kellementology

life according to me

Category: Aches

  • Cork for My Attitude, Perhaps?

    I am seriously cranky today. For the most part, I wouldn’t bother to mention it because I rarely am, and if I am, it’s not something worth mentioning. I have committed myself to a permanent state of being one who does not deserve to be cranky ever again, no longer having to deal with the stresses that those who work deal with. My four hours a day do not qualify me.  What a martyr.

    But I’m mentioning it anyway.

    It.

    The aggravating sensation that something is not quite right. An annoyance, hovering somewhere just out of reach.

    It’s making me crazy and I’ve begun a mental check of all that it could possibly be, torturing myself with the stupidity of it.

    Masochist.

    If I was intelligent, I would bury myself in a good book, or go for a walk. Fresh air seems to cure all. But I’ve stubbornly chosen to tackle a few tasks that needed to be taken care of, stewing with each check made on my mental list of things to do:

    1. Finally, finally contacted our neighborhood association with the needed information to register our cars. (We’re not allowed to park on our own street because we have room in our driveway and garage and cars parked on the street makes the neighborhood look tacky). You, too, should live in Paradise. Whatever. We do park in our driveway, but once in a while we leave one on the street. What? They’ll tow us?

    2. Emailed the RTR’s counselor at school to set up some meetings to monitor his assignments (He likes to bring home classwork to be finished, that by his own admission, isn’t challenging, and won’t take very long to do, but doesn’t do it. Because. He can…). Oh, but he does want to go away to college, just in case I was wondering. No problem, dude. See if you can get one to let you in.

    3. Tried again to book our flights for our vacation this summer, found the website uncooperative, and feeling a bit wary, called to get assistance since a screw up could cost two years of saved points. Wouldn’t that be a great story? (This would be the bright spot in my day since the woman found tickets and we’re booked at last).

    But right now, I am just cranky. Getting into bed and pulling the covers up over my head might help, but the sun is shining, the weather is cheerfully unlike my mood, and I’d end up sweating like a pig.

    Do pigs sweat?

    Regardless, there’s a cherry on this little sundae of mirth and glee. It appears that I’m going swimming this evening. Yes, my friends and I are going to try and get back into our little routine of exercising regularly.

    Winter legs. Ugly bathing suit. Lumpy body. Chipped toenail polish. Grouchy face. Bitchy mouth.

    Oh, hell ye I’m in the mood for this.

    This tells it all. Just six words. I think you’d agree, right?

    Does it LOOK like I’m in a good mood?

    Which means you need to partake in this exercise — seeing if the sum of your life can be reduced to a mere six words.

    By all means, have some fun with it. Olga did. But Olga always has fun. Double the fun.

    Some girls have all the luck. Lumps in all the right places.

    Pfft.

  • Poignant homecoming

    I know I said I wouldn’t be here for a bit, but one of the main reasons I keep this little place in the giant scheme of things is to mark the passing of time and the aspects of life that punctuate it. You know — highs, lows, hilarity, and things that pierce the heart… IMG_5789.JPG

    Blackitty came home today. And as much as I can say that I am relieved, my emotions are a bit raw again, as I knew they would be.
    IMG_5787.JPG
    As they should be.

    I had no idea there was so much support out there for people who have lost a dear pet.
    IMG_5788.JPG

    I’m amazed. So I’m passing it along.

    The Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement

    Pet Loss Support Page

    Furry Angel

    UC Davis Pet Loss Support

    Grief Healing

    Delta Society

    American Veterinary Medical Association

  • Tuesdays and Routines

    I got my wish. Greyness and clouds have blanketed the skies of Paradise the last couple of days, and although we’ll never begin to imagine the coldness much of the country is experiencing right now, 56 degrees at mid day is chilly.

    After a three day weekend, the teens were slow to start this morning during my carpool duty. It was especially quiet: no shuffling through papers in last minute preparation for a test, or talk of a recent session on XBox. Totally silent. Regardless, they’re great kids, always responding to my “Good Morning” with their own greeting, and an immediate “Thank you” as we arrive at the curb where I let them off. Even in their subdued state today, they muttered thanks and slowly walked onto campus. As I pulled away from the curb, I glanced at their downcast faces nearly lost inside the hoods of their sweatshirts, and remembered how much I used to not like Tuesdays.

    On these early days, I have time to detour for coffee before heading for work, but try not to make it a habit. I see no reason to spend three or four dollars for something I’ve already had a portion of at home before leaving, and can get free at work if I choose. If it was routine, well, then it would be a routine and not something to look forward to. Today, I did stop, though. It’s easy to tell the Pannekin was once an old house, with hardwood floors that creak as I wait my turn, and a fire that warms the room. The man and woman behind the counter are cheerful without fail, smiling, attentive. I respond to their “Good Morning” with my own, avoiding even a glance at the fresh cinnamon rolls, pastries, and slices of pie. Last Thursday, I couldn’t resist a raspberry scone, and decided that although it was quite tasty, there was no way I could get away with this business of coffee and a sweet. Oh well.

    My extra large cappuccino with an extra shot can help make my brief and rarely trying drive to work even more enjoyable. I listen to the incessant doom and gloom NPR eloquently rolls out each morning, objectively observe the drivers around me darting in and around one another in an attempt to get just one more car length ahead, and take an occasional dark-roasty sip.

    (more…)

  • Life certainly does go on, doesn’t it?

    So, life goes on, of course.

    The RTR has a holiday today in spite of the fact that the MoH and I have to go to work. What? Like clients who happen to have a holiday as well will be busting the doors down to get their taxes taken care of?

    Um.

    Not.

    And yes, the Chargers lost. But yanno? They totally gave Bill something to think about. And without their bestest, 100% healthy team. After dealing with the ups and downs of the Chargers for umpteen gazillion years, we’re pretty pleased with the effort. And bummed that Green Bay didn’t win, of course. But the bright side of that is that I’m sure all the talking heads are pissed now because they couldn’t have their back-up dream match up for the Thooper Bowl. BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I am so glad for that. Boring farts. East Coast biased sports crap. It just gets so completely OLD after a while. They all need to get over them selves.

    Besides, that fat lady still hasn’t begun to sing. I can’t HEEEEEAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR her Bill cheating Belichick. Now where was that vodoo doll I bought the last time I was in New Orleans? Hmmmm….
    And sadly, the Best Buy saga is almost at an end. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, count yourself lucky. I finally relinquished my grip on the situation with the television, the MoH called, and voila. He was told it would be taken care of. Just. Like. That.

    I guess it’s true that no one enjoys a harpy. But the reality is that someone’s gotta stir the pot before the closer comes in. Yah. Whatever.

    (more…)

  • The sun did come up today.

    I need the sky to be grey and angry looking. I want the wind to blow and rain to fall. But it’s blue as far as I can see.

    I don’t want to hear the kids at the end of the block playing in the cul-de-sac. But they’re laughing and screaming at one another, having fun.

    I want the trees to be bare like they’re supposed to be in the winter, and not green with signs of spring already.

    I’m not in the right frame of mind for blooming and regrowth. Sprouting and budding.

    I thought it might be good to bury my head in the pillows until about noon, but knew that was never going to happen. And once I’m awake, the last thing I want to do is lay there and think. Not today. Especially today.

    I headed for the bathroom acknowledging my numb around the edges self, knowing that I wouldn’t see Blackitty, and wondering whether my ugly, red, puffy eyes could actually squeeze out more tears. They felt like they wanted to. And right when I could feel the wave of grief begin to wash over me, the door nudged forward and my dog’s big golden head and soft brown eyes pushed into the space, tentatively, seeking permission. Her cold wet nose bumped against my knee and I could hear the thump of her tail against the vanity as I scratched her head to say thank you for continuing Blackitty’s routine. A very nice dog.

    So amazing.

    (more…)

  • My Heart is Broken…

    I have been fortunate to have known many lovely cats in my life. If I proceed slowly backwards, with each name I recall, I can glimpse a bit of the life I was leading when I had each one, and smile remembering what knowing them brought to me.

    Blackitty (Mr. Blaxter Blackington) & Precious (The Yack Star)…Dear, dear Holis and his friend, Miss Mew…Rocky Lou…Yeller, Jasper. Tar Baby. Spark Good Buddy. Sissy Kitty. Tuffy. Big Kitty. Boomer…and so many others.

    A few of them have been very special. They had the quiet ability to soothe when the need was there. To calm. To provide warmth and a bit of softness exactly when it was needed. Somehow they just understood that their responsibility was to share themselves unselfishly. I can think of almost nothing else that is as simple, and yet so valuable.

    I lost the dearest one today. Blackitty. The loveliest cat I’ve ever had. IMG_0971.JPG

    I knew something was wrong, but I just couldn’t bring myself to deal with it. I didn’t want to imagine how it might be to not see him each morning in the bathroom after I’d dragged myself out of bed. He’d push open the door, slink through it, rub against my legs, and then stretch his velvety body with one paw pushed against the wall.

    He didn’t do that today.

    (more…)

  • Dear Desiree…

    Tally-Ho NaBloMoPo on Day 14. So move it. Can you do it? Make it burn…on three…ready? Let’s go. Whatever. But this one will be short, because I have to do a post on my food blog today, too. I was nearly done with a post two days ago, was loading the last photo, and then…Yes. That silly message that says something about being reset so the connection was lost came up after I realized things were getting a bit slow and I suspected the inevitable was about to happen. When’s the last time you actually saw mad? You know. Like, really mad.

    November 14, 2007

    Dear Ms. Bartlett:

    I just thought I’d take a moment today to let you know you kicked my butt the other day. Seriously. I should have known better, and that’s what I get for not taking the time to do a bit of research; i.e., look before you leap. I should have channel-surfed a bit. But you looked so harmless. So sweet. It was that smile.

    I’m sure you’re far too busy for someone like me, but I’ve been trying to find ways to make sure I get regular exercise. I don’t always look forward to it, but do a fairly good job of getting in some exercise at least four days a week. But I’ve been struggling with the time change since I have a tendency to go out late in the afternoon or early evening to walk — hopefully right before the MoH gets home. One day it was completely dark by the time I’d finished, and although I sort of enjoy that, occasionally, the brush by the side of the road engages my overactive imagination and my constructive pessimistic proclivities begin to map out my defense on the chance the boogey man is hiding in the bushes and is getting ready to jump out to get me. Little does he know that I’m ready to grab the sides of his face in my palms and dig my thumbs into his eyeball sockets, knee him in the nards, and if necessary, ram his nose up into his sinus cavity with the base of my palm. Of course, a lifetime of repressed rage would most likely also be unleashed and there wouldn’t be much left of him.

    Yes. Well, um, so I had waited too long to walk and it was already dark, so I decided to take a look at the free On Demand channels on cable. I thought I’d seen something about Exercise on Demand and thought I’d give it a shot. Mind you, it was some time ago (like years) that I’d see this feature of our monthly service to Time Warner, but that’s beside the point.

    You would have been proud. I had appropriate exercise clothes on, and my tennies. Hell, even my weights were close by. I have to be honest though — I was a bit worried about my left arm since it’s been so screwed up with tendonitis. But I wasn’t going to use that as an excuse. I was going to suck it up.

    Suck dough balls was more like it.

    Sheeeeee-it. You smiled the entire time you were kicking my butt. In fact you kept telling me to smile and each time you did, I wasn’t. What’s up with the whole smiling while your tongue’s flapping around your chin? Have you ever tried to do that? But since I’m a team player, I tried, and I did learn that if I smile with my teeth, at least I can get air into my oxygen deprived lungs.

    And I did appreciate that you kept telling me that I could take a break any time I wanted. I did notice that you smiled when you said this, like it was some kind of a dare. I’ve got you all figured out, marching in place there and not losing count while you’re smiling and telling me to take it easy. And not sweating. Not a single shiny place on your body.

    Do you have any idea how hard it is to hang on to a weight when sweat’s dripping down your arms? Huh? And your your spine? Well, suffice it to say it was a veritable river headed down to my drawers. At least the RT didn’t make any comments when he walked by wondering about this latest project his mother had gotten involved in. And he didn’t laugh when I grunted, either, and I was listening.

    I know you know that I knew I’d be doomed after the warm up and before the weights because I was already toast. That you knew that I’d know those repetitions would make my muscles feel like they’d been flopped into a frying pan set on sizzle. You totally knew. And you smiled the entire time. But you also knew I’d feel like *thank gawd I’m done* successful and proud after you ran me through the wringer the routine. I know you’d know that I knew I’d know you knew. Yanno?

    So all in all, the beginner’s (ohmygawdwhatmustheregularworkoutbelike?) workout was a freakin’ killer great and because it was an interminable, exhausting only 30 minutes, I switched to a cardio salsa dancing workout that finished the job you started immediately afterward. I’ll have to thank her another time since I couldn’t see the writing on the screen with my face on the floor didn’t catch her name.

    But hey! It was so incredibly tortuous and I was so sore the next day fun, that I was thoroughly encouraged to go on my walk again, making sure I got it in before the sun went down — in the drizzling rain.

    So thanks, Desiree! The next time I need my butt royally kicked an amazing workout, I know how far and fast to run in the opposite direction you da man.

    Devotedly,

    Me

    p.s. Might you be related to Rachael Ray? Just asking. It must be the smile.

     

     

    Actually, the workout was excellent, and I was surprised that I felt as if I’d gotten more done than twice the time on a vigorous walk. I enjoy getting outside, keeping an eye on my odd neighbors in Paradise breathing, and watching the sunset, but this is something I need to do a couple of times a week. The on demand channels are an included service, and I can exercise whenever I want, which is, well, not a whole lot different that most everything else I do. So…okay. Whatever.

  • Just another Friday

    His large feet shush across the carpet toward my bed in the dim rainy day light. I can hear his hesitancy as he approaches and know he must be wondering if I’m awake, or even alive. I’m tangled in and out of covers and sheets after another restless night. It must be time for him to leave for school and he’s come to check on me since I’m not downstairs. For a second I wonder if he thinks I’ve forgotten carpool duty on my one day off.

    “Morning, Doog,” I mumble to him before he turns around to leave, trying to sound more awake than I am.

    “G’ morning, Mom,” he responds in a voice with a Friday lilt. I can sense that he has drawn closer to the edge of the bed and is standing there, most likely trying to decide just how he might give me a hug. But I’m not perched on my usual edge. Instead, I am sprawled across the middle and not quite reachable for a 15-year-old who more and more seems to find the business of hugging awkward. I find myself wanting to erase his discomfort.

    “Are you ready for school? Do you have all your things together?” I ask even though I asked last night before bed, and even earlier after his homework was complete.

    “Yes.  I’m ready.”

    “Do well on your tests today, okay?”

    “‘Kay. And I just wanted to remind you that I won’t be there to pick up after school ’cause I’m going with W,” he tells me, already headed out of the room.

    “It’s not my day, Doog. Don’t forget your book for English so you can read today,” I add unnecessarily, as that, too had been discussed last night.

    “I won’t, Mom.”

    I hear the weight of his still growing body on the stairs as he heads down, and a few muffled words with his father as he clicks the lock on the front door to leave, his backpack banging against its frame. It’s 7am and his car pool is most likely waiting outside. “Bye, Mom,” he calls.

    “Bye, Doog,” I say, never quite loud enough.

    “See-yah-later.”

    “See you later, too,” I finish.

    I wait to hear the car pull away before I drag myself from bed and shuffle down stairs to take care of the animals.

    It only takes a second to notice that he has left the book I reminded him about. It’s on the floor right where he drops his backpack each day.

    I sigh and am glad that I have resisted learning how to text message. What good would it do to remind him of what he’s forgotten unless I plan to drive the book to him? It would just remind him that he just can’t seem to get the details of school right. Besides, when it’s time for him to need his book, he’ll remember that I reminded him, and that yet again, he has forgotten. He hates it. But he also seems fairly incapable of fixing the problem.

    I head into the kitchen and tell the MoH. Annoyed, he tells me it isn’t too late to call the RT to let him know he can’t go to his friend’s after school. I make a mental note to not tattle on the RT unless it’s important, because it doesn’t solve the problem. It just sends the MoH off to work on a Friday morning with a less than buoyant attitude about his son. It all feels a bit Ward and June-ish to me.

    It isn’t that important. What is important is that he takes the time to say good morning to me before he leaves for school on a Friday.

     

    I’m left wondering when the last time was that I told him I loved him. I pick up his forgotten book and place it near his calculator which he has also not taken to school today.

    the RT

  • Hoop Jumping and Birch Swinging

    Hoop Jumping and Birch Swinging

     

    My head and heart are full.

    It isn’t that on most days they aren’t, but the sense of fullness is different today. The difference is the result of something I’ve grappled with for many years — a by product of raising my sons. The result of years of observation, interaction, angst, and tribulation coming to a conclusion milestone by sometimes painful milestone.

    My youngest finished his first year of high school today, and in a few weeks, will be 15. But he did not beat The Geometry Teacher. He received a “D” for his hoop-jumping efforts in her class. In this newly completed step toward the rest of his education, I’m left wondering so many things about what I have strongly held on to about learning and raising humans:

     Some humans are better at being trained to jump through hoops than others. In fact, some are so good at it—it’s the point of their existence. Their day revolves around how many hoops are lined up, how far apart they are, and whether each successive hoop is positioned higher than the last. Whether the person jumping next to them is quicker, or more graceful in their quest to finish first. It isn’t about what is at the end of the hoops they crave. It’s the hoops.

    Some humans are more easily missed than others. Or skipped over—like one skips a step when jogging up a flight of stairs to get to the next floor more quickly. Their non-hoop jumping idiosyncrasies are not easily understood by others, and often difficult to tolerate. They are more than capable of jumping through the hoops than many others. Many. But they don’t seem interested. What they see in the world and think about from one day to the next is difficult to know. They are quiet about much that matters, and talk about things that don’t. Hoops are not one of the things they think or talk about.

    They even bruise differently than most. They haven’t figured out how caught up in the hoop game most people are. So when a zealot moves a hoop at the last minute to trick them, it takes them a while to start the game again. They are only just beginning to understand, or,  if they do understand, have a tendency to forget that there are people on this earth who live to have power any way they can get it. It’s probably another reason that hoops don’t interest them. It’s all so petty.

    I am not a mother of hoop jumpers. And I am routinely reminded of this fact.

    I have diligently tried to raise my offspring to understand the construct of the world. But they are very content to think about, getting around to, considering, being involved, possibly participating, in life’s basic rules of engagement at their own pace. They construct their own hoops. Unfortunately, when you’re their mother, the hoops resemble hurdles. Large ones.

    It’s not supposed to matter to me that so-and-so’s daughter is in “advanced this” or AP that. Or that this person’s son was recommended for such and such. That this acquaintance has a daughter that crosses all her T’s and dots all her I’s all the time. Sometimes those same people don’t understand how hard it is has been to let my children be who they are instead of what I want them to be. What I believe they can become. It’s not supposed to matter. But it does. It always has.

    I’ve tried many years to act like not having a hoop circus at home doesn’t matter. I believe strongly that many have been duped about the educational system so many of us willingly send our children to each year. “All children can learn,” is what that system blithely professes. We have so willingly trusted that it will meet their every need beyond what we have worked to meet ourselves at home. But not every child fits into that system. It’s not supposed to matter. But it does. It always has.

    I cringe every time I realize that my nobly held philosophy could be a sham by wanting more for my boys than they seem to want for themselves. I argue with myself that I don’t really want them to care. I swear I’m not interested in wanting them to want what society expects them to want. The way society expects it. The way the system acts like it’s structured to prepare them for.

    How sad to have to admit that I want for my sons something I say I don’t believe in. I would never tell them because I have acted like a hoop jumper most of my life. And they probably figured that out a very long time ago.

    One could do worse than be a mother of non-hoop jumpers. Perhaps my boys were born knowing that life is a birch and that their job on this earth is to teach me so that I will know, too.

  • Sadness: Random Senseless Purposeless Pointlessness

    Sadness: Random Senseless Purposeless Pointlessness

     

    *February 15, 2018–Yesterday, a young man walked into a high school in Parkland, Florida and shot 17 people. Since I first wrote the angry piece below, there have been 162 school related shootings in the United States. Incidents from a pellet gun aimed at a passing school bus to  the unthinkable massacre of 20 first-grade children and six educators at Sandy Hook Elementary. I’ve not included the mass shootings which happened outside of schools–and there have been many. Clearly, no one has done anything to prevent these senseless tragedies from happening, nor do they seem to care. 

    It’s not an accident that on days like today, the newspaper is folded in a particular way when I slide it from its clear bag. The “Currents-Health” section is strategically viewed first, along with the latest piece on “Portion Patrol.” But the largest article on the page, “A sense of urgency” seems vague so I’m forced to flip it over to find information that will help me know if my indigestion is bad enough to seek assistance at the ER. This is where the publisher’s strategy of trying to cover up the main page headlines fails, because now I can see them. And even though I knew they’d be there today, they are sobering. How can they not be? And how can I not read what’s written there regardless of how sad and angry it makes me?

    Quite a long time ago, our local paper ran a dramatic and now famous photograph on its front page of a fireman carrying a small child from the rubble of a building destroyed by a monster. So many people complained about the inappropriateness of that photo being the first thing they saw that morning when they opened the paper, that now, sensitive material is always buried behind another section. Or tastefully covered, so that it can be avoided, or perhaps made more palatable after readers have had the opportunity to peruse something far more important about how granola “hangs with bad calories,” or whether that fart stuck crosswise is worth seeing a doctor about. (more…)