kellementology

life according to me

Category: Celebration

  • The Fat Lady is Singing

     Sorry for the inconvenience, but if you’d like to comment, please click on the post title…I’m in the process of changing themes…

    Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I heard the fat lady sing tonight. You know. Right when Bill and his Patriots lost.

    Such a bummer. Trick.

    Even more of a bummer because the MoH was in the running for quite the payout from his suicide football pool for the season.

    I sort of told him that he needed to pay attention to the whole karma thing.

    But it was a tad difficult since those of us in Paradise don’t think too much of Eli Manning and his superior attitude.

    Maybe the outcome was just the lesser of two evils.

    Like I said.

    Cheaters never prosper, Bill.

    I did notice he changed his sweatshirt, though.

    I say it was a bad move on his part to wear that red thing.

    Early celebration of game and all.

    Okay, so next sports stop is March Madness.

    I can’t wait.

    Not.

  • San Diego Chargers WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    Legal Celebration of Game!

    In spite of completely ROTTEN refs and Peyton Commercial King Manning, the Sunshine Boys have won. Without L.T. and without their first string quarterback.

    Clearly, the MoH and the RTR are not very happy…Bwahahahahahaha!

    Of course the carnage on the field is allowing the New Cheating England Patriots some glee in anticipation of their supposed perfect season and Super Bowl win.

    But.

    The fat lady has not yet begun to sing.

    Just wait.

    Cheaters never win, Bill.

  • Smile.

    The head has cleared, my throat no longer feels like the tunnel of death, and I can sort of tell that there are things on Earth that don’t smell like s*ot.  Sorry.  I just can’t spell it.  It’s disgusting.

    But I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to say Happy New Year to you all.  I tried to make it around to your blogs and hope I didn’t forget anyone.  Well, it’s not exactly like Santa trying to get around to all the giftees in the world, you know.  But still.

    It was nice “seeing” you again and reading about what you’ve been up to even if the MoH is now in bed, I’m up alone, the T.V. that Best Buy has still not delivered parts on is blaring, the RT is snuggled in his bottom bunk unfortunately not as much on the mend as I, and well…

    …I’m not sleepy.

    Must have been all that decadent lounging on the sofa and in bed for two days with Kleenex sticking out of my nose.

    Hopefully you’re smiling.  And if I can wish anything for you, it’s that.  That you’ll smile as you head into 2008, believing that good will happen when you least expect it.

    Imagine what could happen if you did expect it.

    See you soon.

  • Game Day Attire Has to be Matching

    Ready for some Foot.Ball. It’s 10:03 am and the first stream of game day monologue has been uttered downstairs. “Okay. It’s time. Let’s go.” And a more quiet, less assertive mumble that seems to have had something to do with the kick off.

    But the MoH’s ready. He had his official jersey pulled over his ancient Eddie Bauer waffle weave tee.

    And the Gap jammies Santa gave to him a few years ago.

    It’s currently 47 degrees F in Paradise on this Sunday morning after a few days of semi bracing rain.

    And we are reh-dee-4-sum-FOOT.BALLLLLLLLLLL.

    “INTERCEPTED! Antonio Gates. Ninth interception this year. OH! MY! Don’t throw it to that side of the field. Don’t throw it…”

    I guess it’s safe to go down there and read the Sunday paper in happy sports land. It’ must be his matching game day attire.

    “They’re just gonna run a freakin’ blitz until you guys do something different. COMEON!”

    Well, maybe not.

    “ComeON. When are you gonna play like a professional quarter back. Pull your head outta your butt.”

    Phil Rivers should heed the MoH’s advice.

    The Chargers should know about the dedication of this particular fan.

    And his game day suit. Matching Attire

  • If I wish it…

    I love December. I’m sure you’re thinking it’s made easier because I’ve never had to deal with snow and sludge, freezing temperatures and pipes that burst. Those things are rarely experienced in places like San Diego, Key West and the south of Spain. But living as I have in the warmer climes my entire life has only my heart grow fonder.

    And speaking of hearts, mine is wired for anything that can be even remotely construed as hopelessly romantic — Jane Austin, The Goodbye Girl, Sleepless in Seattle, Harry Nilhsson’s “Without You”, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese…Dorothy and Toto…I can’t help it.
    Oddly, all my loveliest swoonable memories can be traced back to December. The MoH and I became inextricably involved in December of 1987. For me, it was almost as painful as an unrequited crush in junior high. Thankfully, my life with the MoH has had a lovely outcome — one that has endured 20 years.

    I get sappy when I hear certain songs and have warm memories of going to movies, or sitting on the same side of the table in tacky restaurants sipping margaritas and holding hands. Doing crossword puzzles, taking long walks, and window shopping in malls filled our spare time because they were free and neither of us had any money.

    We also wrote love letters to one another.

    I still have them, and get a bit squirmy thinking of the pages that are raw with emotion. It’s a wonder they’ve survived me, always on the verge of ridding myself of anything that could be classified as embarassing to myself. But I tuck them away each time I happen across them, glad that they mark a time that mattered so much. Some day, they’ll belong to the RT so he can be mortified that his parents felt the way they do about one another.

    When I first knew the MoH, I remember my understandably horrified mother questioning the extent to which I might be in love with “that boy” one night while I was ironing in her house where I was living with my two older boys, not quite 5 and 6. The MoH is nearly seven years younger than I, but no, I wouldn’t have classified him as a boy.

    And I did fancy myself in love with him.

    Still. IMG_4995.JPG We can’t help ourselves.

    It has made all the difference.

    It’s called perspective. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

  • The End of NaBloPoMo: The Heidi Chronicles

    So I’m officially a NaBloPoMo failure. I figured I would be when I never realized in the beginning that Thanksgiving was actually in November…whatever. But I was rolling along, and then when Wednesday hit and I was up until after midnight (looking longingly at the clock watching that minute hand creeping ever closer to the magic hour which would cast me into the ranks of blogging quitters and thinking that I could run upstairs and just squeeze out a fake post to keep in the game….)

    But NO.

    I let my faithful followers down. My NaBloPoMo compatriots. *heavy sigh*

    I was too tired. I was whipped. I was everything but perky in the waning hours of the day, sitting in my chair, enjoying the wafting scent of spiced candles and final bottle glass of wine before retiring for the night. Staring at a chic flick I’ve seen a million times so I wouldn’t dream of scanning lists of ingredients in recipes, and filling small white porcelain dishes for mise en place or whatever the heck that’s called. Watching the time evaporate, ending my quest for NaBloPoMo fame.

    It just wouldn’t be a class act to slam out a crappy post at 11:57pm.

    But the dinner tables (yes, that’s an “s” on the end of tables) were set, the flowers arranged and the candles organized just so. The old linen napkins were lightly starched and softly folded.

    The  Primo Seats

    The  Not so Primo Seats

    Nary a cat yack stain was visible. Well, maybe one because Freshness, Her Royal Butterballness Barf-o-rama on wheels in disguise did summarily regurgitate her afternoon snack upon my freshly cleaned carpet. Just. Once. To let me know she was still in control of my destiny.

    Dumb ass cat. Lovely pet that she is.

    Blackness & Presh-Ass, The Yack Star

    But I digress.

    We fell into bed for a night of tumultous passion exhausted sleep (we, because the MoH seriously pitches in during the holidays, lovely man unit that he is) with windows open (yes, in Paradise, we’ve still not shut our windows for the winter) and covers nicely fluffed.

    Paradise:  Overcast, but warm.

    Ready to begin again at seven-freaking-ay-em the next day.

    But there was plenty of bubbly on hand throughout the day for mimosas and champagne cocktails, or just a plain glass o’ bubbly.

    Thank. Goodness.

    And thank Mr. and Mrs. Diestel who grow turkeys somewhere in the Sierra Nevadas for our lovely bird whom I immediately named Heidi when I saw her cozied up in that little box all tricked out with handles.

    Heidi the Turkey

    She performed well on the day most revered by this foodie — the super bowl of Food.

    Oh. My.

    If there was ever a question that a bird should be ordered by phone ahead of time, fresh-not-frozen, heavily discounted because your son works there WOOT!, artfully brined, and lovingly basted each half hour by the MoH, this was it.

    Simply droolworthy.

    And the guests were jolly, filled to the gills with the tasty fare.

    The highlight of the evening was the iChat session with family in VA which broke into a bawdy session of, well, you’d have to know my family to understand. Suffice it to say that we all seem to have a fixation with the posterior portion of the human anatomy and it’s only a matter of time before a parade of buttocks fill the screen. I do think it must have something to do with not having a proper number of opportunities to share on Show ‘n’ Tell day in kindergarten. Thank goodness for the Internet and family members who are only a sign-in away. We aren’t for the faint of heart.

    The VA iChat Visitors

    They sort of resemble that Chumbawumba album cover, don’t they?

    But the sink backed up, we ran out of counterspace, and I believe there was not a dish in my kitchen left unused. The stacks of dishes and pots, bowls and platters, wine glasses and utensils riveled Dr. Seuss’ buildings in Whoville.

    But I survived.

    Barely.

    Sorry I haven’t been by to visit…I have serious catching up to do, and tagging to unleash on unsuspecting neighbors in Bloggsville. Be warned.

    Life is grand, isn’t it?

  • Letters do get answered, and my gratitude runneth over…

    You have to appreciate those who seem to have a grasp of where they fit into this whole NaBloPoMo thing. Me? I’m just a lemming. And today, I’m a late one. TOTALLY. It’s 11:09 am and I was supposed to be at the grocery store already, and cooking. I’m making tons of stuff this weekend, and none of it is in preparation for Thanksgiving. So, these posts are doomed to impending sketchiness. I know. When pigs fly.

    November 16, 2007

    Dear My Most Esteemed Colleagues in Bloggsville,

    Today I find myself humbled by so many recent gestures of kindness, I have to take time to state my appreciation here, blowing kisses all the while, and blushing on cue. But before I get started, please know that I am so completely FREAKING late getting my day started, I’m going to be TOTALLY screwed if I don’t slam my thanks out with far fewer words than I normally use. For those of you who just wiped your brows, I saw you and I know where you live.

    So, first up: If you missed my letter a couple of days ago to Desiree Bartlett, snooze you lose. BECAUSE SHE COMMENTED ON MY POST AND SHE IS SERIOUSLY COOL FOR DOING THAT! She made my day, and I’m already rallying the troops for a fan club so I can be the president. Line forms to the left for those of you who want to get your sedentary butts kicked by a lovely and professional stealth butt kicker. Redeem yourself now, and read the post. Thanks, Desiree. I heart you!

    Smile Award

    Second: Dah-link Olga, The Traveling Bra has bestowed upon me the “You Make Me Smile” award which means quite a bit. I know how it feels when I’m reading someone’s blog, and I realize I’m grinning ear to ear. It makes my day, and continues to leave me marveling over the unique community that is Bloggsville. *sigh* Thanks, Olga. When are you coming to visit me? I will pay this forward. But not today. I PROMISE!

    And while I’m on the subject of awards, Dawn, blogger extraordinaire, of Twisted Sister has dubbed me true to myself and that I AM my blog, and therefore deserving of “Be the Blog” recognition. This deserves an entire post, too, because I have much to say (as you all know) about this passion for blogging I’ve developed. So thank you, Dawn. Letter coming…

    Be.The.Blog Award

    Third: Marie of A Year at Oak Cottage, a fellow Daring Baker, hosted a cooking event in which I won a prize for my SoCal Sarnie. She was gracious enough to actually send me a lovely present for my success, which was so nice! She has the most amazing job in a beautiful place. I am currently living vicariously through her and loving every single minute of it. Thank you so much, Marie, for the inspiration you provide me. Oh, that I could spend a year in England.

    IMG_4725.JPG

    Fourth: I have many friends who are still actively involved in the position I left a year ago. I made lunch for one friend and took it to share with her at her office the other day. Not only did we get to gossip wildly about what has changed since I left visit and plan a dinner party for tomorrow night at her knock down gorgeous home, she gave me a belated birthday present which is quite lovely. Does she know that she could have skipped the cologne and just given me the cute bag and box? I’m a complete and total sucker for simple, elegant design in creme and black. So chic…But the cologne is simply divine. I’ll be the best smelling jammy hound around.

    IMG_4721.JPG

    And not least: My VBF gave me a gift certificate to my favorite nursery perched in a habanero plant (whose peppers I’ve now used in one luscious marinated steak recipe and have dried the rest for later use), and I finally went shopping. Nothing like celebrating my birthday a couple of months later, right? So VBF, I now have a lovely grapevine wreath for my front door that I wrapped with holiday ribbon, some new bedding plants (including a chocolate smelling plant!), a new ceramic pot for my kitchen, now graced with a kalanchoe,  a nice bag of potting moss for my orchids (two are blooming WOOT!), and 8 paper white bulbs to force.

    .IMG_4724.JPG

    I had so much fun choosing my gifts, and thank you very much. It was misting outside that day, making the experience so pleasant.

    I do hope you know how special you all are. My time with you is well spent, and always enjoyable. Thank you so much for what you bring to my life.

    Fondly,

    Me

    p.s. So now it’s like 12:04 and I am way late on my list of To Do’s for the day. But stay tuned, because I’m going to try and broadcast a cooking thing on ustream.tv on Sunday. I’ll let you know tomorrow if I get it up and running…

  • Vegas a week later…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    But it’s fun.

  • Thoughtfully synthesizing statistics, dreams, and spiders

    As another month draws to a close, I am left wondering why, oh why this particular post has been viewed so many times this month. As of two minutes ago, it has been “viewed” 1,004 times. When I scan down the statistics presented about this site to the key phrases and words used for searching, “spider” is far and away the greatest one that this site is connected with. At one point or another, someone was looking for information about spiders, photos of spiders, ground spiders, pictures of spiders, etc… You get the idea. Spiders. Nine-hundred-thirty-three times. It has to be the time of year. People see their webs, their gorgeous plump orange bodies and want to know if the creature will eat their Yorkshire Terrier. People are curious.

    So back to my stats — of course I know that “viewed” doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve actually visited my page. But I have accumulated nearly 2,000 unique visitors this month — nearly 300 more than last month. I’m not sure why. Perhaps people are simply trying to figure out what to do about those short hairs. But if they have viewed that post, I doubt they stopped long enough read what I had written. That’s too bad, because I truly like that post. It’s about dreams. Not spiders. I had recently had a dream about a tarantula, so the post was my attempt to analyze it. The whole experience was rather strange and fascinating. Okay, so it was fun, too. I’ll admit it. And since nearly four months have passed, I’ve decided that it’s a good time to revisit some of what I deciphered about what spiders in dreams mean — and show you my latest photos of my resident orb weaver, Clyde (who is probably a female…), and his – er, her buddies.

    Clyde fixing his web for dinner Clyde is pretty busy, isn’t he? Go, Clyde, go.  Go, go, go.

    (Clyde appears to be small here…)

    With respect to “staying away from an alluring and tempting situation,” clearly that would be blogging. I’m hooked. But it isn’t just about the writing, or the social network that blogging has created for me, there’s a technical side I truly enjoy and want to learn more about. I’m annoyed that lately, I have to put that curiosity aside to be more constructive about the project I’ve been working on which will actually earn money if I ever remember to turn in my time sheets. Every situation is tempting at this point, with the first deadline looming on October 15th and the second November 1st. Laundry is enticing. Toilets aren’t yet tantalizing, however.

    …a powerful force protecting [me] against [my] self-destructive behavior” again has to refer to blogging. Exhibit A would be this post. But to be fair, it’s Thursday. I have mentioned before that Thursday is my favorite day of the week and to celebrate that, I’ve instituted for myself Thoughtful Thursday. Ironically, I hadn’t remembered that until just now. That confirms that I’m simply basking in something I’ve always enjoyed, that my spirits are high, and that I’m…well…being thoughtful about what I want to be thoughtful about instead of what I have to be thoughtful about. You know. That project. I’ll get around to it when I’m finished being thoughtful about dreams and spiders.

    Small, new spider buddy on the block

    (This guy is so much smaller than Clyde. Just wait…)

    So what other kind of self-destructive behavior could there be? Hmmm…that isn’t the kind of thing I want to think about right now, but it could be a great discussion for later. Suffice it to say that the topic would include Food + Wine, and no, I’m not talking about the magazine.

    Okay, moving right along…Just a note that the spider searchers have already given up on me because I haven’t provided any information about spiders in this post yet. That’s too bad, because I have a huge spider treat saved for later. And yes, it will be just about as Hallo-weenie as I get. Dreams…where was I?

    …energetic in my labors and fortune will be amassed…domestic happiness.” I truly can pat myself on my back for being a diligent, avid member of Bloggsville. Hell, I could be mayor. As far as the fortune goes, I believe that’s relative, and that I feel fortunate for what I have. It’s not about the cash — it’s about gratitude. And that extends to domestic bliss as well — um, except for when the Yack Star barfs up her breakfast on the rug immediately after leaving her bowl twice in two days. No, she’s not sick. She has binge and purge problem because she’s a plus size feline. It’s a problem that rates fairly low on the domestic bliss meter.

    Clyde’s little brother, Mr. Busy.

    (This guy is half the size of Clyde…)

    With regard to “an aspect of myself that is vulnerable and helpless…” er, um…I think you know that I’ve really been struggling with some physiological changes that are kicking my butt. I’m about as far from helpless as Bush is from being an elocutionist, but do feel a bit as though I’m just not what or whom I used to be. It’s unsettling, but I refuse to get depressed over it. I’ve got my stuff lined up on the counter, and am trying very hard to stick with it day and night so I don’t end up being helpless from neglect. Sad, but true. Take care of your bodies, or you will regret it.

    And finally, “maintain a balance…everything [I] do now is weaving what [I] will encounter in the future.” Yes, I know. As much as I harangue on myself about avoidance and slovenliness, I am a fairly deliberate person. No, an extremely deliberate person. I have fun magnifying my idiosyncrasies because it’s healthy and allows me to examine my faults. Although I’d enjoy sweeping a few of the under the carpet, it wouldn’t be productive. I’d still know they’re there, and at some point would have to deal with them. They sit around in all their glory for me to think about each time one surfaces. The more I work on them, the better the future will be. See how that works? I know. Write a book.

    “I am the keeper and writer of my destiny, weaving it like a web by my thoughts, feelings, and actions.” Future, destiny…I was born with a steering wheel in my hands. It doesn’t quite work the way the one in my car works. It’s more of blowing the seeds of a dandelion into the wind and choosing one to follow until it’s time to choose another, and another, and so on…It keeps everything interesting. It’s a bit painful at times because I wait too long to change directions, and then there’s a huge upheaval that affects others in a way that I’d love to avoid. Yes, this is quite nebulous and I realize you are scratching your head about now, but I don’t want my thoughts to drift too far down that path today.
    IMG_3900.JPG (

    Clyde the Spider has grown…)

    And to get down to the clencher, “enemies are about to overwhelm you with loss…” My immediate reaction in revisiting these words was that I don’t have enemies. Or if I do, I don’t know who they are. (Don’t care who they are if they exist?) And then I read what my original response was — I was so right! Doubting voices, indeed. Especially when I consider the project I’ve been working on. In fact, this morning on my walk, I told my VBF that what I was working on completely sucked. That I’ve worked on the words and they all just sound like jargon — meaningless and inane. But I also know it’s normal and so I just keep plugging along. I’m not enjoying the work, however. News flash. It doesn’t feel as if it belongs to me, and I am very undisciplined in engaging in anything that my heart and soul are not invested in. It’s a problem and I seriously doubt I’ll outgrow it at this point in my life.

    No, I’ve just decided to embrace it, fists clenched, teeth bared.

    Balls to the wind, as my mother would say.

    Which is why I’m being so thoughtful today.

     

  • Ahhh…moisture.

    Yes, another Nearly Wordless Wednesday has arrived. Where does time go? I can tell you it seriously left while I was “working” yesterday because I achieved very little and have now successfully blamed it on Bach and Brahms who were more for meditating and gardening, not grind-stoning. They contributed to my delinquency.

    Not today. It’s 8:42 am and I’m raring to go by celebrating something I’ve been waiting for. IMG_3870.JPG See it? You aren’t sure what it is? IMG_3871.JPG  Oh come on. How many clues do you need? Or is it just glasses? It’s condensation! IMG_3875.JPG

    Yes, that bit of atmospheric wonder that lets me know officially that the weather has changed. The plumeria that took so long to bloom will soon drop its last flowers, its leaves, and return to what the MoH refers to as “The Stick.”
    IMG_3876.JPG  Our windows will soon need to be closed during the night. The precious moisture in the air will help us breathe more easily, and keep me from feeling like a prune.

    Okay, so I’ll be a juicy prune. Plump and juicy.

    9:09

    Gotta go. But with no Bach or Brahms.