kellementology

life according to me

Author: K. Peacock Wright

  • If I Dream It, They Will Come: Bird by Bird

    The whole spider dream thing has been on my mind since early yesterday when it woke me up. I hear others talking about their dreams, and it’s always interesting to wonder why we dream about what we dream. I almost always remember my dreams, so it seems like second nature thinking about them. Although they can often be quite strange, I don’t have memories of issues dreaming about bugs or snakes, or creepy creatures. So it was a completely perfect distraction for me to investigate yesterday while I was reading through the Word Press codex on headers to also have alongside a variety of windows open to learn about what others think about dreams featuring spiders + babies + moms. Who knew!

    Well Dave did, because he chimed in before I could finish my research, let alone draw my conclusions. Now, I’ve suspected for a while that Dave is a seriously deep thinker, but a soothsayer? Whoa. How cool is that?

    To begin with, this source slotted spiders in the bug category, which is a problem to begin with. Cockroaches are bugs. Spiders are spiders. It’s that whole six legs versus eight legs thing. Anyway, the source indicated that seeing a spider in my dream was a toss up between:

    feeling like an outsider in some situation, or that [I] may want to keep [my] distance and stay away from an alluring and tempting situation.

    Okay. I confess. I do often feel like an outsider of sorts when I visit blogs that have a gazillion devoted followers who gush over them daily. I feel like an outsider when I add my pithy comment to the preceding string of 247, like, they’re gonna read mine? Not.

    As far as allure and temptation are concerned, I’ve succumbed. I ate three of the chocolate cookies left over from the ice cream sandwiches I made a couple of days ago — after I ate one of the ice cream sandwiches. What can I say? It was phoodplan weigh-in day, and I didn’t like my numbers. So I treated myself to my baked goods. Yum.

    Back to the dream analysis…

    The spider is also symbolic of feminine power. Alternatively, a spider may refer to a powerful force protecting you against your self-destructive behavior.

    Feminine power and chocolate are somewhat synonymous, aren’t they? And I guess the spider was supposed to be a warning to step away from the cookies, but because I hadn’t read the helpful information yet, I was stuffing cookies in my mouth while I was reading and clicking. They washed down quite well with the ice cold glass of whole milk I poured to accompany them. I need calcium, you know.

    But I’m not being exactly forthright about the information I found on dreams about spiders. My dream specifically contained a tarantula. Not a skinny, bald spider; a large, hairy, black tarantula. Of course, one site tells me that dreaming about spiders means that fortune will come — except if the spider is a tarantula. What are the odds? There have got to be thousands of varieties of spiders and I have to dream about a tarantula. Specifically, this site claims:

    To dream of a spider, denotes you being careful and energetic in your labors and fortune will be amassed to pleasing proportions. Domestic happiness.

    Conversely:

    To dream you see a tarantula, denotes disagreeable prospect for health or for pleasure.

    Fine. I’ll just have to walk even farther tomorrow to rid myself of those choco-cookie bombs. It will be a disagreeable prospect to trudge with my VBF knowing that I’m defeating myself by snorting sugar during the day instead of nibbling on celery and plain lettuce. Or crunching on ice cubes. Or macking down carb-free rice cakes.

    But there’s hope because there was also a baby in the dream. You know, the one I passed to my mother while I was in bed?

    To see a baby in your dream signifies innocence, warmth and new beginnings. Babies may symbolize something in your own inner nature which is pure, vulnerable, and/or uncorrupted. Babies may represent an aspect of yourself that is vulnerable and helpless…

    Yes! Uncorrupted new beginnings! Tomorrow is another day that I can begin to avoid — or, just flat out avoid shoving unnecessary calories into my face as if tomorrow, all the world’s food might evaporate.

    And mothers in dreams? That’s a bit strange to weave into this mix — at least from the sites I was distracted by. The idea of mothers being nurturing, offering comfort and guidance seems pretty basic to me.

    So in attempt to put it all together — because I have nothing but extremely long stretches of time to waste create with daily — I kept looking until I found this:

    Spider teaches you to maintain a balance — between past and future, physical and spiritual, male and female. Spider teaches you that everything you now do is weaving what you will encounter in the future.

    The spider awakens creative sensibilities. It weaves a web of intricate and subtle fabric, as if to remind us that the past always subtly influences the present and future. The spider found within the web reminds us that we are the center of our own world. Spider reminds us that we are the keepers and writers of our destiny, weaving it like a web by our thoughts, feelings and actions.

    Spider is the guardian of the ancient languages and alphabets. Many believe that the alphabet was formed by the geometric patterns and angles found withing the spider’s web. To many this was the first true alphabet. This is why spider is considered the teacher of language and the magic of writing.

    No, there wasn’t a web in the dream, but I can make some sense of all of this now, without joking about cookies.

    My mom’s appearance in my dream supposedly represents my wish for reassurance about the way my life is going. Even though I am content to “not work,” there is sure to be work on the horizon — because I want there to be. I’m a worker. Or, better said, I create. The issue is to grapple with the temptation to be very practical about finding “work” instead of finding time being willing to devote the same amount of time to create. And people who see themselves as workers or “do-ers” can struggle with the idea of taking time to create, which isn’t often seen as being productive. So I guess, with respect to my dream, I have to keep listening to “my mother,” and not make hasty decisions about what my “work” will be. I will get there.

    The baby represents something that is new. An opportunity, a beginning, a new mood of optimism. So the idea that I’m handing the baby to my “mom” is significant because it means I have to really nurture that seed of a what if that I’m growing, instead of worrying about it. The motherly reassurance will help it grow.

    And the tarantula? Not sure about that one because most sources I checked stated:

    To see a tarantula in your dream, signifies enemies are about to overwhelm you will loss.

    I don’t even know who my enemies are. That’s a pretty strong word for my world. Don’t you have to be in a particular frame of mind to even consider what an enemy is, let alone whom?

    Ohhhhhhhh……I get it. My “enemies” are those doubting voices. The ones Anne Lamott writes about in Bird by Bird. The voices that play on KFKD who tell you that you suck, and that you’re a loser, and that you can’t do anything right. The ones that play incessantly no matter how hard you work, but that you just have to turn the volume down on so that you can hear what matters. Because you have to hear the stuff that matters.
    The stuff that is the seeds of possibilities that need to be attended to, and nurtured to grow.

    If you build it, they will come. Right? I really, truly believe it with all my heart and soul whether they’re wearing baseball suits or not.

    Do you?

  • Dooce to the Rescue

    I’m holding the baby. I’m holding the baby and there’s a rather large spider — a hairy tarantula ambling clumsily over the uneven terrain of the blanket I seem to be tangled in. Trying not to show my alarm with any recognizable display of emotion, I tell my mom to take the baby, my eyes not quite leaving the arachnid, wondering whether it will reach me before I can ease away from its path.

    Wait. Baby? What baby? Mom? What the hell is she doing here?

    The spider — where did it go? There. I can feel it inching over my hair…my heart is pounding, and I know I won’t be able to contain my scream, already imagining my flight from bed and into the center of the room where I’ll have to thrash and flap, slap and wave to get the ugly thing from my head…

    But there’s no spider either. There’s only the chill of the night air on my face and the film of moisture covering it. My scalp tingles, and my breathing settles as I orient myself to the now familiar surroundings. No spider, no baby, no mom. Just another hot flash. It’s only 3 am, so I lay very still, listening to the night sounds from outside, thinking about going back to sleep. Thinking about disconnected aspects of yesterday. Thinking about today. Thinking about closing my eyes.

    But no. I think instead about my banner. About photoshop. About why the hell I can’t figure out how to do what I am trying to do. And then an hour into my thinking and wondering, and never quite cooling down after what feels like an eternity, I remember. Dooce has a tutorial I read some time ago on how she does her mastheads.

    Eureka! I can’t lay around in bed now, waiting for sleep that will never come. It’s too hot, I’m drenched, and it’s only a matter of minutes before I begin to freeze. I don’t have to drive to my VBF’s house until 5:30 to walk, so I sneak out of bed, careful not to step on the Big who is snoring on her sad and stinky excuse for a pad, head downstairs to make coffee, and back up to the office to check out her — Dooce, not the Big — archives.  It’s 4:35.

    In less than a minute, I’m there. It’s in the Friday, March 2nd post of this year. Her tutorial. Yes! But before I reread what I know will help me through my photoshop agony, I catch up on her latest posts while slugging down my first cup of coffee — which isn’t doing anything to cool the raging inferno that used to be my body.

    So much for the crappy theory that exercise and alcohol deprivation helps reduce the intensity of hot flashes. Oh. I forgot. I’m supposed to give up coffee, too.

    Uh…when pigs fly.

  • So Not Feelin’ the Photosh*t Love

    TrichotillomaniaOh my gawd — all I want to do is write.

    I don’t want to read Photoshop tutorials.

    I just want to poke the buttons to create something. You know — like my banner. The one I really want. Not the palm tree. But maybe me hanging from the palm frond and screaming, “I HATE PHOTOSHOP!”

    I don’t want to have to ask what the hell the “editor” is and then get completely pissed off when there isn’t a simple answer for what is probably the tool bar. And if it is the tool bar, why can’t they just call it that? You know, like why can’t all microwaves and remote controls be made exactly alike? What is up with always calling things different names? Jeez. Especially when it is a freaking functional thing.

    I just don’t want to deal with why I can’t open a photo, open a new workspace (or whatever the hell they call that!) then click and drag the photo into the workspace. I mean, how completely easy would that be? CRAP!

    I don’t want to watch the stoopid videos telling me how to do something and then when it’s time to do it, not be able to figure it out. Let’s see…how do I watch the video, which opens and runs on Firefox (okay by me) and have Photoshop open (which sort of goes away unless you’re “clicked” on it) and do what the tutorial says? Ph*ck! It just MAKES ME WANT TO PULL ALL MY HAIR OUT. Yah. I can do that and spin upside down while whistling Dixie out of where the sun doesn’t shine. Sign me up for the freak show before I completely explode.

    Every single direction has another set of directions so you can understand a term that’s in another set of directions. Can I please have visuals for gawd’s sake. That wouldn’t be TOO DIFFICULT would it?

    I want Al Gore’s computer set up The Guru of 3D -- Al Gore's Kind of a Computer Freak discussed here so I can open 14 freaking windows and look back and forth at them. Then maybe, just maybe I won’t have to jump up and do laundry, or get the hell out of this room before I start throwing things. REALLY.

    Cut and paste. Okay? It could be that simple. sh*t-s*it-*hit-shi*#@#!^%&*$$#^*(^$#%^^&*&**(*^%$$^&&*!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    I don’t like NOT being productive. EVER. I’m not good at it. Doing NOTHING or having NOTHING to show for my time just doesn’t cut it. And I’m NOT going for a walk to blow off this steam BECAUSE I ALREADY DID AT 5:30 THIS MORNING.

    Maybe if I lay down on the floor and kick and scream I’ll feel better. The capital letters and symbols aren’t cutting it. AT ALL.

    Watching this guy made me feel a bit better, however, because I LOVE my Mac. But he’s having the same sort of melt down that I am, so we must be soul mates or something. He does come around, though, so I’m sure that I will too, because I’m tenaciously, persistently, annoyingly, unceasingly, freaking NOT GIVING UP.

    But I’m so NOT loving PHOTOSHOP. NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT.

  • Me ‘n’ the Big

    Smile Warhol I can hear the MoH in the bedroom cooing loving endearments softly to the Big, calling her his latest rendition of her moniker: Quatro Formaggio. Yes. Four Cheeses. I know it isn’t quite Italian, or Spanish, but still. You get the idea. Now why a man would call his dog Four Cheeses and have it come from his lips as a velvety verbal gift is beyond me. The MoH is hilarious. He never coos at me. He probably knows I’d slug him for being so gooey. But he makes me laugh and that’s lovely.

    “Quattro Formaggio” is a bit more tolerable than the former derivative of her name; one which lasted for about two weeks and was never uttered as a pleasantry — “Jose Biggedy Jones the Quatro.” Or the all time favorite, “Biggedy Jones” which we think came from Indiana Jones or Harrison Ford, or something and came before the Quattro fixation the MoH has right now. And “Biggedy R.L. Jones the Third” was a good one for a while, but the RT and I could never get the MoH to tell us what the hell R.L. stood for. Go figure.

    Or sometimes he just calls her “Jones Jones,” just in case one Jones isn’t enough. All the names — and I am leaving an amazing number out because I can’t remember what order they morphed in — are all delivered in a pure falsetto that the Big always responds to with a shift of her brows or a rhythmic tap of her tail. The thing about the Big though, is she always knows her name. Even if it’s just Big, which is the name I use. After all, she is my dog. Me — a cat person with a dog — one that really looks like a cross between a pig and a deer. Or a cow with a pointy nose. The RT decided I needed one for a birthday about eight years ago, so voila. Now, do I look like someone who needs a d-o-g? Is that a zit?

    The Big doesn’t seem very smart most of the time, but understands a lot of language. I defensively remind the MoH of this fact when he’s telling her she’s not very smart. We even test her to see if the tone of our voice is the key to her understanding language, but it isn’t. It’s the vowels. You know — those a-e-i-o-u thingy-mo-bobs. She even understands the spelling of many sentences — not just words, so if we don’t want to get roped into doing whatever it is she’s listening for, we have to be very careful.

    Hoot Hey Big! Do you want to go for a ride? This one makes her crazy. She hips and hops — very difficult for a plus size girl — and tries very hard to make her sad excuses for floppy ears perk up. She cocks her head, her tail freezes, and she waits for confirmation that she has correctly translated her favorite sentence into Dog Speak. The Dog Speak version goes something like this: /uwannagoferaride?/ Pretty cool, huh? She loves to go for a ride, but not when we drive over 40 mph. Because then she can’t poke her face out the window and assail her olfactory system with the billions of scents she picks up along the road, providing dream fodder for a week of dog naps.

    Or: Do you want a bone? This was the first one she learned. Well, actually, she learned bone first, and the rest was added over time just to see if she could anticipate bone at the end of the sentence. Yep. She could.

    And: Where’s your boy? That’s the RT in case you forgot. She understands the boy part and is somewhat glum when he goes to visit his cousin for a weekend or two. I think she’s really attached to his basic teenage stinkiness, so when he’s not here, she completely gets it. The only reason she’s laying next to me right now is because the RT is sleeping in — call that avoiding his Geometry homework that has to be done by noon each Sunday. As soon as the RT is up, she’ll go lay on his bed, inhaling that earthy locker room fragrance that can only be the RTs. Well, except he’s discovered Axel deoderant which adds an interesting spin to things. Kind of a pungent spicy mustiness. The girls should be lining up any time now.

    I have to head downstairs to accompany the MoH on a walk to the farmer’s market again. He really liked that last weekend, and I’m on a quest to get in five walks this week. That’s about 15 miles tallied and the best I’ve done for about two or three weeks. Woo Hoo! I need it considering the time I’ll be on my butt getting this blob up and looking gorgeous. I’m reaching obsessiveness about it at this point, but decided to throw in the Me Shots just to keep you in line while you’re waiting. And thanks for waiting. Crosshatch Me

    Have a loverly Sunday!

  • That Simple Green Scent

    Okay, so I know this is ugly right now.  But at least notice the effects I learned how to create with Photoshop on the palm tree up there. Yes, I also know there are two boxes above that are supposed to be for ads.  I’m not game on the ads above my header, so I have to figure out how to get them off.  The serious bummer is that I spent a lot of time working on the “kellementology” piece and it doesn’t show up on this stoopid laptop.  I know.  I’m not supposed to have fun with the fonts, but jeez.  I get tired of the boring verdana, helvitica crap.  Life’s seriously more interesting with swirls. 

    I know this (blob transition) is wearing me out (yah, right) because I actually cleaned my house today instead of writing first thing like I always do.  Trying to write when my blog is a mess is like trying to relax when the house is a mess.  Wait.  Blogging usually is relaxing, which is why my house stays messy.

    Does it count as being messy when I have to use Simple Green straight up to get the catfood off the laundry room floor?  Or the catfood out of the laundry sink that has stuck to the sides after I’ve rinsed out the can in the morning?  Messy vs. dirty?  Hmmm…I know.  Gross.  But it’s clean now.  And laundry is swirling around in the dryer, the fresh scent of the RT’s whites wafting up the stairs near the garage — a marked improvement from the odor that was emanating from his bedroom yesterday morning.

    And I’m noticing our motley crew of pets is very content because they got their first dose of warm weather “flea medicine.”  No more Presh-Ass Yack Star Flea in-cu-bus lounging over the cable box and creating more tiny flea eggs than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime of owning cats.  Totally gross.  Biggity, our dog, is snoozing in the family room on the clean couch.  The one that the MoH stripped of its cover last weekend because it was sour smelling and covered with lick stains — a by product of the Big’s obsessive compulsivness.  We haven’t caught her licking it again — yet — but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.  It’s a drag sitting on the wet spot…

    And I could bore you even more than I already have to explain the condition of our carpet, beyond cleaning or repair because of the animals.  Yes.  The animals.  I don’t know what’s worse — the stains from the nocturnal hairball launchings, or the cleaning that happens afterwards.  Either way, I’m sick of the whole mess.  I know you’re sick of me ranting about it, but you have no idea how hard I’ve worked to avoid writing about the record size of some of the hairballs I’ve seen lately.  Guiness should have been contacted.  Somehow, taking a picture of a hairball seems a tad bit whacked.  Don’t you think?  Think about the poor RT. 

    “What does your mother do for a living? 

    “Takes pictures of cat hairballs to post them on her blog.”

    Uhhh…nope.  You’ll just have to wonder.  Or not. 

     I’m more convinced than ever that, even though I couldn’t live without them at times, that I have been thinking about how it might be “without them.”  The deal with kids is that they grow up.  Whatever “messes” they make sort of follow in line with their developmental progress.  But even if they’re completely slovenly as my gorgeous and loving sons have been, they grow up, go to college and/or gain relationships with others, and move out of your house.  The animals, the darlins — they stay.  And our house has definitely accomodated our animals.  Cat litter tracked up the stairs, dog “gifts” left on the patio, and rinsed down the drain outside.  Jeez.  It’s more work sometimes than I remember taking care of my two older boys who are only 17 months apart.  Way more work.

    Wait.  I am remembering that ugly sculptured and multi-colored brown carpeting we had when the boys were very little.  It was a complete disguise for myriad raisins, flattened beyond all recognition, and requiring scissors to be removed from their attachment.  Okay.  And I also remember the oatmeal I had to chip off the high chair and the wall next to the high chair.  Oh.  And those cookies — the biscuits that babies eat when they’re teething and disolve (the cookies, not the baby) into a disgusting mess on their cherubic faces.  Well, not so cherubic once it dried.

     But you know?  Blathering about our lovelies has really allowed me to avoid looking at the condition of my newest “pet” that seems to take up as much time as the other darlings I’ve had in my life.  So there you go.  It’s all good.  Except for the carpet.

    So I’ve wasted a perfectly good 20 minutes or so saying absolutely nothing.  Yes, my Warholled self will return as soon as I freaking figure out how the H-E-L-L  to modify it, save it, and paste it in the header.  Well, I can’t paste anything with this skin, so whatever.  Just hold your shorts.  I’ll get there. 

    Thanks for your patience while I’m learning about how to adjust fonts styles, colors, and sizes as well.  Like how all that work I did that looks gorgeous on my Mac looks like crap or non-existent on the MoH’s laptop which is what I’m using right now.  How stoopid is that?  Sheesh.  Thanks again to Thought Sparks who always keeps an eye on what’s up and offers assistant.  Very.  Nice.  Person.

    Okay.  Enough boredom.  Off to the store for coq au vin ingredients.  Yum.  Crusty bread.  Salad.  Wine… No party.  Just us.  I love good food.  So a great meal tonight AND tomorrow night will just allow me to avoid the blob for a bit longer.  Right?

    Toots.

  • Fitting into my Skin

    Still working on my blog skin. Still choosing. Still wondering what looks like, or at best may be a reflection of “me.” Something that isn’t beige or depicts “nobody.” A self portrait of sorts. Not My Self Portrait Or composite. Isn’t that what this strange business of blogging is sometimes all about?

    So don’t go away. I’ll figure it out. Billy Collins did in his “Instructions to the Artist”…

    I wish my head to appear perfectly round

    and since the canvas should be of epic dimensions,

    please trace the circle with a dinner plate

    rather than a button or a dime.

    My face should be painted with an ant-like sense of detail;

    pretend you are executing a street map

    of Rome and that all the citizens

    can lift thirty times their own weight.

    The result should be a strained

    but self-satisfied expression,

    as if I am lifting a Volkswagen with one foot.

    The body is no great matter;

    just draw some straight lines with a pencil and ruler.

    I will not be around to hear the voice

    of posterity calling me Stickman.

    The background I leave up to you

    but if there is to be a house,

    lines of smoke rising from the chimney

    should be mandatory.

    Never be ashamed of kindergarten —

    it is the alphabet’s only temple.

    Also, have several kangaroos grazing

    and hopping around in the distance,

    an allusion to my world travels.

    Some final recommendations:

    I should like to appear hatless.

    Kindly limit your palette to a single

    primary color, any one but red or blue.

    Sign the painting on my upper lip

    so your name will always be my mustache.

    And don’t forget — an entity is the sum of its parts… Check it out and see what you think. You’ll have to read it five or six times before your eyeballs settle back down in their sockets, though. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
    Lipzilla

  • Upgrades, Blog Skin, and Patience

    Count yourself lucky, because today, you were going to be subjected to either a commentary on last night’s “So You Think You Can Dance, ” or a scathing review of that book I’ve been trudging through. But I decided to do a bit of work under the hood, so to speak. I’ll subject you to the tortures mentioned tomorrow or the next day when you’re supposed to be out and enjoying the weekend.

    Yes, it’s that time again. Time to pardon my dust. I’m working on a WordPress upgrade today, and most likely, a blog skin change. You might remember that not too long ago, I asked people about whether the Tree was doing it for me. I had lots of great responses that ranged from, liking the minimalist aspect of the blue against the white, to considering it presents a sort of Forrest Gump meets Andy Warhol. One person invisioned me sitting on the bench while thinking “all this stuff up,” and other questioned the relationship of the blue tree to my “science of grasping life by the short hairs” to my Warholled self. Schizophrenic sort of covers it. But the two column design is really not what I’ve wanted from the beginning, and the grey, very small font — although tasteful — is difficult to see for some. And I agree. There has to be a good mix of aesthetics and functionality. I’m more wrapped up in writing than playing around with the design because it’s a great excuse to effectively avoid learning how to do the CSS properly, or design my own. I have absolutely nothing but time, right? So what the hell.

    Anyway, everything’s changing. Yes, again. Because I can. I don’t have many options for changing the furniture around in my house, or the clothes on my body, or my hair, or…..well, you get it. So why not take out my frustrations on my blob — which it could end up being a blob again if I’m not careful.

    So I’m embroiled in reading WordPress support for the down load and reviewing installation guidelines on my hosting service, digging out my FTP client and wondering about the connectivity of all this and potential baldness.

    But just in case you’re wondering what this may end up looking like, I’m thinking of: (and click on Test Run) under the image that comes up on the links if you want to check it out…)

    • this, because of the changeable header, the three columns, general organizational quality, and clean-white look.
    • this, because of the header again, the columns again, and the interesting addition of the two sections at the top that I could have some fun with; or
    • this because it’s very different, the organization is cool, the font is very readable on the dark background, and I like how it’s set up for del.icio.us plus more in the post.

    Who knows. I downloaded a bunch of others just to mess around with.

    So cross your fingers.

  • How did Emily Know?

    I was tagged a week or so ago, and haven’t reciprocated. Well, I have, actually, but I guess you’d have to pick it up by inference. If I remember correctly, the meme had to do with letting people know more about myself through an interview of sorts. I had already done the meme, as I was tagged by someone else first. So, I’ve been constructing a few posts that essentially do the same thing, but not in meme form. So Jo! I’m reciprocating — it’s just may not look like I am.

    Well, I couldn’t ask for a better transition…

    IMG_1850 Last night while we were watching House, one of the characters said, “He’s not afraid to be you, he’s afraid of who you think you are.” I don’t want to get involved in which character said this, or reference about whom. That isn’t the point. Do you like how I’m circumventing that one? Because I probably don’t know their names. I know I should, because I often watch House, but they’re really only fictitional characters, right? So what difference does it make? Like I was saying, that isn’t the point.

    The point is…that I immediately thought of my oldest son. The one who seems to be trudging through life — or flitting, depending on the observer’s perspective. My bets are on trudging, but I’ll get to that later. So what would make me instantly connect to him after hearing the line spoken? Because as a parent who has already raised two children to adulthood, I often wonder whether I did a good job. You know, whether the whole effort of creating two more humans has been a good thing for society. Of course I’m going to say yes immediately, but that’s the easy answer. IMG_1845

    IMG_1848 When my oldest son was about the age of 15 or so, I remember him saying that we — the MoH and I — made working look very difficult. That it was all we did, and that it seemed we weren’t very happy about it. My reaction was a combination of, “Wow, he noticed,” and “Crap, what the hell is that all about and what kind of an example is that to set for your kids?” My oldest son — MoS — is an amazing artist. He draws. He doesn’t sketch, or paint, or sculpt. He draws. He picked up a pencil very early, and just began to draw things he saw. He went through odd phases, where all his drawings were of empty intersections with complicated arrangements of stop lights and light posts. He also developed a very early fascination with how things work — in particular machinery, and buildings. So I probably don’t have to tell you about the number of Leggos we own, right?

    He began building very complicated buildings with his Leggos by the age of 5. And then he began to invent strange things like those automatic door closers that are mounted up on the frame. So we had those made of Leggos taped to all our doors. We had Leggos everywhere. You do know what it feels like to step on one, right? It’s a very special kind of pain. And sucking them up into the vacuum? You also know that you have to get them out of the vacuum because each freaking piece costs about 25 cents. Plus if that particular piece can’t be found, hours will be spent digging through the box of Leggos. You can hear the sound, right? That “digging in the Leggos” clacking sound. And when the piece isn’t found, the “dumping the entire contents of the Leggo box on the bedroom floor” sound. You know, right? Leggos. Thousands and thousands of them. IMG_1846

    I knew very early that MoS was an artist. So I made sure he had things to be creative with. But something happened along the way. This business of making work look hard caused a problem. Although everyone assumes when someone of MoS’ talent is plopped onto this Earth, that he will most certainly make a life and a living with that gift, sometimes they don’t. In fact, I know that lots of times very talented people are just square pegs in the very round hole that is our society. Especially in this country. MoS’ square pegginess is huge.

    At the age of 15, he took a look at his resident role models and decided that he didn’t want to turn his drawing into study at school and then a career, because he loved to draw. That if it became his living instead of his love, that he wouldn’t enjoy it any longer. It would become work. It would be “hard.” About this time, he became extremely interested in cars as well. Yes, he drew them. Drew the outside, the inside, drew different views, and yes, drew very intricate pictures of their engines as well. Just any car? Nope. Corvairs. Go figure. And he didn’t just draw them. He could take an engine out of one and install another in the same car in less than three hours, and drive off to enjoy an afternoon. Really. He’s truly amazing.

    IMG_1847 So if he isn’t drawing, then is he working on cars? Nope. He still does both these things in his “spare” time. He has very little spare time because he is in school — finally — I think. We’re never sure. And he’s paying for it himself. We think. But we’re not sure about that, either. Because he works between 40 and 50 hours a week managing a pizza restaurant franchise for someone who is no longer interested in running the business. I know how hard it is to go to school and work, and I wonder if he’s making it. Remember what I said about trudging? Are you convinced? He spends ridiculous amounts of time hiring and firing extremely undependable high-school and college-aged kids, filling in for them when they don’t show up for their shifts, and loaning them his car for deliveries, because they wrecked theirs, or don’t have one, or?

    What’s he studying in school? Architecture. What he was put on this earth to do. Draw. But we aren’t ever sure he’ll actually finish. He’s so busy making sure the damn pizza place doesn’t burn down, he barely has time for anything else. Maybe the problem is if he quits the pizza place, he’ll have to dedicate himself more seriously to school and therein lies the rub. He’s not afraid to be me, he’s afraid of who I think I am.

    What did Emily Dickinson say?

    I’m nobody! Who are you?

    Are you nobody, too?

    Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!

    They’d advertise — you know!

    How dreary to be somebody!

    How public like a frog

    To tell one’s name the livelong day

    To an admiring bog!

    He’s not afraid to be me — a hard-working, serious nose to the ever-lovin’ grindstone kinda human. Never say die — just occasionally gasp for air — He’s afraid of who I think I am — nobody. Well, somebody, of course, but always trying to just be beige. At least that’s what I think I am. No?

    Wow. That’s sobering.

  • Twenty Years and Blinking

    Nice guy that he is, the MoH gently reminded me that I had carpool responsibilities this morning. It’s Tuesday already, and not Monday, so perhaps I was in a Monday frame of mind. The RT and I slunk to the car, I put ‘er in reverse and sat outside The Princess’ house for a few minutes until she graced us with her flowery scented presence. “Good morning,” I began, as usual, attempting to present an image of one who, although wearing pajamas and a rank sweatshirt, was chipper and ready to take the week by the horns. “How was your weekend?”

    Umbrella

    “Ohmygodyesterdaywasthemostbeautifulday,” she trilled, her eyes wide as I sneaked a look in the rear view mirror. “We went to the beach and everything was just perfect and you know how there are little sand places between the rocks? Well the four of us fit right in there, and well, it’s kind of a coveted location, so when we were ready to leave people were right there ready to take our spot,” she continued, rapt in her recollection of what I remembered was a pleasant day, but not that special. Oh, that’s right. I went outside late in the afternoon to pretend like I was going to finish my book, and ended up lazing in the sun, nodding off occasionally to make up for two late nights in a row. “Only 15 days of school left,” she finished, the non sequitur ending her atypical morning liveliness.

    Only fifteen days left. That’s always significant if you are in any way connected to school: you’re a student; your kids are in school; or, if like me, an erstwhile educator who recognized that the countdown to summer posted on the board would get you some points from your students, whether my principal liked it or not — thinking it “negative.” Uhhhh…what rock did she crawl out from under? Doesn’t everyone look forward to summer? Why act like that isn’t the case? Ahhh….summer. The Beach Boys and “No more homework, no more books.

    Dirty Looks

    No more teachers’ ‘dirty looks’” or whatever the words of that schoolyard chant are. Vacation. Ten. Whole. Weeks. Of sleeping in. Of lazing around the house. Of re-runs on television and sweet oblivion.

    It’s a bit strange now since I am only marginally connected to this annual ritual that has been a part of my life in some way for about 40 years. Yes — I know. Longer than some of you have been alive. Through my childhood and college years, my two older boys’ school years, my re-entry to college, and then finally my career in education. Nearly my entire life has been filled with the peculiar ebb and flow of time related to school years. The RT is of course still connected, and will be for many years even after we pack him up kicking and screaming, and throw him on a train and off to college.

    It was 20 years ago that I was beginning my career as a teacher. It’s pretty frightening how quickly 20 years can fly by. In 1987, I was ready to take on my first class of Third Graders, and finally do what I had always longed to do: teach. It was exhilarating after waiting so long. From the time I was in junior high, school counselors had gently tried to talk me out of the profession. Really. I’ve tried to remember the details of those conversations, but it was so long ago, it’s difficult. Besides, do adolescents really listen the way we want and need them to when we are gifting them with our experienced advice? Do pigs fly? Does a chicken have lips? Like I said — difficult. And now I don’t need the details, because I recognize their quiet words as something designed to open different worlds to a young person — one more exotic, more glamorous, and most likely, less practical. Perhaps they were at a point where they imagined something different for themselves, so that yearning influenced their words to me.

    Regardless, I heeded their advice, and went off to college declaring my major to be Family Studies and Consumer Sciences in order to become a Therapeutic Dietitian. Why this? I had to choose a different, but still practical something to replace my dream of wanting to become a teacher, and I had read something in Time magazine about careers in the health industry, so that made sense. Why not? Are hospitals and schools all that different? Um…never mind. You don’t even want to know what I think about that one.

    I never became a dietitian. In fact, I changed my major to Library Science because I really did want to be involved in education on some level. And there were very few jobs available for teachers then, so why not be a Librarian? I loved books, after all, and if I couldn’t be a teacher, I could hover in their vicinity. But I ended up leaving school.

    The part time job I had was paying more than what first year teachers made, so it was easy to leave the books and the routines to get married and have two boys. Easy until I felt my brain begin to rot with inactivity. So I finally found myself back in college to pick up where I left off with two young children in tow, the same part time job, and an ex-husband left somewhere in the dust — an unfortunate casualty of someone who should have stayed the school course to begin with. But my two boys were the silver lining of that detour, and they are worth it.

    Completing a degree and a credentialing program with kids in tow was crazy on several levels, but lots of people do it today. What was gruelling was subjecting my kids to the insane rigors of a new teaching assignment in an inner city school, and master’s degree work all at the same time. That’s why I have such a high regard for the MoH. He helped all three of us survive those years.

    “Kids come out, summer has arrived” by broma on flickr

    Twenty years. Don’t blink. You may miss them. Now, I’ll have to live vicariously through the RT’s last few days of school wondering if he’s as ecstatic as I would be if I was still counting down to summer.

    I know. I’ll post it on the fridge.

  • Weekending and All that Stuff

    What a weekend. I don’t know what’s more significant — that there were what seemed to be a zillion cops manning speed traps on the way to dog beach this morning, or that the sun is finally out. Finally. And what a perfect way to end a very busy weekend. Absolutely no couch potatoing from me. But a good way to kick off summer all the same. Good thing to know there will be more money in the city coffers from all those tickets the police were giving out.

    In case you haven’t figured out that this post is about the weekend — here, let me say it one more time, this weekend, I went shopping with the MoH who has a tendency to wait an entire year before he replenishes his supply of work clothes. He doesn’t like to shop and doesn’t like to spend money. I would agree with the first thing, but the second? Sheesh. You gotta be kidding. I’m thinking it should be an olympic sport. And the big question that needs to be answered about this shopping excursion is — How long does it take to pick out a tee shirt? News at eleven. Me? I didn’t buy one single thing. In fact, I’m seriously thinking about going green on my wardrobe. You know, wearing recycled clothes. Okay, well, how about consignment shop clothes? You get the idea, right? Save money and the planet all at once.

    Saturday night, rocking to ’80s tunes at a local, but smoke-filled *cough-gasp* casino while listening to the MoH’s brother’s band, The Reaganomics, was very fun. Very. Almost as fun as it was watching the 60+ crowd get up to shake their boo-tayz to Cyndi Lauper and Madonna. Girls just wanna have fuh-hun.. The groupie with the black and white striped tards was a hoot, too, givin’ the MoH’s bro a serious hug during a break between sets. Have you ever hugged someone who’s been rockin’ for an hour like there’s no tomorrow? S-W-E-A-T-Y.

    Table's Set And we had to get together with friends to eat of course. So we rubbed our sleep-lacking and scratchy eyes, dragged our butts out of bed and stopped by the farmer’s market to cruise through the rows looking at veggies, Farmer's Market Fruit flowers, bread, Bread at the Market and drooliscious things like roasted artichoke hearts and garlic was perfect. I was able to get a pretty good start on part of the menu for dinner. Squash Blossoms Although courgettes weren’t exactly on that menu, I couldn’t resist buying some and finding a recipe to try. Thank goodness for friends to tolerate food experiments. Fried Squash Blossoms Surprisingly, the recipe wasn’t bad (stuffed with ricotta and parmesan, then batter fried)– at least better than the Pappa al pomodoro I’ve been wanting to make for many years that could give “mush” new meaning. Go figure. All that tells me is what I already know. Sometimes, planning isn’t worth beans. Although beans would definitely have been more tasty than the soup.

    Today? Lots of food blogging to post this and this. One of them will make you fat just looking at it, and the other is so you can lose the weight you gained by looking at the food porn. It’s a Salad ‘Stravaganza I’m co-hosting with a fellow food blogger, Lis from La Mia Cucina. Check it out and get involved. The more, the merrier.
    Now, I’m out to enjoy the sun before it goes away. I gotta finish that stoopid book I’ve been trudging through that is so totally not worth it, and seriously reinforcing the idea that if a book doesn’t get my attention by page 40, then screw it. But I said I was going to read all those books, remember?