I finally found Fattoria Settemerli — the perfect farmhouse (lah-tee-damn-dah) about 15 minutes outside of Firenze. Now, being one who will always remember that episode of I Love Lucy when the four friends were headed to California and stopped at that fleabag motel, you know, where Ethel had to tie Fred to the bed with the sagging mattress? And the train. The train…Bwhahahahaha! Cheese sandwich? Not ringing any bells?

    Nevermind.

    Like I said. The perfect farmhouse. There’s a bus stop nearby, and yes, I absolutely Google mapped it to make sure AND checked the bus lines and wasn’t THAT fun. But I did read a few reviews that mentioned something about having to venture up a hill with luggage and wheels bumping over the rocks in the road, so we may be in for quite the adventure. The MoH says that’s the point, so no problem. I booked it.

    But my exhilaration lasted about two seconds because the next step in my planning is figuring out how to get from Rome to Naples to Sorrento to Naples to Florence to Rome. We’re taking the train for the most part, but do you have any idea just how many trains there are? It’s amazing. Erm…and so is the cost. But it became a no brainer when I read in one resource after another that road traffic is horrible, gasoline is approaching $10/gallon, and that at least in Naples, no one pays attention to red lights or stop signs. Suggestions mention needing to “Do what the locals do, and make eye-contact with the drivers while you cross.” Now that sounds exciting, yes?

    Besides, without the hassle of a rental car large enough to fit the four of us and our luggage, the MoH will actually get to see the countryside with no white-knuckle driving responsibilities this time. Sure, it will be somewhat blurry at about 180mph, but hey!

    And for those of you still scratching your heads about why I’m organizing this instead of using a booking agency: A) I’m a glutton for punishment; B) It’s insanely fun; C) I’m a complete control freak about things like this; D) I missed my calling and really wanted to be a Travel Agent instead of a teacher; E) I have absolutely nothing to do with my time and totally miss planning every moment of adolescents’ literate lives 70 hours a week.

    If you chose “C” then you are correct, win the Maserati, and can collect your winnings in your dreams. Don’t forget to listen to the engine before you go, because if you’re like me, that’s the closest you’ll ever get to a Maserati, right? But thanks for playing.

    On the food front…

    I’m the hostess with the mostest for the monthly cyber bake I’ve been participating in for over year now. It’s top secret, so I can’t say what we’ll flood the web with at the end of this month, but part of my responsibilities as co-host are to monitor the forum for the other bakers who may have questions. Um. They have lots?

    And you remember that there are nearly 1,000 participants, right?

    Thankfully, there are people far more knowlegeable than myself in this group, and they chime in with suggestions and direction, too. It’s quite a bit of fun.

    And to get warmed up for our trip, I’m digging into regional Italian. I figured what the heck. I can go to Italy and have a decent source of comparison in my head when I cozy up to a plate of Fritto Misto di Mare or Saltimboca alla Romana. It has to be good, doesn’t it? A die-hard foodie cannot go to Italy and come home disappointed, can she?

    On the home front?

    My mom is really on the ball. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear her name was Cinderella. She cleans all day. Vacuums, sweeps, waters flowers, does laundry, folds it and puts it away. Cleans cat boxes. Cleans garage refrigerators that should be donated to science, or nuked. I know. You’re wondering if you can get that service. But try and tell her not to. It doesn’t work. She’s downstairs right now finishing dishes I left in the sink last night. This is not a crime in Paradise unless you make it one. Leaving dishes in the sink, not having your mother do them. Or preventing her. We have this problem with never quite being able to fit the dishes into the dishwasher because it fills all day, then only half the dinner dishes go into it. And I suppose I could really wax on about this particular dilemma, but I have trip planning to do.

    Museum reservations to make so that we can bypass long lines was numero uno on my list today, but phones ring oddly in Italy. I can’t tell if it’s ringing and ringing, or busy.

    Restaurants off the beaten path to find so I can truly say we enjoyed something special while we’re there. This is challenging, but there are some really good Italian blogs with good leads…

    Start on our itinerary. I make a small binder for the MoH when we go on vacation so he can speed read through everything while he’s on the plane. It has reservation papers and vouchers, maps, and print outs of possibilities for all kinds of things. He likes it.

    Assign homework. The menfolk are getting a subject to bone up on so they can be the expert when we’re standing in front of yet another Renaissance painting, the assigned person can talk about more than our interpretation of it.

    That’s enough for a Monday, I think.

    Isn’t it?

    You’ll be soooooo sick of this whole Italy thing by the time I’m finished.

    Ciao, bella. Gracie per la chiamata. Abbia un giorno piacevole.

  • Teenagers, school, and grey hair.

    Teenagers, school, and grey hair.

    How do we get to Friday so quickly now when it used to seem as if it was forever hovering in the distance of my pseudo nine-to-five work week? It’s amazing, and I’m left feeling yet again that I need some kind of a drive through where I can order a few more hours each day with a super-sized box of salty hot fries.

    And I’m pensive. But that shouldn’t stop my Friday Follies, because I’ll indulge in a bit of Peaflock egocentrism instead of worrying about the economy, or whether I’m being green enough. About whether the RTR will persist in his subtle efforts to resist all half-assed attempts at parental pressure to become a neurotic type-A studentisto at some point in the future. Smart young man.

    So how is my almost 16-year-old last birdie in my nest doing these days? I thought you’d never ask. Outside of continuing to be the gentle and respectful, scruffy around the edges, but hugging type person that he’s always been, I’d like to say he’s seen the light and has become an organizational sensation with a sparkling bedroom. A notebook that one might be able to detect some semblance of order. A backpack whose lumpy contents I don’t have to wonder about.

    He hasn’t.

    But his bathroom is cleaner than ours now, because The Gramster is sharing it with him. It looks like a real bathroom now with a mirror you can actually see your reflection in.  And he’s loving the guitar, the lessons, and even his cool guitar teacher. I keep asking him when he’s going to get House of the Rising Sun down so I can sing, and you know, I think he’s working on it. I’ll let you know if I actually get a gig on YouTube so you can spit your cereal milk or coffee all over your keyboard.

    But school? Well, let’s just say we’re gently reminding him that if there’s not a solid “C” in Spanish and Algebra II, then the MoH has decreed that when we get back from Italy this summer, he’s getting a J.O.B.

    So I’m still trying to figure out exactly whose consequence that is since the RTR doesn’t have a driver’s license, and since I remain challenged to completely understand which higher plane of existence he spends most of waking moments on, I’m not comfortable with the idea of him being behind the wheel of any vehicle. Too. Scary. That means that I would become the J.O.B. taxi.

    I hate driving. Thoroughly.

    Besides, I think our philosophy is losing credibility faster than you can yell, “Phony!” at me. If I haven’t raged enough about it before, or, if you were smart and skipped through the pretty pictures of those twenty or so posts, you know that I do have rather strong opinions about the general quality of public education. In spite of the two decades I spent working as an educator — a damn good one, thank you very much — I’ve always believed that what we do best is try to fit all children into the same sized hole. And because my pensiveness is about my son today, and not public education, I’ll leave it at this: If I truly believe that, then how, how, how do I continue to find myself veering toward that norm? It’s amazingly difficult to pull away from that force.

    So how is the RTR winning this? About two months or so ago, his art teacher invited a spokesperson down from a school in San Francisco to speak. The funny thing about it is that each day when I pick him up at school, we have the same exchange:

    Me: How was your day?

    Him: Pretty good (although this fluctuates between other responses such as, fine, average, normal, okay…)

    Me: Did anything new and exciting happen?

    Him: No.

    It’s one of those warm, fuzzy mother and son moments that we smile about. So it figures that the one day I forget to play the tape, he actually has something to say:

    Him: Mom. You know how you always ask me about whether something new and exciting happens at school?

    Me: Yah?

    Him: Well today, a person came to our art class.

    Me: What did he talk about?

    Him: Well she was from this art school in San Francisco and it sounds really cool. You don’t have to have SAT scores.

    Me: Really? *Oh. Swell.*

    Him: Yep. And when she asked if anyone wanted information, I raised my hand.

    Whoa. This is the part where I have to control myself and not act like I’m giddy that he is showing an interest in something that doesn’t resemble tiny military figurines or tanks, World War II and YouTube comedy segments. He’s spoken to someone from admissions on the phone twice.

    Do you know how difficult it is to keep up with the whole, “It matters that you WORK hard in school, because in life you have to WORK hard if you want to find the right kind of WORK for yourself instead of just finding a job that pays well- blah-blah-blah-dee-dah-work-work-work…” diatribe when the school your son has decided he’s attending has this philosophy:

    The Academy of Art University maintains a no-barrier admissions policy for all undergraduate programs. The Academy was built on the educational philosophy that all students interested in studying art and design deserve the opportunity to do so.

    All he needs is a high school diploma. Period.

    Okay, so… and parents who are willing to pay the tuition.

    But it’s right up his alley of interests. So go figure.

    Guess the MoH is going to have to whip out his checkbook. But the RTR is still taking the SAT next Saturday.

    Just. Because.

    And the next two years will fly by as we continue to pander to the great education god in the sky and resist temptations to walk the streets with signs that plead, “Will clean your bathroom for son’s GPA.” Okay, so maybe not.

    He told me the school doesn’t recognize GPA, either.

    Go figure that his non-plan looks like it’s going to work. Just think about all the grey hairs and wrinkles I could have saved worrying about that sweet kid.

    Where does the time go?

  • Swooning in FoodLand

    It’s May 28th…the end of the month. And you know what that means, right? I made dessert to match my blog. Nice, huh? Sort of glows?

    I’m in Foodland, and we’re all woozy on Opera cake right now. I haven’t quite drooled on my keyboard yet, but there are some incredibly amazing flavor combos out there, and quite polished presentations, so it’s only a matter of time. Seriously. I’m always left inspired by the talent.

    I went for the lava look myself. Dessert tonight after our salad dinner. Small pieces. Very. There’s TWO CUPS of buttah in ONE aspect of this creation and I lost count on the eggs. Yes, there’s sugar. Jeez. Does it count that I purchased one ingredient at our farmer’s market?

    Wanna lick? No pushing.

    Just didn’t want you to think I was flaking around on you. This one took all of yesterday, and was finished this morning.

    My back’s feeling it, but I got in my three miles this morning.

    And then I had two pieces for breakfast.

    Tiny ones.

    Taste testing, okay?

    Jeez. How many calories could there possibly be in two tiny pieces? Eight-thousand? Feh.

    But you can lurk if you’d like some calorie-less viewing privileges. You know. Because we’re friends.

    Okay, and I have absolutely NO idea why that link looks like that. I’ve done it five times, exactly the way I always do it, and hell. I just guess it wants some notice.

    Whatever.

    If it looks normal to you right now, it’s because I persisted and well, it finally paid off.  And if it still looks strange, trust me.  I tried.  So just go click on Sass & Veracity in the blogroll and cut to the chase.

    Clearly, my brain has been rotted by the sugar and fat.

    What a way to go.

  • Indiana Jones & Film Critics

    My menfolk know I’m a sucker for Indiana Jones. I always have been. Sure, Harrison Ford has something to do with it, but I’ve always been easily swayed by anything related to Raiders of the Lost Ark and all that followed. I get a sappy grin on my face and know that no matter how many times I’ve seen any of the movies, if the opportunity arises, I’ll plunk down and watch. I love the corny humor, and the “no way could that actually happen” adventures Indy and his side kicks become involved in.

    If you’re shaking your head on this one, here’s my thinking — and it is relatively similar with respect to books and music and food, of course: if I like it, then it’s good, but I won’t argue. What’s the point? Isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?

    I can sit and watch No Country for Old Men and enjoy it as much as I enjoy something like The Holiday or Amazing Grace, or Four Weddings and a Funeral, or Citizen Kane. In other words, I’m all over the place when it comes to anything I say I enjoy. But as much as I can say I have a wide range of movies I enjoy, only some rate watching over and over. The Lord of the Rings trilogy fits into this category, and so do the Indiana Jones films. No, they have nothing in common other than I enjoy them.

    So when I read Union-Tribune Arts Critic at Large, Lee Grant’s review of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull last week, you’d think it wouldn’t bother me, being the magnanimous person I am with respect to others’ opinions being sacred.  Right?

    Wrong.

    Movie critics drive me crazy. They remind me of disgruntled wannabes, whether they never made it as an actor, or screenwriter, or had fantasies about being the next great director. Hell, half of them can’t even write, yet they are paid to write about movies they frequently don’t enjoy just to crap on everyone else’s entertainment parade.

    “The film is a disappointment, as dull as a bunch of 60-year-old guys sitting around and, for fat paychecks, coming up with something to recapture their youth and the blockbuster movies made a generation ago,” Grant grumbles, most likely annoyed that the fat paycheck he mentions won’t be going into his own pocket. And if George Lucas and Steven Spielberg want to make a movie they know people like me (and my boys who grew up on those blockbuster movies Grant mentions) will enjoy, why not? I’ll probably purchase the DVD when it comes out, too. Why? Because it’s guaranteed to make me smile which comes in pretty handy some days.

    Returning to my rant…

    Grant takes the time to mention in his review that “the film is set in the late-1950s and we know that because the initial soundtrack music is Elvis Presley’s ‘Hound Dog.’” Oh really? Clearly a significant piece of information. I’m thinking it was smart to set the film in a later decade considering all the actors had aged quite a bit and nothing is more annoying that trying to make us all think they haven’t.

    But I’m ahead of myself here. Friday, six of us (including a nephew, my mother, and one older) son piled into two cars, headed to a favorite sports bar to eat, graffiti up the paper that’s spread on the tables for just that purpose, and then went to see the latest of Indy Jones. Outside of having to stifle snickers about the young woman sitting behind me having to rely on her date to explain what was going on and who the characters were, the movie was everything we thought it would be: a fun trip down memory lane with a few new things thrown in for good measure. We had some time to talk about the movie afterwards at Cold Stone while slurping on ice cream in the very winter-like weather we’ve had in Paradise this holiday weekend, but only comments about the parts we liked. My middle son knows everything there is to know about the older Star Wars movies and all things Indiana Jones, so he was in rare form talking to the two younger boys non-stop.

    Hell, he’s the one who should have written the film review, not Grant, whose ideas must have taken an entire three minutes to put to paper. Does one lose one’s credibility as a critic if one doesn’t slam a beloved character? Why not just avoid writing about it at all?

    I don’t need a film critic to tell me that Indy’s “iconic bullwhip [is] now used with a little more difficulty,” but that “he’s not a guy you’d trade in for a fresher model.” Well, not yet, anyway. Hmmm…maybe that’s the bigger issue. Mayhaps Harrison Ford is a reminder to some that they, too, are aging.

    Like this is new information? I get it, okay?

    Grant drones on with his attempt to mimmick a turd found in the punchbowl before the party starts by judging that Cate Blanchett is “struggling” in the role of Agent Spalko, and that “those big, bad Russians seem dated.” The film did get a rise out of members of Russia’s Communist party, however, evidently offended that their youth may be negatively affected by how Russians are depicted, accusing the West of tricking them. Now that’s completely hilarious.

    Am I missing something, or did Grant actually go to this movie thinking that any of it was supposed to be believable. Really? Scary to think he might me in sync with the offended Russians on this. Isn’t the point of movies like Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull part kitschiness? The characters are generally exaggerated, and reminiscent of those found in films from an earlier era. I don’t want Indiana Jones to be realistic, or believable, or anything other than what it’s been.

    But what do I know? I’m not a film critic. I’m only someone who’s spent a lifetime loving movies in all shapes and sizes.

    Well, and Indiana Jones.

    Okay. So, Harrison Ford, too.

    He’s looking pretty nice for 65.

  • The family that views together?

    My mother loves watching television. Loves. It. So it’s been a challenge for her since arriving back in Paradise to adjust to our television viewing habits. Um, we don’t exactly have any?

    She’s got to feel like she’s in TV Hell.

    We do have shows we enjoy, but from my perspective, it’s more about being with my menfolk in the evening after dinner than the show itself. Sappy, but true. Now, the MoH would probably say, “Whatever,” to my response being the avid one-who-looks-forward-to-his-three-shows-that-aren’t-sports type person that he is, but you do get the idea, right?

    Outside of those few shows on our highly intellectual viewing agenda (American Noodle, Bones, House, Top Chef…), we surf. Someone grabs the clicker while I’m putting the finishing touches on the latest recipe I’m subjecting my family to and their job is to find something we’ll all enjoy while we’re eating — nothing anyone really cares about. You know, like Dirty Jobs, which is great viewing while eating. Have you seen the one about the clean up after the toilets exploded? Nice.

    This isn’t always as easy as it sounds since we’re usually ready to park our butts on the couch with food and beverage in hand around 7PM most nights. There’s never really anything on. One-hundred-fifty channels, not counting choices for the On-Demand channels or pay-per-view options and there’s nothing on. If you have a closet full of clothes and often feel as if you have nothing to wear, it would be similar to that feeling. Completely hopeless.

    Like I said. We surf. It doesn’t matter that it’s 6:50 or 7:12, the one with the clicker stops at whatever looks good — erm, that would so not be Cash Cab, okay? Who thinks of that crap? We settle in while we eat, try to ignore the Doggo who waits patiently for any finished plate to lick, never blinking lest she miss that opportunity, and like the relatively content saps we are, watch whatever is semi-interesting. Sometimes, that means staring at the pretty pictures on one of the HD channels.

    This is all very contrary to what my mom is accustomed to. She is a stalwart TV Guide person, planning her television viewing time meticulously. In fact, she enjoys reading said TV Guide aloud to others so that they, too, can know what is on and marvel at all the possibilities. So I’ve explained the on-line Guide to her. You know. That place that lists all shows on all channels across all hours of the next few centuries? Yes. That one. I’ve also shown her how the DVR works. That way she can record her favorites, then watch them while I’m wasting the prime years of my life *snort* sitting at my Mac every freaking morning of the week. Okay, so maybe not weekends. But still.

    So she’s adjusting, but it’s got to be strange. Annoying? Probably downright aggravating. I know we can be that way. So I also encourage her to watch television in our bedroom when we’re downstairs. Warm the bed up, blow the cobwebs off the Sony and fire up the engine to see if it still runs. And she has. Once.

    We have been enjoying American Noodle together, and that’s been fun, but I’m sure she’d like to hunker down with her own schedule, with her own television, which, by the way, is sitting in the garage with the rest of her Earthly possessions and is just about as big as the little bedroom I wedged her into. In fact, now that I think of it, that television is so enormous, I wonder if it will fit through the door.

    Okay, so maybe not that big. But I don’t want to think about trying to carry it up the stairs. Besides, we don’t have cable active in that part of the house. Gawd forbid giving the RTR another reason to hole up in his cave. Besides, can TVs actually pick up stations without being hooked up anymore?

    So this morning, after diligently recording Boston Legal and Grey’s Anatomy, do you think she’d actually be able to sit down and enjoy them? One would think so. But for some reason, the sound wasn’t working on the television. One of us must have pushed a mysterious button on the clicker and it’s hopeless to try and figure out which one it is without dorking the entire operation up beyond all repair. So I clicked off the power surge for a few minutes and let the whole thing reboot.

    It works now.

    But she’s upstairs messing around with her laptop which was freezing up every time she had more than a couple of windows open.

    I have my fingers crossed that it’s fixed now, too.

    Because, like I said, I’m in the prime of my life and have so many swell things to get on with.

    Like vacation plans.

    I finally found a cute little place in Sorrento for the second leg of our trip to Italy (I booked an apartment in Rome for the first leg) which is happening in less than six weeks and I am sooooooooo not ready…The Hotel del Mare sits nearly at the Marina Grande and is a winding, hilly walk to the center of Sorrento. A great way to work off the breakfast that comes with the room!   It sounds like the four of us will be shoulder-to-shoulder and have some family bonding time.

    But I am starting to get pretty excited about the whole thing.

    It’s finally beginning to feel real!

  • Sometimes you feel like a dork…sometimes you don’t.

    This would be one of those times. You know. Where you realize it seems like you were pandering. Not you. Me. I was pandering.

    Pandering for attention.

    But I wasn’t. And now I feel like it seems as if I was even though I’m one to pay attention to myself, so have never really needed anyone else to, and if that doesn’t convince you I’m a piece of work, nothing will.

    I said I was wondering about those things that I was mulling over yesterday when it was grey and chilly out (like about 65 degrees?) and….well, sometimes, that’s enough.

    I used to like grey days, so who knew?

    I’d not delete my words. There are too many and they count for something. And in the past, when I’ve done that, I’ve regretted it, because part of my life has gone with whatever I’d erased. Even if it was the flowery writing of a teenager, or the wistful thoughts of a young woman.

    I’ll never quite remember who I was when I put those words down.

    So, no deleting. Just figuring things out, which is something I’m quite familiar with.

    Like my new camera. I’m trying to figure that out and I’m thinking I need an adult beverage right now, because the software’s loaded, and well, it’s yet another new thing.

    I swear. Just another thing to be thankful for. That my brain works. It’s kind of nice on most days.

    Yanno?