kellementology

life according to me

Category: Celebration

  • A Day of Whimsey and Frolicking Cavortingness

    Today, my horror-scope read, “Something may be important without having to be serious. Today, the roles whimsy, mischief and laughter play can’t be under-estimated. Something wonderful comes out of all your clowning around.” Oh. My. Permission to be a bad girl.

    But laughter play? Is that a thing one does? What does it look like? *images of people too old to be engaged in this particular type of activity are conjured frolicking and cavorting in a woodland scene with ribbons and wearing their birthday suits* Bouguereau's Nymphs and Satyr Hey…I recognize those glutes!

    Whimsy and mischief indeed.

    Okay, twist my arm. I had already put on my rubber suit to tackle the RT’s bathroom since I put a serious dent in detoxifying it last week and could see that if I gave it another go today, I might actually come out ahead for the first time in months. The last time my middle son was here he quietly informed me that the RT must have gotten a bit wild with the toilet bowl cleaner because the lid was stained blue. I told him that, “No, I did that just to keep a safe distance” and still have a prayer of getting it clean without having to put a bomb in it. I reminded him of what his bathroom used to look like. End of ratting on his little brother.

    But I tell you, the possibility of whimsy instead of scrubbing the RT’s toilet? Now that’s a pretty tough decision. Moot at this point, however, as I could tell that he’d already given the porcelain bowl a swish or two. *Okay, so he’s actually figured out that there are tools one uses to clean things.* I’m detecting progress here.

    I will have to talk to him about leaving his toilet bowl scrubber next to his toothbrush on the counter, however…Don’t Do This At Home *Don rubber gloves and scrape all articles into black plastic bag…* It’s supposed to go ON the tube… *Hmmm…I know I’ve mentioned to him that the paper goes ON the roller a few thousand times…*

    What does one do when one practices whimsey? *Remove one’s pants with never a care as to where they land, or who finds them…*Does he put them there on purpose?

    I could eat bon-bons and watch old movies all day? How much different would that be on the whimsey meter than blogging? I could paint my toes blue or purple and the dog’s red. I could play hookey, but that’s what I do every day. If that isn’t whimsical I don’t know what is.

    With respect to mischief, I’d need to hire a tutor for that. I’ve never been very good at it. Well, there was that one time a few friends and I went into the surf one evening outside the Ritz Carlton sans some of our clothing. That wasn’t really mischief as much as it was group unwinding after a grueling period at work. And I would never have done it without the evil influence of my friends. I’m seriously out of mischief these days. I’m so boring and put out to pasture relaxed. Contentedly Chewing Cud

    As far as the “laughter play” is concerned, I think snarking is on the agenda this afternoon. So that would be more of a “snark-n-laugh” activity, with absolutely nothing playful about it at all. That has to count for something, doesn’t it? I’ve been called to an emergency get together with some very good friends who are celebrating the announcement of their boss’s premature exit. It seems he wasn’t up to the task expected of him and people had begun to question whether he was all he was purported to be. Pity.

    A Reason to Celebrate They’re heart-broken and will be suspending all clowning around out of respect for the dire situation.

  • Celebrating with the kellenator

    I know it’s not Wednesday, but still. I couldn’t resist. Well, actually I must have, because there aren’t supposed to be words here, right? Feh. I so don’t know how to not say anything. It’s a genetic problem. But I had to in some way celebrate that I:

    • was not at school on the First Day of School for the first time in over 20 years — give or take one or two;
    • was not sick with worry about whether we’d have enough students to keep all our teachers (i.e., tell one who has prepared very hard to get ready for a school year that he/she would have to leave);
    • did not have to be concerned that we had a vacancy for a position necessary to run the business part of the school — or have to train a new one who has absolutely no idea how to do his/her job;
    • did not have to act like it mattered that NCLB may seem great on paper but will never really work, and that YES! we’re all revved up about those test scores;
    • didn’t have to work the kinks out of a new lunch schedule, or bell schedule, or bus schedule, or duty schedule, or master schedule, or budget, or any of that.
    • I didn’t have to wonder for the 8,000th time why boys think pants that hang off their rear ends are comfortable to walk around in, and adolescent girls think everyone wants to stare at their cleavage and bellies;

    I have many very good friends who do think and wonder and worry about these things — today more than most other days — and they are very good at making sure it’s all taken care of with no discernible sign of angst.

    Instead, I:

    • joked gleefully with my new captive carpool kids, who didn’t laugh, even though I thought I was captivating;
    • drove down the hill past a good friend of mine who was on cross walk duty at her school — I did beep and wave, and I’ll bet she wishes she could have given me a special wave as I cruised past;
    • cheered with glee (well, not really) that the temperature here (77 today! and shhhhh….maybe the humidity?) dropped at least 10-15 degrees, and I can now thaw out my brains by turning off the AC;
    • successfully avoided doing anything I should do on this very special day;
    • obsessively thought about doing something I should be doing while I was doing what I wanted to do;
    • spent a lot of time going through blogs to get them on my netvibes feeder and was dismayed to find that many won’t go…;
    • waited anxiously for the RT to come home and tell me all about his first day back at Paradise High;
    • waited until the last minute to do this truly thoughtful and well-written post;
    • couldn’t resist and instead of writing about how The Govvenator is going to save those of us in SoCal from dying of thirst after that stupid ruling that is designed to protect a fish that most use as bait when they go fishing, I’d don his visage just for hoots;

    Kellenator

    • thought about the last two Halloweens the RT wore this mask and wondered if he had blown his nose….

  • Quiet Mornings and Passing Years

    Fairly apropo being born on Labor Day for reasons other than the obvious. Yes, it’s my birthday, and it has the feeling of peace that it normally does, creeping up amongst the other aspects of life that have always taken more time and attention: the end of summer, getting ready for school, the advent of Fall. And I have always liked it that way. A quiet day for a less than quiet person.

    My oldest son dropped by unexpectedly yesterday while I was here alone. He and a friend came to escape the oppressive heat in East County Paradise (105 degrees. thunderheads, and 70% humidity) and to give me a birthday hug — very, very nice. And my middle son called to send his wishes ahead of time as well, to say that his schedule was a mess, but that he could possibly make it by Thursday if that was okay. And yes, it was more than okay. Really. And I smiled through the phone knowing he was worrying about being late, because he’s like that.

    I’ve always been one who prefers looking after herself, so I’ve never really longed for any particular thing to be wrapped up and presented on my birthday. I love everything. I can remember from one year to the next what someone has taken their time to wish me well, and often remember the setting in which the gift was given, the wrap, and special cards as well. But I’d much rather be on the giving side of things. I always have.Latte from MoH

    The MoH has a bit of a ritual for special days. If I manage to get out of bed before he does, I’m quickly reminded that I should get back into bed to relax. That “good” coffee will be up shortly, the newspaper as well, and that the pets will be taken care of. I’m sore today after a hard 30-minute swim in the pool yesterday evening, and have been laying quite low because of the heat. I know I should consider getting some glucosamine for this achy body nonsense, but haven’t gotten around to it yet. Getting back into bed was not something I had on my agenda, as I very much felt the need to reposition myself in a big chair downstairs to read the paper and finalize my digestion of yet another year gone by. And this particular year was a bit of an unexpected turn of events.

    But not wanting to put the MoH in any position other than to be able to execute his plan, I pulled up the shades on the windows and settled down to stretch out my tight calves, work out the kinks in my lower back, and scoop up a book that could be much less serious than the last three I’ve read. I quickly thought that this might not be so bad after all. No sooner than I’d begun to read that the RT, who had been hovering down the hall, moved his lanky self around the end of the bed with a very large card and a hug to follow. Such a lovely thing to have your 15-year-old willingly give a hug. He stayed as I read the card aloud, settling in on the floor next to my side of the bed where Big was still not sure if it was time to arise. The MoH soon arrived with his coffee specialty and bags bearing gifts. The cats were not far behind. Such a gathering!

    L’Occitane en Provence He knows I love these products.
    The MoH Likes Me     Somehow, he just knows how to choose the perfect card…
    Chuao Chocolates     Oh, my, but these are so very, very good.

    I opened some lovely skin products from a favorite store I haven’t been to for quite some time, all encased in a box that is a present in and of itself…”This is a new line that is supposed to really help your skin,” the MoH tells me, knowing that I worry about dryness, and more now than ever before, getting older. I squeeze a bit of the lotion on the back of my hand and smooth it along my arm, noticing its silkiness, its subtle fragrance. Cure de raisin 30 jours — 30-day grape cure, the products say and I’m anticipating their results as I look at each one. It’s not the number I’m worried about so much as the alteration to my physiology caused by surgery last winter, and the rude removal of parts that still provided much needed hormones. I’ve become hyper aware of any change I notice…and wonder about it. It’s a bit depressing, but only for a moment. At least that’s what I tell myself, knowing full well, that as brutally honest as I’ve been with others throughout my life, I’ve been a calculating liar to myself. But never mind that. There are better things to get on with.

    The chocolates? They’re amazing. I receive a small box a few times a year, and try to make them last, savoring one at a time. The MoH chooses each one himself, before having the chocolatier package them. Before deciding which I’ll sample first, I carefully read the provided information, marveling at the interesting, and exotic combination of flavors I’ve come to expect: Chevere — goat cheese, Pear Williams and crushed black pepper butter cream. Mmm…you have no idea how lovely they are and how perfect it is that there are directions so that a sweet gift isn’t ruined by the reaction one can have from biting into a piece of chocolate without knowing what exactly is hidden inside. Chocolate Directions God forbid that it could ever be a cherry sitting in a sickly sweet center on a bed of mint icing. I am quite safe from that nightmare with these delectable chocolates from Venezuela. And I have offered to share, but rarely does anyone accept the invitation, perhaps noticing the glint of insincerity in my eye as I begin to replace the lid…

    I do think that times like these — quiet mornings at home — have been the most wonderful aspect of my life — with those I most care about hovering around. At times, I’ve wondered if there’s a bit of obligation attached to it all, and wouldn’t care if that was the case, being more concerned that I was causing that sense of “have to.” The RT took my invitation to settle in on the other side of the bed to take in the comics he loves, while I sipped my latte and began my book. Escapist Reading

    I’ll adjust to this business of cruising down the back side of 50 like I’ve adjusted to everything else in life. That’s what one does, right? And I plan to do it with a smile on my face, an ever-increasingly active brain, a sense of welcome to whatever comes my way, and knowledge that I’ve been fortunate.

    Yes, I have.

    This is my Birthday Song….it isn’t very long… But that’s only because I’ve got things to do, people to meet, and places to go. Bring it on!

    The Back Side of 50 Quite a different speed than the one set last year. The MoH, with the help of good friends, organized a catered sunset dinner with 60 of my closest friends *wink* table cloths, waiters carrying appetizers, a buffet that still has my salivary glands working, a variety of desserts to make me want to give up any idea of curbing my appetite, and an unending wave of beverages served on request… Truly lovely.

    But not any more so than today.

    Because so much stretches ahead — yet another half of life to go, and it will certainly be a long one, as my grandparents have lived to be nearly 100.

    And that’s a very long time.

  • The anticipated day arrives…

    The Crack o’ Dawn It’s the end of yet another long month. And while many could be looking forward to a pay check, my head is in another place all together. Although I’ve never been one to turn away from what I’m due after a job well done, my payment takes a different form now.

    As the end of each month nears, my anticipation builds until the day arrives. Not just any day. The designated day. I have whiled away my time and have analyzed and questioned. I’ve mulled and had a bit of angst. I have done my duty by following the protocol. And after it all, I am still left to wait. Time is the one thing I don’t seem to be able to twist to my submission.

    At times, the days drag. The end of the month feels as if it couldn’t stretch any farther into the distance. But when the day arrives, like a child awaiting her birthday, I stay up until the wee hours of the night, or rise at the first light of dawn, creeping downstairs to quietly make my coffee, and then upstairs again to settle in.

    To finally check on the post that has already been written and saved — saved and designated to publish at the appropriate time just in case I happen to be asleep.

    I’ve waited to reveal the photos that have been planned and scrutinized, but kept under wraps.

    I’ve tested my patience to find that I would either bask in the glory of success, or plummet in flames of having tried and failed.

    And the day is finally here. The day that all 97 members of an uber secret virtual society can unveil the results of their latest challenge. Sounds scintillating, doesn’t it? Now you know where Dan Brown got the idea for The Da Vinci Code.
    At the end of each month in an amazing number of blogs around the Bloggosphere, the same recipe appears over and over again. You notice these blogs sport odd badges in their sidebars you never really paid attention to before, and you begin to wonder…who are these people? And was this planned? How….? They hail from France, from the Southern U.S., from Ireland, Canada, Sweden, and the UK. From SoCal and San Francisco, from Ohio and from South America. They’re everywhere, and they’re quite the amazing group of kitchen zealots.

    They’re the Daring Bakers. Daring Bakers Strike Again And I am one of them. Hoo-Zah!

    You do know that I have currently raised my arms to exhibit my biceps, don’t you? And I’m looking for someone with whom to bump chests in solidarity…or something like that.

    Okay, maybe just a high five?

    A wink?

    I love the anticipation of events. Anticipation is the best of everything as far as I’m concerned. And when this day arrives, with coffee in hand, I begin my visit to each of the Daring Bakers’ sites to read their posts, wallow in their despair, or cheer in celebration of a success. It’s rather amazing this business of belonging — this getting to know people you may never meet face to face. And to participate in an event each and every month with them as well.

    It’s amazing. Period.

    Yes, I’ve always loved to cook. And if you’ve been reading my blathering for the past five months, you’ve most likely learned that I’ve been at it since about the age of eight. As have many of the Daring Bakers. No, I haven’t been to culinary school. But some of the Daring Bakers have. And I’ve never worked in a restaurant. But some of those in the Daring Bakers have — in fact, their family has owned one. I’m most certainly not a professional pastry chef. But yes, there are professionals amongst the members of the Daring Bakers. How. Cool. Is. That?

    Some are just beyond talented, creative, persistent, and inquisitive. They’re all awesome.

    My days are often filled with thoughts of food instead of my makeup. I stare at glossy photos in magazines or cookbooks of marinara and walnut tarts instead of whether my abdomen is as concave as it once was. I wonder what a particular recipe might taste like instead of whether others are checking out my new jeans — or my glutes in my jeans. I spend my time questioning whether I’ve got quite enough cardamom for that apple cake, deciding whether to purchase green onions because the grocery store is out of leeks, and risking the purchase of those interesting looking little eggplants to try a recipe for something I’ve never liked. I can’t imagine doing without exceptional flavor, of not wanting a meal to be more than just eating. Of not being interested in any of it at all. What a loss for those who aren’t interested. I weep for them. And I’d offer to light one of those little candles in church to help them out of their misery, but consider it just a thought.

    I’m a hopeless foodie. A gonner plain and simple. I swoon over perfectly sauteed chantrelles with just the right amount of marsala in the cream sauce, and a boca negra with a hint of cayenne and a sweetened tomatillo sauce on the side. When I die and walk through the proverbial pearly gates, there better be a 60″ duel fuel 8-burner Wolf range at my disposal, or someone is going to pay.

    When I do my perpetual laps around the Bloggosphere, please know that as much as I love this particular piece of virtual heaven and all of you who so graciously help to make my days go by, only half of me is here. My heart lies in the land of plenty. Food Land. The land of the Daring Bakers. The land where you don’t have to think about Technorati ranking, or Google Page Rank. None of that matters. All that matters is that I belong. Well, if I constructively participate I belong. Otherwise, I might be gently invited to leave. And why not? Why would anyone belong to something they weren’t involved in….Hmmm?

    Take a walk through my challenges from past to present…and if you’ve never checked out my other blog, well…

    Unofficial First Challenge: Red Velvet Cake (If you eat it, will your mouth turn red?)

    Red Velvet Cake

    First Official Challenge: Gateau St. Honore (This complete disaster looks interesting, but don’t let the brick fool you. Have you ever made puff pastry by hand? You have? Whatever.)

    Gateau St. Honore

    Second Challenge: Honest to Goodness Real Bagels (Yes, they’re hand made. Completely. Not a Kitchen Aid dough hook in sight. Just my mom who is very good at telling me how to think.

    Real Homemade Bagels

    Third Challenge: Strawberry Mirror Cake (Have you ever even heard of this or seen one anywhere?)

    Strawberry Mirror Cake

    Current Challenge: Milk Chocolate & Caramel Tart (Go ahead and melt that sugar with nothing else in the pan and resist touching it until it melts. I dare you…)

    Milk Chocolate & Caramel Tart

    Yes, I prepare savory dishes as well nearly always on a nightly basis. And rarely does a month pass that we have the same meal more than once. Am I swaggering? No, merely confessing my very odd culinary proclivities. Life in my kitchen is just a grand experiment. It always has been and always will be. Realistically, what is the risk? Someone might not like something? Goodness. Life is too short to be worried about not liking something you’ve eaten. Excepting those individuals who have serious food allergies, I’m sad for those who are afraid of trying something new.

    What could happen?

    And consider the incredible sense of satisfaction that can be had by simply trying. Not just the tasting, but the cooking as well. And who cares if others don’t like it. It’s all an experiment. An amazing way to widen the boundaries you’ve set for yourself in life.

    Go ahead. Try the escargot.

    I have. But would Andy Beard…? Hmmm… I wonder… Just an experiment.

    And so have these wonderful people: the Daring Bakers. Not all of them may have posted their challenges today, but I’ve checked nearly all of them, so know that most have. Give ’em a round of applause. Keeping a food blog can be ass-kicking difficult work.

  • Adolescent Milestones and The Geometry Teacher

    Ninth grade is one of those really big milestones for me. No, I’m not talking about my completion of ninth grade, but as I think about this, perhaps so. Tenth grade signaled the end of an awkwardness that took up residence around the age of 11 and sowed many seeds of doubt about who I was to become in this life. But it’s the RT I’m talking about at this point, and not me. With just 18 or so days left of school this year, I find myself taking stock of this very soon to be young man — the youngest of my three, and the only one I’ve had the pleasure of “mothering” for the past six months without the distraction of my own career.

    So what has brought this on? It’s one of those things that has been on the back burner, simmering, festering, wanting to be put down in written words. Spoken words have all been used throughout the year — and some not so kind. And now it’s just a story. Another story that will sit alongside so many others in the volume we’ve created as parents of the RT. And it’s unique, because neither of my other two boys ever had an experience with a teacher quite like that of the RT and The Geometry Teacher. Yes. Her.

    Photo 6 When the RT got in the car after school a couple of days ago, it took little time after he had slung his 80 lb. back pack into the trunk before settling into the passenger seat and exclaiming, “Today was the most efficient day I’ve ever had in school.” Well. If that didn’t stop me in my tracks, then nothing ever would. It was one of those moments that had to be written down, as monumental as it seemed, or become lost in all the others that accumulate over time. One, because they — adolescents — just don’t say things like this often; and two, they aren’t often recognized for routinely sharing their revelations — especially with one of their parents. Whether the relationship with the parents is a comfy one, is a completely different issue.

    Don’t get me wrong. The RT is an exceptional human — if you can get over his slovenliness — but that’s really not anything we pull our hair out over. It just makes him more warm and fuzzy to us. I know. Gross. But it’s true. He’s a nice kid. Very. And his outlook on humanity is a model for others to consider. If you ask him about what he thinks the biggest problem the world has to deal with, he will tell you that it’s global warming. He can also tell you why he thinks that, throwing in the scientific theory behind the concern. He will also say that he believes obesity is our country’s biggest concern because it’s creating significant health problems for people who aren’t getting proper care. He genuinely likes people and sees good in everyone. He has absolutely no expectation that many people can be very cruel, and like spiders, ready themselves to dart across carefully crafted misery webs to trap unsuspecting humans and wrap them in darkness. Oh…*ahem*…got a bit carried away there. Still… The Geometry Teacher. The award goes to her for being the first person — not just teacher, but person — to have alerted the RT to another kind of human in this world. IMG_0842

    I knew things would be less than great when the MoH called me at school one night very early in the school year while I was still at work. He had attended another Open House without me and when my cell rang, I glanced at the clock and thought it odd, because he had only been at the school for a short while. What could be going on? “The Geometry Teacher’s a freak,” he began, in a very terse voice. I could tell he was walking as he spoke because he had that shaking kind of sound going on with this voice. Either that or he was ready to blow.

    “What’s going on?” I asked.

    “Nothing. I just walked out in the middle of her presentation. She’s a complete freak,” he continued, clearly pissed off. And that’s odd, too, because the MoH never gets that worked up over school stuff. Well, except for that first grade teacher. And maybe that one math teacher in middle school. Okay. So I lied. Anyway…it quickly became evident that we’d have quite the discussion when we both got home that evening.

    How can I explain the feeling of being between a rock and a hard place with a teacher who:

    • Puts a zero on homework because the notebook paper we purchased for the RT was not exactly 8.5″ x 11?” That’s right. The paper was 10.5″ x 8.” Three different stores sold paper this size, so you just don’t think about it because, hell, maybe it’s about conservation — you know? So the RT received many zeros before we realized that we were at fault here and that his paper was a half-inch too small on two sides. Wait. I could give you the difference in area…..
    • Won’t respond to emails because of some phobia about having her writing in print like evidence that could be used against her in a court of law;
    • Makes her students copy the problem. No, I’m not just saying that she asks them to copy the algorithm — I mean like, “The given vector represents the velocity of…” You get the idea. Some of these scenarios are almost a paragraph long and when there are 20 or more problems to complete, what is the kid spending most of his time doing? Copying the problem or doing the geometry? Right.
    • Takes points off if she can’t read the part that was copied, so when the grade comes, it isn’t clear whether the kid is being evaluated on his knowledge of geometry, or copying. And since the RT has dysgraphia, I can guarantee you her routine red-ink evaluations have been on his ability to copy — not do geometry. Oh! But you can photocopy the “problems” and paste them onto the homework paper if you’d like. Uh….I’m supposed to go out and buy a photocopier and do this nightly? Didn’t cutting and pasting happen in Kindergarten? Oh, I forgot. All I ever really needed to know I  learned in Kindergarten.
    • Allows students to make 3″ x 5″ cheat cards for quizzes and exams, but collects them at the door when students are done with their exams. That means that instead of being able to reuse the cards for future tests — because knowledge is built on what precedes it, right? — they have to create new ones. I created the RT’s cards on the computer just once and it took a very long time. His handwriting is so illegible,  he can’t even read it at times, so my eyeballs were popping out of my head, and my drug store glasses not getting the job done with their .5 magnification lenses.
    • Won’t attend meetings that the parents request and the school holds to discuss student need. Like, we get it that our kid has a problem, so what can we do together to help him? But the instigator, the one making it worse, can’t even come to the table to work out a solution? This is extremely challenging when I’ve done what she has done — been in her situation — had teachers on my staff in her situation -and never — EVER — have I seen this kind of unprofessional behavior. Ever. In the real world, she would have been fired so long ago.
    • Review test answers with students the day after the test by working out problems on the board, but does not allow them to take notes so they can actually LEARN from the experience. And they’re not allowed to have a pencil out when this whole thing is going on. Huh? So this would be an exercise in long term auditory memory — well visual if you count being able to memorize what she had written on the board — and not geometry.

    So the RT’s very excellent and efficient day? Well in spite of The Geometry Teacher — or because of The Geometry Teacher, part of the thing we’ve been working on since I’ve been at home is to encourage, support, cajole, reprimand, and force him to be aware of and responsible for his learning. That is huge. It isn’t that we weren’t working on those things before, because those are things that have to be worked on. But it doesn’t mean sitting down with him as he does his school work — although we’ve done that. It doesn’t mean digging through his back pack to find missing assignments he has completed but hasn’t turned in — but we’ve done that, too, finding 4 fermented apples and all. It doesn’t mean that I ever do his work for him, which would mean that I’d have to relearn it myself — although I, too, have at least done the “copying” of the completely ridiculous geometry problems so Her Highness could read his papers. And it absolutely doesn’t mean that I paid a tutor $75 an hour to tutor him. But that was the next thing on my agenda. Of course, I’d have to get a job to afford it, but goodness. I could tutor middle school students in English for $75 an hour and then use the money to pay for the RT’s tutoring. Or barter — you tute my kid and I’ll tute yours.

    It means he finally took himself to the library to work with junior volunteers after school — kids who actually like math, and understand math differently than the RT may, and who have survived THE GEOMETRY TEACHER. They survived her — not just her class.

    And you know what? The RT got a B+ on his last test — only 2% from an A-. Woo-Hoo! Now are we sure that means he understands the concepts? Who knows? But what it does mean to me — his mom, and erstwhile English Teacher? It means that I suppose you can force your kids to do what you want — what you believe is good for them — like these folks — but ultimately, I think it’s about persistent talk, nudging, suggesting, telling, expecting, and relentless questioning, so they’ll get there themselves. So they feel it was their accomplishment, because it should be theirs. They deserve that very important feeling as they mature into adults.

    The Geometry Teacher will always represent this important time in our lives when my youngest, and very accepting son, not only realizes that life is often like a game, and that sometimes, there are people who make it more challenging for us to succeed, unlike others who thrive on supporting success. Ironically, the unsupportive people we happen upon exist to help us learn more about ourselves. It’s not especially pleasant to realize, but sometimes, those who are supposed to help the most, don’t.

    Sobering lesson for an almost 15-year-old to learn, but he’s feeling “efficient,” so heartfelt congrats to the boy who was just a baby not so very long ago.sc00b2fe69

  • Crack of Mother’s Day Dawn

    I’m supposed to be in bed sleeping — languishing for at least a few more hours in semi-slumberland and waiting for the MoH to bring me that strong, black coffee that he likes to make in the French press. But no.

    I’ve been awake since about 2:30 engaged in a rather extended session of flashing, sweating like a pig, then freezing my rear end off.

    Oh, and the random thought parade is in full swing with every person, idea, or “thing to remember” jockeying for position front and center. I just decided to get up. I could read — if the book I have been trudging through was actually enjoyable. But no.

    It must be fairly close to sunrise, because I can hear the first tentative chirp of a bird through the open window. I could at least be rewarded with the possibility of a rosy dawn since I’m here and everyone else is sleeping — well except my doggo who is semi-dozing a few feet away, disgusted that she isn’t on her pillow next to my side of the bed. I could. But no.

    It’s overcast and grey. As grey as the lint that I peel off the screen in my dryer. Or that record-sized hairball the Yack Star hacked up in the night that I still haven’t picked up. No rays of brightness creeping up over the distance today. Nope.

    I’m reduced to doing Google searches for the spam caught on my blog, and sucking down my second cup of Irish Breakfast Tea. I should have hair on my chest by the time the MoH comes looking for me and telling me I should be in bed so he can bring me breakfast and give me my present.

    So Happy Mother’s Day to me, and to you. Hopefully you’re at brunch somewhere, and not reading this stoopid post.

    Hopefully yours is as excellent as ours was yesterday. How do you spell calories? Mmmm…

  • Loving but cheap Birthday Present

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Today is my sister’s birthday. You know. The one who was smart enough to leave Paradise and move to VA where the leaves actually turn colors and fall off the trees. On the Right Coast where there’s weather? That one. And in spite of her abandoning me, right when I am actually beginning to have a real life as a stay-at-home mouse potato, and could have influenced her in a variety of tainted ways, I still love her and want to wish her a Very Happy Birthday. Here’s a brief trip down memory lane to celebrate in a very cost effective way (even though you bought me that cool bag packed full of pajamas, unmentionables, and smelly bath items for my last birthday).

    Key West, FL 1962

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Key West, Florida. 1963. You can tell it would be difficult to love someone who had a scowl on her face until she was about 6 years old. I mean look at the little one in this picture of swell kids. What is her problem? Does she just need sunglasses? A bonnet? Who is her mother, anyway? And whose idea was it to have an Easter Egg Hunt in the rocks?

    You probably don’t remember, but this is the place where Mom used to make us wear our tennis shoes in the water because there were so many crabs, they’d pinch our toes — especially your chubby morsels.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Chipiona, Spain. 1964. Maybe it’s because she was abandoned on the beach as a young girl, left with other, non-scowling girls with untangled hair who were bound to be simply gorgeous when they grew up and were destined to live in Paradise, bab-i-fied and married to Prince Charming. Poor urchin. Where is her mother?

    Do you remember that bathing suit? It was red with a little skirt and had white turtles on it, or something, didn’t it? And you loved to roll in the sand until you were covered in it. I think this is the only picture that exists where you weren’t cranky about having your picture taken. No wonder the nuns smacked you around in that Spanish school.

    But clearly she came out of such a painful childhood caused by years of tolerating vinegar rinses after community, mixed gender bathtub shampoos, and monotonous lunches of “only baloney” and peanut butter without the jelly. Developing a passion for modeling poor eating behavior for the children at the dining table by playing with her mashed potatoes has assured all of us, that she is just fine.

    Today, she’s a serious butt-kicking name taker. Don’t even think about approaching her at a gas station while she is on her cell phone and interrupting a serious conversation with her gorgeous older daughter, who, like a good daughter, calls her mother 12 times a day. She will snap you up one side and down another. You will be toast. And be glad that you were not the woman behind the counter at the DMV in VA who made the mistake of asking her far too many questions about her seemingly incomplete paperwork. What was that innocent government employee’s name?

    She’s a fierce mom of a competitive cheerleader and gymnast girls, who, after showing everyone she could graduate summa cum laude with a degree in Accountancy and nail a job from an international firm, turned her back on it all to stay at home and boss her family around while her husband has been off fighting wars and stuff. She’s really good at it.

    She’s also good at remembering all of our birthdays and I never remember theirs — or get them royally mixed up. They tolerate me with flat expressions and murmurs of, “What do they feed her?”

    She’s a tiny thing, but she’s scarier than hell. And I’m thinking that I’d really love to get old with her in VA some day before we can’t walk, talk, or eat salsa on everything anymore.

    This is your Birthday Song…It isn’t very long…

    Cheers my sister!

    Now just for hoots, watch this and have a splendiferous day and indulge yourself somehow. It’s swell.