kellementology

life according to me

Author: K. Peacock Wright

  • My Dear Doggo…

    Day eight-thousand three-hundred ninety two of NaBloPoMo. Or something like that. At this point, I’m wondering if I’ll ever see Tara again.

    Doggo

    November 7, 2007

    My dear Doggo,

    You gave us quite a quiet fright last night.

    It took a while for us to realize that you hadn’t engaged in your usual routine of staring us down while we ate until someone (me) relented and allowed you to lick the dinner remnants from our plates. That you didn’t get off the couch when I did place my plate on the floor as I normally do (because you do such a great job of getting the stuff off the plates the dishwasher would have to work a bit harder to remove), was unsettling.

    And when I finally realized you were just laying there on your spot on the couch (which is really a giant dog bed and we should have realized that’s all it was when we bought it) the RT coaxed you down to the floor where you sat uncomfortably, shaking a bit. Your paws were cold, too. Aren’t dogs’ paws always warm?

    Not too long ago the MoH said that he could hear your hip clicking as you walked around the block with him in the quiet of the evening. We’ve known that you have some trouble with your hip because you’re a bit of a plus sized girl, and not quite genetically put together well; your legs are just too short for the bulk of your body. So that’s why we’ve cut back on the distance you walk each day, and have made sure that you get just the right amount of food.

    I’m sure the RT won’t mind that you’re snuggling with his old blan-key. It’s pretty stinky, so I know you like it.

    I encouraged you to lay on your side, and you complied, but seemed afraid and panted a bit. You wouldn’t even eat one of your favorite Milk Bone dog biscuits and it sat just beyond your nose until you nudged it and tried to eat it, giving up after a few seconds. But concern showed in your eyes whenever anyone touched it or moved it, so we knew you were interested in your bone.

    I felt so badly for you (because you are always so perky when we’re all home together in the evening) that I went upstairs to get your bed, pushed you gently (which is no mean feat) to lay on it, and then covered you with the rug, watching your eyes close as you gave in to sleep. Watching the rise and fall of your body as you breathed.

    I began to wonder how we’d get you in the car if we had to take you to the vet. I know we could, but I can imagine that you’d be quite embarrassed with the idea of it, not being able to do it yourself. I asked the MoH how old you were again, thinking that eight or nine isn’t that old — even in dog years, is it? I probably just don’t want to admit it.

    Later in the evening after we’d all gone to bed and I had successfully gotten you to climb the stairs, I watched you sleep in your regular place next to my side of the bed. As I read, I kept watch for the sign of your breathing, just like I used to do with my babies.

    This morning you were fine. Not stiff, tail wagging, and ready to eat that bone we gave you last night.

    I’m glad you’re feeling better, Biggedy. It was unseasonally chilly last night, and I think that chill, coupled with your joint problems, just got the best of you. But I’m still unsettled about your health. I think we’re all getting to the point where we are feeling uncomfortable about the fact that our animals just won’t live as long as we will, and that as time goes on, the idea of starting all over again with someone else, is just more than we can bear to think about.

    We love you Biggedy (Ann Jones the Third — as the MoH would coo in a falsetto),

    Your Doting Family

    p.s. I’ll go to the pet store today to look for some glucosamine. Maybe that way, your joints won’t be so sore. Oh, and I’m so glad we replaced the RT’s sheets and comforter. Goodness knows, I wouldn’t want you to have to take your naps on your dog bed while I’m writing. Heavens no.

  • To Whom it May Concern

    Dorothy, are we in Kansas yet? I don’t know what day in NaBloPoMo I’m in, but have already figured out that it’s a gonna be a long haul…

    November 6, 2007

    To Whom it May Concern:

    There isn’t one special person I’d like to address today. Blame it on Thinner. You know, that hunk ‘o metal and plastic that I step on once a week just to see how quickly I’m losing the battle of the bulge? Yes, Her. And yanno? She’s just as heartless as she’s always been. Cold, calculating bitc….

    The MoH and I started a little health plan a week ago and he has lost three whole pounds as of yesterday and I’ve lost notta-one. Zero. Nothing. Nada. I am so completely sick of this whole thing I can’t see straight. No, I’m not talking about just from this past week. Hell, this goes back months. COULD I GET SOME PROGRESS HERE, WAITER? What kind of establishment is this anyhoo?

    I don’t want any advice. I don’t need consoling, or understanding or links to research or plans or anything like that. I read. In fact, if I could figure out how to sustain life by just reading, I’d be in heaven. I read, question, research, examine, wonder. I do all that crap like breathing. I could probably spout off any fact that anyone wants to know about being healthy. But I guess I just am not willing to live on a spa diet and bust my ass an hour a day each and every day of the week. I’m destined to be a dumpling. A morsel.

    Photo 2.jpg

    What I need is a bit fat sucker machine. A giant Flo-bee. One that I can just hook up, and not only will it remove any adipose tissue I’m not overly fond of, but it will suck out the genes I have that have nudged me to this point over the years, fine American Farm Stock that I am. Sheesh. SOOOOOOOO-EEEEEEE….

    I don’t want to be skinny. Hell, I don’t even want to weight what I did when I was in my twenties. I just want to be rewarded for:

    • eating bran cereal in measured quantities (2/3 c.) with nearly fat-free milk — 1%?
    • eating wraps (whole grain with fiber…)with mushrooms, spinach, onions and other animal feed
    • nibbling at nuts and prunes
    • eating cautious quantities of food
    • skipping bread, or anything with processed white flour
    • avoiding any kind of fat — even fat that’s good for me — well except that bit of avocado…
    • exercising, and yes, breaking a sweat (at which I’m exceedingly accomplished)
    • not even looking at butter
    • drastically (gasp) decreasing wine consumption and drinking red instead of white with a calorie-less bubbly lime flavored mixer
    • eating non-fat plain yogurt by itself
    • eliminating quite a bit of meat from our diet in the past week and what meat we’ve had has been in four oz. portions
    • not intending to, but skipping a few meals, ( and boy did I pay for that with shaky, trembling legs and drowsiness)
    • not eating chips, or cookies, or candy, soda, or ice cream (which I rarely, if ever, eat anyway) REALLY.
    • when we went out last Friday, ordering a salad that I didn’t even eat all of
    • not being able to remember the last time I had pizza or fast food in any way, shape or form. Wait. I had pizza when the fires were burning — so two or so weeks ago?
    • having ONE small piece of Halloween candy
    • walking between 10-12 miles last week
    • eating only ONE piece of that luscious Bostini that I actually ended up throwing in the trash and isn’t that a complete crime for being so very wasteful…

    OKAY? Jeez. Maybe some TNT would help. Just blow the parts off me. But yanno? I think I’ll just nuke the damn scale. She’s a stupid b*tch anyway. And a liar, with that Thinner staring at whomever is brave enough to step on her ugly face. That’s what she gets for lying. Thinner Bitch_0963

    I know. I’m supposed to be patient. Understanding. Do yoga. Feel positive that I didn’t GAIN weight this week. Excuse me? I’m sick of open-minded, positive thinking, too. Seriously. A little hissy fit and some generally nasty thinking has got to be healthy once in a while. Maybe if I get really worked up here, I could burn some calories.

    Whatever.

    And the thing that is SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO annoying about this is that I actually LIKE myself. Honestly. I’m not doing this because I abhor the sight of myself or consider myself to be unsightly. But at some point, I’m smart enough to know that as I age, I need to be very aware of what and how I eat, and the degree to which I exercise because I want to live a very long time. And people in my family do. Very long. And what the hell fun will it be to not be able to move, or think, or write, or create nonsense with my hands? No thanks.

    So I’ll just plug along. I’ll just accept whatever comes my way and feel thankful, feel gratitude, feel…calm. Peaceful. I’M CALM. OKAY? Photo 1.jpg

    I’m going to organize closets now. At least that way, I can actually see what I’ve accomplished and won’t have to soothe say my way to some level of awareness and understanding that will allow me to exist harmoniously with myself. What a load of horse sh*t.

    Whatever.

  • Dear Neighbor Lady…

    Is this Day 5 of NaBloPoMo? Jeez. Are we having fun yet? It has served one purpose thus far. I’ve corrected my time/date stamp and so now it’s actually correct! Amazing. Too bad nothing else is. Well, except my letter writing, which continues today and is sponsored by: Milk Bone Dog Biscuits…

    November 5, 2007

    Dear Neighbor Lady,

    I’m sorry I don’t know your name, although there’s no real reason I should. I’ve seen your house on my walking circuit for the past couple of years now, and outside of its very verdant landscaping, its situation at the end of the block, and what must be a spectacular view, it blends in with all the others. And I’ve only seen you outside once in all that time, carefully avoiding making eye contact as I passed, even though I was ready to say hello and smile, practicing good neighborlyhoodness.

    Of course, that was until you attached the sign to the front of your garage door.

    It only took a few seconds to glance around and notice that you had just finished adding upgrades to your driveway and the retaining wall surrounding the rear of your home. Although the stone, which appears to be a type of limestone is new and attractive, it isn’t something I’d choose (the flecks of ore that glisten in the afternoon sun are a bit gauche), it is an improvement over the concrete and stucco that it replaced, and I’m sure your neighbors appreciate the added value to their property and have already checked with their realtors to obtain comps and analyze possible gains that they may brag to one another about incessantly.
    What was she thinking?

    What exactly were you thinking when you wrote that sign? And what grievous error had someone committed? Surely it isn’t the eight million service and delivery people who crawl in and around our area throughout every day. Or the landscape maintenance trucks. I’ve noticed they only park alongside the curb, and never in a driveway. Was it the errant traveler, looking for a particular address who became lost and needed to use your driveway to turn around? And if so, did said lost soul make the mistake of turning the wheels of his car at a standstill, thereby making black rubber skid marks on the pristine stone intricacy of your driveway?

    I’ve wondered as I’ve walked by, and imagined you out there, down on your knees, compulsively scrubbing at the marks. Wait. No. I’ve gotten that wrong. Standing over someone you hired to scrub away the offending black marks.

    In any event, clearly, you antagonized someone out there in the world. Someone who just couldn’t let a sleeping dog lie. Someone who just had to pick up that bone you threw in your driveway. Someone who came in the night, in the dark, and most likely had their particular brand of fun marring the perfectly arranged stones in your driveway. How could you not know that there are people in this world who live for those opportunities? Who thrive on what you may as well have just invited them to do.

    Perhaps a better sign might have been: “To the Jerks in the World. Please vandalize my new driveway. I paid so much money for it, and it’s so beautiful, I think you should break your neck to figure out a way to destroy it. Please hurry.” Yes, your neighbors might have thought you crazy, just as they most likely do because you put a sign on your garage. But still.

    It must have been a mess, because I can see where the sealant has been eaten away by whatever caustic substance was used to remove whatever the vandals poured on it to damage the stone work. I imagine it’s paint, as it’s a favorite of the stupid entitled as*h*les adolescent pranksters who toss it out of their cars at night onto the freeway so oncoming cars can drive through it, not realizing they have, and then the next day when it’s too late, find a Jackson Pollack design all over the wheel area of their cars. That is, of course, less harmful that the ones who throw large rocks from their cars into the windshields of oncoming traffic. But still.

    And then you put up the second sign. I’d have never known anything had happened if the first sign hadn’t been there, because the driveway actually looks fine. The stone looks as stone should; it’s coarse and not very shiny. You know, like the stones in the roads in Europe that have lasted hundreds of years with all kinds of traffic and weather, war, and general use.

    What were you thinking? And how long will you leave the sign on your house, causing everyone to wonder what you’re really about?

    Take it down, and give yourself a rest.

    Sincerely,

    A neighbor.

    p.s. I certainly hope that you do not have a bumper sticker adhered to your car that cautions others to not tail gate.

  • No snarking — just memories

    No snarking — just memories

    Day Four: NaBloPoMo. Not in the mood for chastising.

    November 4, 2007

    Dear Childhood Friends,

    It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen many of you, but you’re not far from my mind. You exist in and around the shadows that surprisingly haven’t diminished with time, reminding me of how special you were. How much you helped shape who I now am. And I wonder more than you might think about where you now are, who you’ve become, and whether your life has been a good one.

    Becky, I think you’re the one I remember the most. Unfortunately, much of that memory is tinged with sadness. We had so much fun in that ridiculous clubhouse your father built and that strange van with the running boards he used to drive. I could recall more detail at this point, but don’t need to. The details are there when I want them to be. It’s funny that I now realize the memories aren’t like video. No one moves or speaks. There’s no sound. They are just like photos kept in a box. Still shots of games we played, and fun we had.

    I remember how broken-hearted I was when you moved away, and then later, that you had clearly matured more quickly than I. Somehow, I was embarrassed and felt betrayed. I’ve always wondered how you felt being pregnant at such a young age and then marrying the boy. It was so far from something I would have done myself then, still wanting to believe in fairy tales and perfect lives with happy endings. Houses with paned windows and chinneys that puffed smoke when it was cold. But I’m sure it wasn’t anything you expected either, was it?

    If I remember correctly, the last time I wrote to you was after I had my oldest son. Was I responding to one of your letters, or was I writing to you? And who stopped writing first? I suppose it’s difficult to keep a lifetime relationship alive on only three years of a childhood friendship and 3,000 miles of country between the two of us. Isn’t it? But I’m sure it’s been done.

    I hope you’re healthy and that you’ve been fortunate in the ways that matter most to you. And that maybe, once in a while, you remember me with as much fondness as I recall the laughter and imagination you brought to me.

    Much love,

    Kelly

  • Dear Mr. Eisner:

    And Day Three of my temporary existence as a NaBloPoMo-Ho begins, albeit I did experience a delay in posting as my work to sanitize, clean, paint, and redecorate the RT’s bedroom and bathroom have taken a priority. I know. I’m sorry. I promise it will never happen again. And chickens have lips.

    November 3, 2007

    The Walt Disney Company

    500 South Buena Vista Street

    Burbank, CA 91521

    Dear Michael Eisner, Chairman and CEO:

    I am taking time away from my very important task of protecting the world from the unkempt condition of my teen’s area of our home to express a few opinions regarding the impending closure of one of your Disneyland rides: It’s a Small World. Yes, I do know that everyone and their dog is most likely aware of this, and that again, I’m the last to know, but I digress.

    Firstly, I do commend your officer in charge and his or her decision. Although It’s a Small World might be considered “cute,” and does provide a message that is quite important (even though there are quite a few people who are even more less than welcoming and accepting of others who aren’t clones of their less than stellar selves) to us all, it has become quite run down and has begun to look, well — not very Disneylike.

    I do fear that if closure hadn’t been decided upon, it would begin to tarnish Disney’s ebullient “I dare you to find a cigarette butt on the ground in the park” image (one of the main reasons I love Disneyland). Not a butt in sight. Truly a wonder to behold and wouldn’t I just love to have some of your employees come clean my house something to be very proud of.
    Granted, the toddlers who most enjoy the myriad international dolls whose outdated moving parts make so much noise, the volume of the manically tedious song has had to be turned up to stifle the infernal clacking of eyelids, heads, arms and torsos animatronics are quite weary after cheering crowds for more than 40 years, will be quite sad to not be able to screech at their parents for the 10th time to take them to float through It’s a Small World. I’m already feeling badly for parents, having raised three of my own children and would have left the park if any of them had ever acted like that do understand the need for this ride. Totally.

    However, I did hear that the real reason the ride is closing is that the boats which carry visitors through the meandering little river have begun to bottom out during the course of the ride. That in the 1960’s when the ride was first opened, people weighed less than they do now, so there was no problem. But because we’ve become such a nation of heavyweights, the boats can no longer hold the same number of people they once did. This is shocking news and I for one do believe it is yet another finger that can be pointed at McDonald’s, Sara Lee, Burger King, Jack-in-the-Box, Frito-Lay, and Carl’s Jr., to name a few. If it wasn’t for the fact that companies such as these force us to eat food drenched in saturated fat against our will, then we’d still be able to ride on It’s a Small World without bottoming out.

    I do believe, however, that you could consider that the park could potentially partially share blame. I delicately submit this question: have you every eaten Theme Park Food? (Okay, so except the food in the restaurant in Pirates of the Caribbean which is pretty good…Okay, and the frozen bananas, too) It is generally worse than Airplane Food, which is seriously worse than a School Lunch.

    In retrospect, I could be talked into believing that the texture of the burgers is so much like that of cardboard, you’re simply trying to force encourage more fiber into America’s diet, but that would be a stretch. Perhaps you might consider consulting with Walmart regarding their marketing strategies. Between the two of you, a new campaign that will force entice park goers to know they want whatever it is you have on sale to eat (buy 3, get 15 free) samples from new menus could help matters. But only if those choices were more healthy.

    Think of it. Healthy food is most often served in smaller portions and is generally more expensive better for all concerned, so I’m sure you’d make a handsome profit please your visitors. And it is all about profit pleasing the customer, correct? There could be menus with hummus, and ceviche, or tofu and sushi. Baked sweet potato fries and carrot chips. Please consider this carefully, as it would not be good news to hear that the Dumbo Ride can’t get off the ground, after all, would it? Dumbo was a flying elephant.

    I do hope that It’s a Small World soon returns to the list of choices for visitors of Disneyland in the not too distant future, and that you won’t be replacing it with a ride that those of us who are pathetically trying to relive our childhood the little ones can’t antagonize their parents over enjoy.

    After all, Disneyland is for skinny people kids, right?

    Sincerely,

    Me.

    p.s. While you’re working on the ride, could you please make the boats out of something other than fiberglass? The last time we rode on It’s a Small World (much to the RT’s chagrin), we ended up with rashes where ever our skin touched the boat.

  • Dear Walmart…

    My journey as a NaBloPoMo-Ho continues into its second day…

    November 2, 2007

    Dear Retailers (and in particular, Big Box Retailers, but specifically, Walmart):

    It has been noted that you have begun to show concern with respect to your sales projections for the upcoming holiday season, and as a result, have begun to slash prices. Evidently, your thinking can be encapsulated in this concept: If the price is low enough, the consumer will want what you want them to want because you want them to and your attorneys always get what you want them to get. Simple.

    I do have some consternation about this kind of thinking. It doesn’t exactly keep me awake at night, because not much does other than my relentless hot flashing, but still, I do think about where your narrow minded economics will end. At some point, someone has to lose. With any luck at all, it will be you, and not the consumer.

    The average consumer is tired of being the poster child for your faulty thinking. Well, except for the consumers who have figured out that they can purchase until they are bankrupt, and then have all their debts excused in bankruptcy court so that someone else has to pay for it. Okay, so the IDEAL consumer, not the average consumer. You know. Honest ones. Where was I? Oh yes…

    However, other considerations force me to acknowledge that if you lose, then you will claim that you will be forced to lay off employees (when all the while your CEOs will reel in massive bonuses even after the Board of Directors gives them a vote of no confidence and asks for their resignation), who are ultimately consumers, who then have no funds to consume consumables in a comfortable fashion. A different perspective could be that if you claim to have high losses, you’ll have fewer resources (minions) to convince consumers (suckers) that they can’t live without a 50″ flat panel plasma television for $998.00 and wouldn’t it make so much sense to get your Christmas shopping done now instead of waiting because wouldn’t you like to impress your holiday guests with this new purchase? Poor, poor unsuspecting consumers will then have to find out that in order to actually see High Def on their newly purchased and initially cheap television, they will have to subscribe for HDTV service and that the industry is sort of dragging in getting more than the basic channels up and running with High Def. Oh, and that warranty? And what about those cables and energy cleaners? Not so cheap. But still. $998.00 does sound good, doesn’t it?

    I’d just like to let you know that I am one of the new “increasingly resistant” consumers that you fear. I’m not coerced by sales or advertising. I don’t make impulsive purchases because you expect me to. I have no trouble at all in resisting any remote urge to “keep up with the Joneses.” No sweat. I will not be in line at your heavily advertised 8 AM sales events with the purple kool-aid drinking lemmings who seem to live for the fighting opportunity to get their hands on a limited number of sales items, and then when they fail, shop because they’re now in your clutches, and spend money on other items. Just like you planned. And you will sigh with relief because they are not spending their money on The Dreaded Gift Card that is such a detriment to your reported earnings.

    I will be content to shop when I feel like it, purchase what I want and continue to hope that the whole point of giving is just that. And that looking for the “just right gift” isn’t because of a sale, or cutting edge, or newest of the new. It’s just the right match for the person I have in mind.

    I won’t be using my home equity like an ATM to fund Christmas, nor do I expect to charge anything that won’t be immediately paid off. I could. But I won’t.

    So just a word of advice.

    Resist upper management when they tell you they have pro-rated product coming your way. Take a stand. Let them choke on it for buying it without consideration for how much inventory you currently have. It’s really not a big deal because they guy who will get screwed in the proposition is the one who okayed the initial purchase.

    Somebody has to be big enough to stop the nonsense. Just say no! Or maybe at least think about it?
    Besides. I’ll be forever indebted to you for not having to watch all the ridiculous advertising that is sure to come this year, acting as if it can tempt me to get out my wallet.

    Good luck to you and your bottom line in the rapidly approaching season. Perhaps you’ll soon come to realize that the projected 4% increase in sales over last year is really just fine. Just practice what The Ideal Consumer has to practice: restraint.

    Thank you for taking the time to consider my thoughts on this matter. I’m off to IKEA.

    Sincerely,

    An Increasingly Resistant Consumer in Paradise

  • Dear Assurance Plus: Gee, Thanks.

    Dear Assurance Plus: Gee, Thanks.

    Today is the first day of NaBloPoMo. That means I will be posting every day this month. Um…that isn’t too unusual for me, is it? So why did I join? Why not? Regardless, here we are and I’m ready to go, which must mean I’m a NaBloPoMo-Ho. Or something.

    Each day this month, I’ll post a letter to someone whom I believe needs to hear what I have to say. Okay, so I get it that unless they read this, they won’t “hear” it, but still. At least it will get it off my chest, right?

    November 1, 2007

    Assurance Plus, LLC

    3644 E. McDowell Road, Suite 114

    Phoenix, AZ 85008

    To Whom it May Concern:

    I’ve been wanting to contact you for quite some time, but have restrained myself, knowing that if I waited for the end of my year’s contract with you, I’d be able to express myself more articulately without spewing venomous verbiage which you absolutely deserve.

    I’ve learned a great deal from my experience with your interesting scam company about how not to invest money like a complete moron when considering a Home-Based Business. I now know that as much as I consider myself to be an optimist, and at times, someone who is willing to take a calculated risk, one might just call me gullible a total loser. I wouldn’t disagree with that conclusion at this point, and I have you to thank for my new found knowledge and intense skepticism regarding anyone who even acts like they’re going to say there’s really such a thing as a free lunch. In fact, I have a list prepared of what I’ve learned from my experience with you, and will take this opportunity to caution everyone else share my conclusions:

    1. I can be an affiliate of Amazon all by myself if I choose. In fact, I believe I am at this point even if I’ve never earned one penny as one of their affiliates. Although I’ve been an avid customer of Amazon for years, I never was interested in doing anything other than purchasing books, so I never considered looking into what being an affiliate involved. I was busy with my own career, and didn’t have time to even wonder. If I hadn’t been conned by your scam, I wouldn’t know what an affiliate was, and that many, many Internet based businesses offer that option to interested parties AT NO CHARGE. So stupid me.
    2. It doesn’t cost $5,000 to build a website and host that site for a year. It doesn’t even come close to that. Especially one as lame as the one you “customized” for me. (Insert laughter here.) Oh, I forgot. I wasn’t charged $5,000 to build the site and host it. Excuse me! If I remember correctly (I don’t feel like getting out the cheesy notebook you sent which is printed in every font imaginable and how much are you paying how many people to put such a pathetic “resource” together?) Erm…if I remember correctly, the site you built and the hosting would only cost $299. I believe that is quite reasonable. The remainder of the charge was for directing “targeted traffic to my site.” I now know that your method of “driving targeted traffic to my site” is a bunch of shit, and so is your lovely company. If you hadn’t sold me a total scam, I’d never have known any of this. I’m so thankful.
    3. You can only “make money in your sleep” if you’re Warren Buffett. Or Bill Gates. Or Martha Stewart, or Oprah. Okay, so there are some others, but still. I would not be one of those people who make money in my sleep. But like me, lots of people are interested in working from home because they have children, or health issues, or are just fed up with living to work and having it suck the life out of their blood and bones. So I have your slick scam company to thank for confirming what I already knew about not being able to make money in my sleep, and allowing me to do extensive amounts of research after the fact on home-based businesses and free lance jobs. Thanks so much for that opportunity. It comes so rarely in life.
    4. Taking surveys on line is an amazing waste of time, and another scam. It was fun while I was involved in it last winter for a couple of weeks. But all it really did is send you to my doorstep, cause me to accumulate thousands of junk emails, received unwanted products in the mail that I had to call and cancel (which were pretty pricey) and get amazingly clever snail mail about being part of an uber secret sect of humans who have all the secrets for earning unlimited wealth. I did finally get to be a Nielson family and throw my two cents into the pot about what’s on television and whether we actually watch it. So thanks for that. But wait, if the surveys led you to me, then maybe I should be thanking the survey companies…
    5. Putting up stats on the “targeted traffic” can be easily concocted. And amazingly, the stats for said “targeted traffic” just happen to be carefully geared to driving the amount of “targeted traffic” to the site that you said you’d guarantee in a year’s time — about 20 people a day. Woot! Everyone get out your party suits, and get ready to rhumba. You can have some kind of a par-tay with 20 unsuspecting clickers who most likely laughed their asses off when they saw that “portal” to Amazon and thought, “Whose lame idea is this?” when all they really had to do is just go to Amazon. Well, that would be if the visitors indicated in the stats were in fact, real people, instead of someone sitting at a computer and getting paid to click….But I’m sure you weren’t doing that, right? Nah…..So thanks for helping me learn all of that as well.
    6. Being the completely vindictive person that I am, I could have actually used this opportunity after I learned so much, to make something of it. Maybe. But I’d have to be a barracuda to pull that off, and I’m just not wired that way. It did occur to me that if I did try to make something of it, I’d only be making money for you. And because you already had made so much money from stupid me when I simply gave it to you, I felt that you would be satisfied with what you already had. So that sad “portal to my wealth” with “targeted traffic” ready to spend money and who will earn me money even if they don’t spend any money, has just been sitting there for about 10 months now, earning you nothing more.

    In conclusion, I’d also like to thank you for giving me back $1,000 when I suggested all of the above to you on the phone that day. It’s only a drop in the bucket, but still, it’s $1,000, and even though it’s my money, and you really didn’t do anything, I’m still grateful.

    Good luck to you and your parasitic organization. I hope that locusts swarm in and around your immediate vicinity and that you are plagued with destructive spam and hard drive destroying worms you have success in educating other people sooner than you’ve educated me about how not to make money in my sleep with a home-based business being an affiliate of a company I could be an affiliate of if I wanted without spending money.

    I am forever grateful.

    Sincerely,

    Me.

    p.s. And I have two of my own sites, now, too. So I guess I have you to thank for learning about how to do that, too. Sort of.

  • Loving magazines & Martha Stewart

    I have nearly every Martha published… A few people around Bloggsville have been going through their magazines for a variety of reasons. No, don’t run and hide. It’s not another meme. But I’m always fascinated when people are on the same wavelength — especially if it isn’t meme driven.

    I’ve been thinking about magazines quite a bit because I’ve gotten to the point where as much as I now have the time to enjoy them (they used to be a decadent distraction in my life I’d indulge myself with) I don’t. Most of my subscriptions have been for cooking magazines, and because much of the content is available on the Internet now, I’m feeling guilty about the paper stuffed in my mailbox each month.

    Years and years of them… I’m also feeling a bit uncomfortable about the problem I have throwing magazines away. Of course, they’re recycled in the end, but that isn’t the problem. It’s having to go through each one more time to see if I need to: 1) save the whole edition; 2) tag specific sections; 3) tear out recipes to try; or 4) just get rid of it. And they just sit. Waiting for me. Waiting in baskets, on tables, on bathroom counters, and in stacks mixed with catalogues and mail.

    So many possibilities, so little time and energy… For years when each school year ended and I actually had a week or two before special project work began (for school, not my leisure) I’d sit down with my magazines and have quite a bit of fun watching old movies and wallowing in the possibilities that each magazine contained. It was a cathartic process that helped me mentally conclude one year, and sort of erase my hard drive to prepare for the next.

    The process helped me plan projects that needed to be done around the house, too. It helped me think about things to organize, get togethers with family to celebrate birthdays, decorations to make for special seasons, and dreams to put on a list of things to do some day when there was more time, less work, more energy, and more money. Ahhh…dreams…

    Many of the projects involved gardening because we had quite a large piece of property. There was never a dull moment deciding what type of garden to put where, which seeds to plant or what perennial to become emotionally attached to. Seriously. It’s easier to think of organizing a small piece of the planet instead of the pressing grind of aspects of life that seem beyond our control. The promise of food to cook, a garden to take care of, and a house to decorate and organize has always been my idea of heaven. Truly.

    Martha Stewart Living No. 4 So it’s no wonder that I am someone who loves Martha. Yes, The Martha. My family lovingly refers to her as Moth-rah. I think the MoH came up with that one, but I’m not exactly sure. I know what you’re thinking, but yanno? I just don’t care. I don’t care that she was in jail. I don’t care that it’s been said she’s not a nice person. I just don’t care. And for those people who do? Get the hell over it. Because Martha helped me get through some very difficult years. She’s seen me through a new marriage, raise two boys into adulthood and a third into a teen, has inspired me to create two beautiful homes, and fill them with the aroma of something delicious to eat. She’s helped create many days with memories of working with my mom in our yard, planting, clipping, and admiring our hard work. Martha is the reason I was able to hang on to remnants of a life long desire to create anything and everything connected to what the MoH calls “fluffing my nest.” If Martha ran for president, I’d vote for her and I’m not kidding.

    It all started with her Weddings book, given to me by an old friend before the MoH and I were married… Or was it her Entertaining book?

    My oldest issues of Martha… I have nearly every Martha Stewart Living magazine published. Really. I don’t know how I missed out on the beginning, but my collection goes back to Number 4: Autumn of 1991. That was before the RT was born. You know I’m not the only one who keeps them, right? It’s kind of the same for those who save National Geographic. Every time I decide I’m going to throw them out, I just don’t get around to it. Or can’t bring myself to do it. Anguish at the thought. I have given some to my middle son for school related projects, and he’s *Martha lovers, please cover your eyes…* cut out some of the photos, but he’s returned the magazines. He gets it.

    I used to watch her old television show, but it’s been years. And I’m not sure why I don’t watch the new one. I could DVR it, but never think about it. Maybe it’s because all those other people are on now, and it isn’t just Martha and her obsessive compulsive drive on the most minute detail I could spend an entire half hour of time fascinated with. Totally.

    When I was very young, my idea of a good time *everyone groans and settles in for yet another maudlin trip down morose memory lane* was to go through the Sears catalogue and make lists of furniture I’d purchase for my some day house. I was fascinated with color and texture, with shape and design. The idea of putting it all together perfectly to suit a mood or a personality or lifestyle is like being able to put together a gigantic puzzle. It’s the same with gardening and cooking.

    Ironically, I don’t get the same satisfaction performing the same ritual with fashion. It just doesn’t interest me. It never has. *Oh, really, dear? We couldn’t help but notice…* But the clothes in my closet are organized by colors. That counts, don’t you think? *Yes, as a sign of someone with one foot firmly planted in looney land…*

    I miss having my head in the world that kept me from going stark-raving mad with stress from work. And I value more than I can ever say, what I’ve learned from digging in and trying new things, and for having family and friends who’ve indulged me my wannabe obsessions.

    They’ve graced me with comments of, “Martha Does Live Here,” and I’ve taken them as a compliment, knowing full well, that Martha’s businesses run due to the creativity and drive of an enormous number of very talented people. So I supposed I should say they saved me. But without Martha, they wouldn’t have had the same opportunity.

    At this point in life, if I regret anything — any one thing — painfully, it would be that I did not gain my education in a world filled with textiles and color, design and shape. That I did not choose to immerse myself in an environment organized with samples and cuttings, layouts and portfolios. That I chose instead to keep those passions as hobbies or distractions instead of a livelihood. *very, very heavy sigh*

    Okay, so that’s more than one. But still.

    It’s that time of year, and the first in so very, very long that I will be able to immerse myself in all the what ifs and begin to wonder instead…

    …How.

    Thanks Martha.

    Love,

    Kelly

    p.s. I’m sorry I don’t even have a Jack-o-lantern on my porch this year. I guess I didn’t rally the guys hard enough. Does it count that we have a few on the dining table with some autumn colored flowers? Just checking.

    p.p.s. I’m a NaBloPoMo-Ho (see pink lips above) and that all starts tomorrow. I’m going to focus my writing on letters to people. Which people? Well, you’ll just have to wait and see. If you’re interested, send me some ideas of what you’d like me to blather on about. Or would like to challenge me to write about. Keep it clean, though. Okay?

  • Vegas a week later…

    IMG_4386.JPG I love Las Vegas. The MoH and I have our trips down to an art, honed over many years of celebrating the end of tax season. The only reason we went at this point in the year is for football. Another couple was supposed to have gone with us so the guys could hang out in the sports book at Caesars and watch as many games at one time as possible. But they bailed on us in the end. But the other reason October is a good time to go is because so many people now wait until October 15 to do their taxes, it’s like there are now two tax seasons. That part is a drag. The nice part is there are more opportunities to go to Las Vegas. Do we have money to throw away? Are you kidding? We just don’t get the sprinklers fixed or the sluggish drains in the bathroom sinks unplugged. Tolerate spots on the carpet and wear clothes that are so five seasons ago. Feh.

    IMG_4388.JPG The first time we went, we stayed at the Continental — long since torn down, thankfully. I have less than stellar memories of shag rug with cigarette burns, a buffet that rolled out in those public school looking serve yourself stainless carts, and a boozy sounding woman who sang in the late afternoon to the accompaniment of people dropping nickels and quarters into slot machines. It was off the strip, and full of people not remotely close to our age. I survived on a rationed roll of nickels slipped from my luggage each morning and evening. What is that, four bucks? No chance of that now. It isn’t that it’s not possible. I just wouldn’t bother going otherwise. There are too many other places to get away to that don’t have what Las Vegas has. Honestly, where else can you get free drinks as fast as the cheesily dressed waitresses can bring them, see a young man with his head shoved deeply in a trash can and barfing, and watch a lone high roller win over $50,000 rolling dice in less than 15 minutes. Las Vegas.

    There have been great times and not so great times. We’ve taken the boys and we’ve left them at home. We’ve gone with family and friends. For a while, we were hooked on staying downtown because we swore the slots were looser and we knew the blackjack tables were cheaper.

    And we’ve taken the car, but only a couple of times. Flying is much easier, even with all the security everyone has to endure now. We’ve rented cars to get around in, but have figured out that it takes longer to stand in the rental line than it does to fly there, so use a taxi now.

    Like I said. Slam, bam, and we’re there. Blink, and we’re back.

    Other than the non-stop construction in Las Vegas, and the increasing number of amazing restaurants, the only noticeable factor is that depending on what day of the week we’re there, and what casino we’re in, everyone seems younger than we do. How sad is that? Well, until we were returning from The Wynn and began to see men in grass skirts and women wearing leis and others with odd looking palm trees perched on their heads. Jimmy Buffett? Someone at the airport asked if that’s why we were going. Um, no. But, yes, Margaritaville was in full swing, with a barbeque going, smoke billowing, and music blaring. The usual row of crowd ooglers was lined up outside the bar actively engaged in yelling at passers by. I got the general impression that the more scantilly clad the person was, the louder the calls were. So, no. None of them yelled at the MoH, hunkster that he is. He had difficulty sleeping that night because of the dejection. Party outside Margaritaville

    And what’s up with all the fancy evening wear now? I’ve never noticed it before. I’ve not seen so many short dresses since I wore them in high school. Hell, even shorter. Shiny, sequined, gauzy, sparkly, short, short skirts. I’m thinking there could be some problems with a dress so short and tight, from the rear, one would be taking his life in his hands if he glanced downward to notice the wearer was sans underoos. “What’s the point of the dress?” I asked no one in particular. The MoH just looked at me wondering if I really had to ask. The wearer and her friend were clearly very late to something and skittered past us in their clacking heels, barely handling the strong winds in their flight — one skirt inching up, the other tossing up and around her ample rear end.

    Closer to our destination and out of the wind, a willowy blonde hurried just ahead of us in her silver metallic dress. Approaching from the opposite direction were three others not making much of an attempt to disguise their appraisal of the blonde. As the trio passed, it only took the MoH a second to whisper their conclusion about the blonde in a perfect imitation of a catty female’s voice, “Oh my god. That dress is so Las Vegas.” *sigh*

    It’s good to know that women traveling in packs can be so sweet…

    The Mall at Caesar's Las Vegas The shopping is quite lah-tee-dah now. It does make sense that if you should win a hefty jackpot, you can hop on over to the mall at Caesar’s and pick up some baubles at Harry Winston. But for people like me, the swanky malls serve a purpose. After I’ve lost my ration of pennies for the day, I can drool on the windows.

    The show La Reve was quite entertaining, but I found myself wondering how the performers deal with being in the water for two performances a day. Wrinkly?

    IMG_4394.JPG And dinner at Bouchon was to completely die for. The restaurant is tucked away in The Venetian in a ritzy area of the hotel where the rooms go for about $800 a night. Those lovely flagolettes and leeks with that heavenly sausage…Those slow cooked short ribs and that dreamy sauce? Mmmmm…And the French Margarita? Interesting.

    IMG_4402.JPG Our hotel? The rooms in Paris are excellent. Tres chic or something like that. And there’s a great little French bakery that makes the most flaky pastries I’ve had. Overall? We spent more time in other casinos.Cute little hotel rooms in Paris Las Vegas…

    WinnerAnd I did win. Several times. But that doesn’t ever mean I come back with money. It just means I get to sustain my time at a machine listening to the music and sipping my ice cold Coronas.

    Vampire Eyes But the smoke? It kills me. I think all the people who can’t smoke in California hang out in Las Vegas and smoke all day. You know how the smoke from a barbeque or a campfire seems to follow you? Well that’s what it’s like in Vegas. When I sit down, invariably, someone with a cigarette sits next to me. It’s actually quite funny. I don’t complain. I don’t move. I just end up looking like a vampire. It’s embarrassing.

    But it’s fun.

  • My Soundtrack of What Matters. And Yours?

    Oh look everyone.  Another Saturday.  I continue to be amazed that the days on the calendar just whip by with such complete disregard for the fact that I’m on the back side of a half century and it’d be nice if things could slow down a bit.  Not permanently, of course.  But long enough to allow for the extended time I require to think about things that really don’t matter in the grander scheme of the universe and the survival of the species.  I don’t know which particular species, but still.

    But there are some things that matter so much, I can’t imagine what I’d do without them.  The loss so many have experienced this past week in San Diego in the wildfires has prompted me to wonder about choosing if I had to.  But my choices aren’t necessitated by a fire.  They’re the result of simply taking stock, and acknowledging what keeps me anchored.  Understood is that family and friends are not something to be considered here.  Period.

    Solitude.  I can be around many, many people.  But I prefer not to.  I love the busy roar of a large city, but not as much as a winding road and low grass covered hills.  And music?  It can bring me to tears, cause me to dance, or force me to sing along whether there are words or not.  But even music can’t compete with my need for solitude.  The quiet I enjoy for part of every day when the only sound I can hear is the rustle of trees outside my window, or the creak of wood somewhere in the house matters.  Plain, simple quiet.

    My stove.  I could say cooking, but not being one of those Top Chef type people, I wouldn’t want to have to cook on a hot plate, or a sterno flame.  No.  I’d need my stove.  The one with the nine cheery red knobs.  I’ve heard people say they love their cars — the purr of the engine, the handling, the acceleration.  That’s how I feel about my stove.  Ah…the sound it makes when those convection fans switch on.  Vroom…vroom….It isn’t in my kitchen because its design is sleek, although it is.  Or because its technology is a wonder.  But it is pretty amazing. It’s in my kitchen because I use it.  Seriously use it and have fun the entire time.  It connects me to food and family and friends.  Creativity and learning.  Tradition and new cuisine.  It provides the peace of mind that diligently proceeding through a set of steps can provide, and at the end of them all, have my taste buds sing.  Could I have all of this without my particular stove?  Certainly.  But it just wouldn’t be the same.  It weighs a bit more than my Mac at about 1,000 lbs. so it isn’t exactly something I can ever take with me if I go.  But I’d find a way to get another.  Trust me.

    My Mac.  It has one little plug that connects it to my house.  One.  But it connects me to so much more than I can possibly be connected to otherwise.  Ironically, I’m writing this on the MoH’s laptop, and it’s fine, but it’s not my Mac.  I could make due with a different computer if I didn’t have a Mac.  I can buy just about anything I want, read (which would be another thing I wouldn’t do without because it’s like breathing), travel, learn, listen, create…But it wouldn’t be the same.  Iwouldn’t have my lovely screen, or sleek white lines, or easily swiveleing-thingy-ness.  I wouldn’t be able to waste copious amounts of time with iPhoto, or click open my Finder services for the Oxford dictionary (the Webster widget doesn’t come close…).  And photobooth, and iChat (which I’ve just learned to use).  Pathetic, isn’t it?  Don’t even argue with me about this.  I’m a goner.  And iTunes?  Well.

    Rod wants to know what’s on my playlist.  I don’t have an iPod (solitude, remember?) but I do happen to have three whole playlists on in my iTunes library which are organized very specifically.  And when I check the list of songs I’ve played most, the following come up.  They’re supposed to say much about who and what I am, or what I’ve been thinking.  But I’ve developed an odd habit at this point in my life.  I don’t listen to the words of songs.  I listen for the melody.  I listen to whether it’s written in a major or minor key, whether it’s sung by an uncomplicated voice and a single instrument, or an energetic voice and a band.  And it’s all connected to mood.  I listen when I have to write.  When I have to sit at the computer and am easily distracted.  I play it loudly, singing along — whether there are words or not.  So I’m not sure what these particular songs say about me.  I’ll have to think about it.  But I’ll have to figure out what the words are first.

    She Is     The Fray     (40)

    Snow     Red Hot Chili Peppers (37)

    Betty     Kate Walsh  (26)

    Savin’ Me     Nickelback (25)

    If it Makes You Happy  Sheryl Crow  (25)

    In Need  Sheryl Crow  (24)

    What About Now  Daughtry  (23)

    When the Lights go Down  Faith Hill  (23)

    Photograph  Nickelback  (23)

    Over You  Daughtry  (22)

    Squeeze Me  Diana Krall  (22)

    You’re Still Here  Faith Hill  (22)

    Slow Like Honey  Fiona Apple  (22)

    Tonight  Kate Walsh  (22)

    Nearness of You  Norah Jones  (22)

    This post was sponsored by Robert of Miscellaneous Ramblings who inquired about “Three Things I Wouldn’t Let Go,” and Rod of Inside Rod’s Head who insisted that “Our Players Don’t Lie.”  The links provide the directions which are blissfully uncomplicated.  Yes!  There is a meme god in the sky.

    What do you think chick, vanessa, paisley, meleah, mel, jenny, phil, rj, scott, and micki (whom I know has a “meme-free” zone, but am asking the question anyway)?  It’s an interesting exercise combining the two…I’ll have to do some analysis on it after I figure out the words of the songs I’ve listed.

    Have a splendiferous weekend.