kellementology

life according to me

Category: Adjustments

  • The Effect of Stones and Moss on Life

    There may be an interesting change on my horizon, and as I mulled over the possibility of it while sipping my coffee this morning, I felt the urge to sift back through my writing here — all two years of it.  I’ve laughed aloud, winced, and cried all in the span of an hour, wallowing in the memories.

    At another point in my life, I’d have needed to sift through old photos kept in boxes, or read entries in dusty notebooks to gain what I’ve enjoyed today just sitting here.  Although I’ve been tempted to print the text of my accumulated posts more than once, I know it wouldn’t be the same as being able to read through them here, and to remember what mattered on a given day in February last year, or feel again the angst a particular teacher caused our family the year before.  No, the pages would end up in a box somewhere like so many other aspects of our lives we believe matter.

    Instead, I’ve decided to make private most of what I’ve written here.  I can’t give it up completely, so it seemed the best compromise.

    Change is good, isn’t it?

    We learn and grow from the decisions we make about our lives and experiences.  And you know what is said of rolling stones and moss, right?

  • My Particular Brand of Menopause.

    I’m a bit under the weather today with what seems to be a fairly nasty head cold compounded by a lack of sleep caused by the cold.  It’s a two-fold cold:  that of being sick, and that which is caused by our window which has to be open lest one of us sweat to death in the night.  Being under said weather puts me in a less than joyful mood and left to consider all the more pleasant aspects of my life — like menopause.

    Just seeing the word on the page can cause a number of reactions depending on one’s particular set of circumstances:

    1. You’re female and under 30 so menopause can’t possibly have anything to do with you.  In fact, the concept of one grey hair or chin whisker may have recently sent you to near hysteria;
    2. You’re male, and anything having to do with the female body that isn’t about cleavage, thighs, or hot sex may as well be written in a language unknown to man.  That would be a male, and not mankind in general;
    3. You’re a menopausal woman and because you’re on a first name basis with menopause, reading about it most likely isn’t the first item of the day with your usual Venti Soy Decaf Latte, thank you very much; or
    4. You’re married to a menopausal woman and unlike awaiting the bouncing bundle of joy which is the result of a healthy pregnancy, you suspect absolutely nothing that cute could possibly come of this.

    From time to time, I Google menopause just to see what comes up and it’s dismal.  I suppose this behavior makes me Glutton for Punishment’s poster child, but it seems to be part of my two-year and counting adjustment to aging.  Most of the initial hits are for sites selling or promoting HRT drugs.  The others are large medical sites like the Mayo Clinic and WebMD and although basic information can be found on all of these sites, they essentially say the same thing:  hot flashes are normal; we’re at greater risk for joint pain and osteoporosis; our skin will become more dry and less elastic; our midsections will increase in size; our muscles begin to disappear, our hair will thin in some places and grow in others less desirable; we will have difficulty with our teeth and gums; and most importantly — we will be at far greater risk for heart disease.

    The good news is that regular exercise, improved diet, and reduced stress can lessen the effects of all of the above.  By all means, let the happy dancing begin.

    (more…)

  • And so I begin again.

     

    In the last many days, I’ve had time to think about this space in my life and its accumulation of nearly two years of what passes for me these days — me in writing, that is.  Whenever I run through the archives and skim the content,  so many thoughts come to mind about when the piece was written — the season, the weather on a given day, what I was preoccupied with or annoyed about.  It’s been more and more difficult to write here and so the frequency has decreased and I’ve found myself adjusting to that, but not particularly enjoying it.  I’ve taken the time on my occasional walks to make mental plans where I’d whip myself into writerly shape working on one project at this point in the day and another later on, somehow fitting it all in.

    The implementation lasted one day.

    One.

    I’d decided to do some admin work related to my sites and busied myself in all that it entails, which is a lot when one might consider that I currently qualify for the old dog aspect of the whole can’t teach new tricks classification.  Bound and determined to prove it wrong, I spent ridiculous amounts of time reading codex and phoning and thinking and whining to get everything moved and it just never worked.

    With every piece I had nearly worked out, another arose and on a computer screen it looks like two window open with several tabs to access in each one.  My head spun with angst over root directories and files, php and FTPs, domains and DNS.  Having much experience in the area of reading research, I can tell you that when content is dense, even proficient readers default to subvocalizing in order to digest and comprehend new information.  It helps — but only if one is also willing to repeat the process over and over with little or no distraction.

    Ahem.

    I Twittered much.  I wallowed in Bubble Bazinganess.  I bonded with Facebook finally, and satisfied my creative spirit cooking, shooting photos of what I’d cooked, editing those photos, and then finally writing about what I’d cooked.  *insert note regarding food obsession here* It only fills the hours, but it never quite fills the spot that this space fills and the longer it was unavailable to me, the more I realized that although I could live without it, I just didn’t want to.

    I thought about people who have lost posessions in a fire, or who have had property vandalized.  I morbidly recalled my trauma induced by the loss of my hard drive on my beloved MacBook and all the glorious photos of our trip to the UK and several years of my son’s boyhood.   I conjured up all the images of loss I could to add to my incessant mulling over of not having this space because I may have been careless.  And if I had, nothing could be done other than start again, because that’s what I do.  I’m good at it.

    So that’s what I was ready to do this morning when I sat down.  Start again.

    And metaphorically, that’s what I’ve decided to say I’ve done, because clearly my archives are in order and everything is up and running.  But I have perspective I didn’t have a week or so ago and need to put it to good use.

    It seemed appropriate to make a few visual changes to celebrate moving on with new purpose.

    Ahhh……

    If it’s not broken, don’t fix it.

    Be satisfied with what you have.

    Every cloud has a silver lining.

    Dude, make it a double.  That was a close call.

  • Home for the Holidays

    It’s been quite a lot of work, and has taken all the patience I’ve ever had — okay, so maybe not counting pregnancy — but the work on our house is done.

    Happy Holidays

    For the past week, I’ve been fixing and cleaning and enjoying the new look just long enough to put off that not only did I need to sort through the mountain of stuff in the garage, but also pull out all the holiday trappings.

    My sister and her family are coming to spend the holidays with us this year, so I’ve also had to venture into my son’s area and sort of detox.  Good thing there’s new carpet and paint, right?

    So welcome to our home and Happy Holidays!

    Ahhh…no more barf stains from the cat. Nice.

    And then there’s that area that the pets used to love to deposit their *ahem* on. It was beyond gross. But no more. Bwahahahahha!
    And then there’s the powder room down there.   Just a tad different…

    So nice not to have the carpet. Love the wood. Love it.  And there’s still a rug for the ani-mules to lay on when the sun shines through the skylight.

    Not missing the ugly fireplace at all. Can’t imagine why.

    And I’m loving the new dark, dark red wall in the family room and my kitchen — and a freshly painted ceiling with no remnants of where I started to paint three years ago and then pooped out.

    Not quite a perfect reason for not writing here, but nearly. I can blame the rest of my time on that food blog. I definitely have to get my priorities in order for the new year so that I can get back to writing about something other than food. For those of you who stop by and still read, I appreciate it quite a bit.

    Thanks for not giving up on me — yet.

    Here’s to you and yours. Have a lovely holiday.

  • Dust, Old Things & Memories

    Somehow when we started all of this construction business, I figured it would be fun to post the ups and downs of going through the mess I know is involved.  Best laid plans.  What seemed like forever was really only about six weeks, so I should have been able to write about some of it, but it’s not like we were renovating the Taj Mahal.

    I guess putting up with this most recent mess isn’t such a bad way to live if in the process I can once again discover the joys of good housekeeping.  *insert loud snorting and guffawing here* But I tell you, the old body just isn’t what it used to be.  Hauling furniture up and down the stairs may sound like a great idea for working the glutes, but I pay for whatever gain I may get with excruciating pain in my arms.  Imagine a hot pole being stabbed through your arm every few seconds if you type, or cook, or grip anything.  Lovely.  I am seriously good at sucking it up, however.  I come from a very long line of women who just grin and bear it.  Imagine the badges we’ll get when we reach those pearly gates.

    But I am enjoying putting things back in order.  Having to look at all of it in dusty piles and eliminating a few places I used for storage has forced me to reconsider some of my possessions.  If I actually knew how to use eBay and didn’t mind mailing things, I’d have a roaring business ahead of me, but it’s more challenging than that.

    When I look at many of my things, I can’t say they have any but sentimental value.  For the most part, they remind me of times in my life that were filled with hope and some dreams that never quite came to fruition.  When I look at them, I smile, remember, and know that it’s fine that none of it happened, but stuffing it all in a box to sit in the garage doesn’t seem right.  So I’m sorting through it all and wondering what stays and what goes.  What matters and what doesn’t.

    What matches…

    Because when you get right down to it, if I don’t think it matches, it’s outta here.  Well, maybe not quite that harshly.  There’s more of a routine that goes something like this:

    1)  Move the item to a spot where it’s less noticeable — like the office upstairs.  It’s the “I love it, but there’s no place to put it” graveyard.  Nobody ventures up to the land of the Resident Teen but us, so I can put my items up there to sit for a while.  A long while.

    2)  After I’ve given the item all the love and attention it’s going to get, and the layer of dust on it makes it appear somewhat like a chia pet, it goes in a box that’s headed for the closet. Any closet will do.  It’s still in the house, and maybe comes out at certain times of the year — maybe —  but clearly, things aren’t looking good for it.

    3)  Once the box is full, it’s moved down to the garage to sit along side other similar boxes.  When I walk by the boxes, I’m reminded how much I liked those items, and oh aren’t they cute and I should go through them to decide what will stay and what will go.  Later.  Much later.

    4)  When we get tired of not being able to park both of our cars in the garage and actually clean it, I sort through the items, keep a few for old time’s sake and donate the rest.

    The time is seriously now for one of those donations.  I will wave lovingly from the garage as the truck pulls away with my memories hoping they will find a new home.

    *sigh*

  • Construction and Ugly Cookies

     

    I’m exhausted, and I’m always surprised when I realize it.  Like someone who doesn’t spend 12 hours a day at the office shouldn’t be tired — ever.  So not only am I exhausted, I’m annoyed that I’m exhausted.

    It’s pretty pathetic.  No, I’m pathetic.

    To give myself half a break today, I’m looking at the disaster area that used to be my house, realizing that my black mood is most likely the result of construction that isn’t due to conclude for another two weeks — well, and deciding to engage in nearly two weeks of baking and writing about cookies.  What in hell was I thinking?

    It’s always exciting when construction begins, but I’ve been through it twice before, so know that it gets stressful. I should know better, but the last two times, I was out of the house all day and didn’t have to watch and worry.  As nice as it is to be able to see all the changes happening each day, it’s not pleasant to see all the kinks in the plans, as well.  Add this additional cost to that additional cost, and the persistent drone from the talking heads on the television about the nation’s economic woes only makes it worse.  This morning I wanted to pull the covers over my head, wish the crew could let themselves in, and let them work as if I didn’t exist — which would be a bit strange considering the lump I’d make on the bed sitting in the middle of an empty room.

    Our room is the only one in the house that’s nearly empty.  The others have all had our possessions shoved into them and smaller items perched on top, stacked in ways I’d never have attempted in any other situation.  We’ve been lucky that only one thing has been broken, and it wasn’t valuable from a monetary sense, but did have some pleasant memories attached to it.

    There’s dust everywhere.  Even though plastic sheets are draped from time to time, it seems not to matter because the garage door is open, and the constant breeze through the house just distributes the particles everywhere.  In the beginning, I tried to vacuum at the end of each day in the small area where we can actually move around, but have given that up since I’ve run out of space to set things that weren’t packed.  I have dishes that have survived more than 100 years sitting in the middle of my family room.  As I stare at them, I wonder what I’m going to do with them.  Even if I purchased more boxes, there’s no more room in the garage to put anything.  And next week, the painters come.

    Being the foodie I am, you’d think that sitting in front of my Mac tending to my food blog and cooking to my heart’s content would keep me happily occupied, wouldn’t you?  And it should, but at this point, I’m tired of that, too.  In fact, I’m so tired of it, I’m questioning why I’m doing it — and not just the cookie making.  Somewhere along the line, it has consumed my entire life and I make time for little else.  Like I said — pathetic.

    All I want to do is clean my house.  I want to organize the piles and go through boxes and stacks.  I’m supposed to be choosing hardware for the doors and stair rails, but I’m not.  I should be tossing things we don’t need, and organizing yet another donation of items we no longer use, but can’t.  There’s no space to do it in.

    Taking a shower is a pain, and putting on makeup or doing anything with my hair involves squeezing into a little space in front of my mirror in between the cat food tray and litter box, so I don’t.  But when I have to, there are usually strange men walking back and forth and it’s not that comfortable acting like I don’t care if they can see me putting on my eyebrows or peering at the wrinkles under my eyes in my magnifying mirror.  But who cares, right?

    And the scariest part of all of this — Christmas is how many days away?  I can’t even imagine how I’m going to pull that off.  But I’ll try, and it will be great *whips superficial happy face from back pocket.* If one or two — okay, so maybe three bad days in the course of this is all I’ll have, then I guess that’s not too horrible.

    I just wish the intensity wouldn’t build up in me like it does, surprising me when I should come to expect it.

    And when it finally wraps its ugly coils around my throat, I don’t want to have to squelch my anger, or feel guilty over it and have to go into my “count my blessings” mode.  I don’t want to have a little heart to heart with myself about how nice it’s going to be when it’s all finished, or be thankful for what we have because we’re so fortunate, because I’ve already done that.  I do that every single day.  Relentlessly. It doesn’t erase the upwelling of ugliness that permeates every pore in my skin, and so I give in to it.

    What I do want is to take a hot bath.  I want bubbles, and candles, and wine with that bath, please, and a book that almost reads itself.  Just one bath.  That’s all.

    Maybe then, my mood could possibly improve to grey with chances of silver linings.

    But writing it here helps, and eating five or six of the ugliest cookies I’ve ever seen.

    Okay, so, maybe only sort of ugly.

    But ugly.

  • My Non-Fickle Car Life in Hondas

    This morning, someone on CNBC made a comment about American car customers being fickle.  I didn’t recognize him, and that doesn’t really matter.  Sometimes, I think the talking heads that flash on and off the television don’t know what comes out of their mouths most of the time, running a bit like someone who is in the throes of intestinal distress and searching for a bathroom.

    I immediately disagreed, knowing I would fail to qualify for fickleness.  I’ve had a love affair with Hondas since 1975 when I purchased a brand spanking new Civic hatchback with a “Hondamatic” transmission.  I was 19 years old.  I loved that car and the responsibility of making my $84.75 monthly payment.  I think it was the first time I actually began to feel like an adult with something that belonged specifically to me.

    There was a period where I was Honda-less, though.  I had a Jeep CJ-5 before Chrysler or whomever bought the company turned them into something that only looked like a Jeep.  It was fun for a while.  I learned how to drive a stick, let some air out of the over-sized tires and blast up the side of a giant sand dune — my hair bandana flapping in the hot breeze, my bikini clad skin darkening by the minute.

    I never quite fit the role of desert rat I was introduced to by my first husband, but it was what lured me away from Hondas for a few years.  I could talk about things like leaf springs, and 4-wheel drive traction.  I slept in a tiny tent in desolate areas, and drove around without doors attached to the side of my Jeep on warm days.  I visited shops that smelled of grease and sparkled with chrome rims and exhaust pipes.  I also spent time stuck in the middle of nowhere with flat tires, cracked radiators, and broken u-joints.  That’s what happens when a vehicle purchased for everyday use is thrashed about on days off and vacations.  The two don’t exactly mix.

    It was interesting while it lasted, but I sadly divorced the Jeep.  The radiator fan finally spinning off its track, I left it in a parking lot where a customer asked if he could buy it for his son.  I said yes, and watched as one of the more interesting parts of my life was towed away, its new teen-aged owner grinning ear to ear, leaving me with mixed memories.

    And then I bought another Honda.

    At that point, my two older boys were about five and six, and because the four-door gently used Civic made a strange noise when it was in high gear and reaching a particular speed, we named it the ST, for “Silver Tornado.”  It served quite a few important years getting me to and from work,  to SDSU to finish my abandoned degree, and my boys to and from school, and visits with their dad.  I have warm memories of our very own type of “car talk” revolving around the world they viewed from their backseat positions:  trees, hills, clouds…and water towers.  When I think of the topics now, they’re all that can be seen when you’re a small human seatbelted deep into a car.  Such very cute little boys.

    I miss them now that they’re grown.

    After I finished my credentialing program and the MoH and I married, we were able to leave behind our string of cheap apartments and purchase a condominium, creating a new home for our composite family.  Having a good monthly salary instead of the once a week check I squeezed while in school soon allowed me to donate the old ST to the local high school auto shop, and purchase a shiny new teal Honda Accord with a luxurious creamy interior and automatic windows.  Automatic transmission.  A moon roof.

    I thought I’d arrived.

    Although my two older boys had many years in that Honda, too, it quickly became the RT’s car.  His place to drip milk from his car seat, and then drop French fries from Happy Meals in cracks where I’d find them petrified weeks later.  His car to sit in more quietly since his brothers were so much older and often not in the car with him.  His space to have books and cars, rocks, and odd seeds he’d collect at school, calling them army men.  The creamy upholstery slowly began to age, the relentless sun in Paradise scorching it to the point where it would soon tear.

    So with a mere 11,500 miles on its not quite 10 year old engine, I sold it to one of my son’s friends and bought another Honda:  an Acura 3.2 TL which still sits in my driveway today.

    The plan was to give it to the RT when he was old enough to drive, and although that time is rapidly approaching, I’m not quite ready to give up my car.  Yes, there are dings in the sides of it from careless people in parking lots and students slinging backpacks over their shoulders in a hurry to get home.  The carpet is beginning to wear in spots as well.  I tire of the dust showing more quickly than it would on a lighter color, but I like it.  I like the idea that its reliability and comfort holds the remaining couple of years of driving my youngest here and there — he with his iPod earbuds in, me forgetting that when I want him to notice something out the window, forcing him to politely pull them out of his ears to listen to his mother.

    No, I think I’ll hold on to this the last of my Hondas.  It has a few more memories left in it.

    And then I’ll talk the MoH into one.

    April 10, 2012 — I am now the owner of a light blue MINI Cooper with a white top and the Acura I enjoyed for so many years now resides with the MoH’s parents who I hope are enjoying its comfortable ride.  I have to say driving the MINI does remind me a bit of tooling around in my first little Honda Civic — the small one with the hatchback.  I suppose this makes me fickle, but I’d say that considering 34 of the 38 years I’ve been driving I’ve owned a Honda, I can’t be too fickle.

  • Oh Look. Writing.

    Somehow, all the time I used to look forward to — all the time I spent thinking about what I might write here is gone.  The unfortunate aspect of this is that the writing voice I hear during the day has faded, its insistent prodding, its litany of opening lines, and reminders of possible topics have been pushed aside by life.  And what a small life it is.

    Sounds dramatic, doesn’t it?

    It should be, but I don’t have the time right now to make it that way.  Too much dust and food, and excuses.  It isn’t that I don’t want to write here.  Honestly.  It’s more about the type of writer I am.

    I have to use a food analogy.  Sorry.

    If you turn the burner on low and let the water simmer, then turn up the heat as the water approaches the boil, then that would be me.  There’s no turning me on high and cutting to the chase.  I could do that if I wanted, but what’s the point?

    Writing is a catharsis for me and if I can’t spend the time, then the words stay in my mind.  And I’m egotistical enough to know that once I’ve formed the perfect line of words to convey the just right thought, they’ll be forgotten unless I write them down.  It’s sad.

    I do get credit for:

    1) working on a cookbook for a friend which entailed making most of the recipes and snapping photos, right?

    2) spending more time than I wanted –surprisingly — looking at products for our home renovation.

    3)  getting ready to visit several blogging friends for a week!

    4)  having to reposition myself in my home while contractors tear it to shreds and dust settles on every possible surface.

    Excuses.

    Sad, because so much has happened that I have thoughts about — some lovely, and others, not so much.  And all of which would have been written at one point in time.  But no.  And it’s horrible.

    The other problem is, even if I write here, everyone has either left the building, or has stopped writing, their bloggy wonderfulness seemingly forever ended, their words and photos, just sitting, no longer collecting comments.  *sigh*

    What to do?

    Sign up for that writing class at UCSD extension so I’ll actually write?  Continue to wallow through this strange new life of mine?

    What?

  • Alive, Exercising, and So Not on Main Street

    Well, hello.  Remember me?  I’m the one who used to write here quite regularly.  I’m never quite sure how it gets to be Tuesday after it seems that Thursday was just yesterday, but that’s how it goes.

    I think I’ve figured out that if I had a way to hang on to my thoughts while I was out walking, or putzing around during the day, I’d have no problem sitting here and downloading them.  But the time passes, and then whatever I thought was so pithy has evaporated.  You know, kind of like that bailout the House was trying to get passed?

    I could spend all kinds of time writing about that, but everyone else seems to be handling that quite well.  I’m sure my opinions aren’t needed.

    I did notice on my walk this morning, that everyone seems to be sharing theirs, however.  No matter whom I passed, I heard comments regarding “credit,” or “Wall St.” and the beyond annoying “Main St.” reference that is supposed to be us, I guess.  You know.  Average Joes?   This isn’t Kansas, and I don’t live on Main Street.  In fact, does anyone any longer?  I just want to yell, “Snapoutofit!” to all the talking heads.  Ugh.

    What a train wreck.

    Instead of getting up at the crack of dawn to walk this week, I’ve been trying to think about wondering if I might possibly consider attempting to somewhat establish a new routine.  The old routine, walking with my VBF, has been an excellent one that has lasted fairly well for more than two years now.  But she’s quite the busy person, and her appointments have been getting earlier and earlier.  How sad is that?

     

    Clouds at Dawn

    Although neither one of us is too thrilled with the idea of getting up to exercise that early,  it gets it over with and I know I feel good about that.  Plus, I can have bed head hair and clothes that I wouldn’t be caught dead in at any other time of day, unless you count that I leave them on the rest of the day.  Let’s call it conserving water, shall we?

    So today, after I dropped my carpool charges off at school, I continued down the street to park and try my routine near the beach.  Sounds motivational, doesn’t it?  The goal here would be to do this twice a week so I wouldn’t have to think about it.  I’m in the car already, so why not?
    Early Morning Beach

    It goes something like this:

    I park at the beginning of my route, walk about 20 minutes in one direction, then turn around and go back.  Allowing for issues such as feet that ache, a shin that stings, and a butt muscle that is mysteriously aching, the entire effort takes 40 minutes — about the time it takes my friend and I to complete our route.

    I can’t figure out what the aches were all about today, because I haven’t had those problems for quite some time.  Walking by myself has never been a thrill a minute, so who knows.  Maybe I wasn’t walking as fast as my friend and I walk.  Her dog usually drags her on the leash, and that keeps us hopping.  But, we do have some hills that have me gasping for breath and I didn’t have to deal with anything like that today.  Maybe I just feel like complaining.  Wonder of all wonders.
    Waves at Wind-n-Sea

    The nice part about this route is the beauty.  The sun still hadn’t made it over Mt. Soledad, so the beach was cast in shadows.  Here and there, as the sun rose, the light shot through the side streets, coloring the water as it pushed up onto the sand. Very nice.   It looked like there would be blue skies forever today — so different from yesterday’s unusual thunder and pathetic sprinkle of rain.

    A thrill a minute, everyone.

    Totally.

    Now, I only have about five more days of the week to fill with exercise.  I can’t tell you how unexcited I am by this prospect.

    It challenges watching dirt cover the ground.

  • School Underway and All Systems Go…so far.

    With the first week of school under our belt, life should settle into a comfortable, but relentless pace.  Sounds dramatic, even if it isn’t wholly accurate.  Suffice it to say it should be relentless for the RTR and I, who are most comfortable in our house potato state.

    We prefer to characterize ourselves as easily entertained.  Simply entertained?  Okay, how about low maintenance in the entertainment department.

    The junior year in high school blew in for my youngest this past week, and with it the expectations of a cool 150 pages of U.S. History and exam each week, and a studio art class that will, by the end of the year, allow him to produce a portfolio that is quite the humdinger.  There’s a project due every Friday and with the supplies and studio fee, the MoH’s plastic is about $375 heavier.  Unbelievable.

    The decision to take Statistics instead of Calculus seems to be working — sure there’s homework every night, too, but it’s the “easy” class and he gets that done first.  Physics fits in here somewhere, but I haven’t figured that out yet.  The English teacher seems to be nowhere in sight.  AGAIN.  I know that this recurring theme is some perverse punishment meant solely for me — dedicated English teacher and passionate writing teacher that I once was.

    The English teacher is the only one of his teachers that didn’t send home a syllabus.  I’ve never figured out how that’s even ethical…  Okay, so, here’s my kid for a year.  Teach him, but I don’t need to know anything about any of your plans because I’m just supposed to trust that you’re a professional, because you know, all teachers are professionals and have the exact same practices, right?  And that when my kid begins to show signs of faltering, and he will, trust me, that we will have absolutely nothing to go on to pitch in and support him like we know you expect us to, or we’ll be forever known as slacker parents, which wouldn’t be true, but you’d think it anyways.

    You can tell I’m pretty much over school right?

    Between my own education, my career, my boys education…I dunno.  I think I gave at the office.  But I think I’m going to enjoy my job as Chief Buttress in the History and Art departments this year.

    Ah, yep.