kellementology

life according to me

Category: Distractions

  • Finding a place to begin

    Finding a place to begin

    Nike was smart when they launched their campaign admonishing those of us who sit far too long on our ever-expanding rear ends to “Just do It.”  But when you’re someone who is more inclined to first think, then talk about what you are thinking about — like writing — then think about writing before you actually write anything,  clearly those words have no effect.  None.

    I haven’t “Done It” yet.  In other words, I’m still getting warmed up to the idea of possibly thinking about wanting to write something.  Not just anything, but the piece I am supposed to write.

    The problem is twofold.  On second thought, it’s got quite a few more folds than two. Tenfold might be more accurate.  I have no excuse for this.  It’s pathetic.

    And so when I find myself in this particular situation, I review what I know.  I mull over every detail and experience much like one might sort through an old recipe box, thinking about what is on each card instead of pulling one out, and actually cooking and serving it for dinner.

    I could go back through the books I’ve used in the past whose authors have helped me sort out my thoughts.  People like Zinsser and Lamott, or Goldberg or E.B. White, because they force me to think about what I’m not doing. But I’d have to have something, anything, to work with before I’m compelled to pick up one of those books again.  Otherwise, it’s no different than reading travelogues and never traveling, or buying yet another cookbook when never intending to cook.

    Somehow in my wandering today, I came across Vonnegut and his take on style.  I’d not seen it before, and I read it through several times acknowledging his advice, but thinking more about his writing.  I read parts of it aloud, as I often do when something is written just right, needing to hear the cadence of words as each works with another.  Then I considered the advice.

    One thing was missing.

    Find a place to begin.  And therein lies the rub.

    Since it’s not a dark and stormy night, I’m taking myself out into the sun that has finally decided to grace us with its presence to sit and read something well-written, take a few notes, and find a place to begin while I’m distracted by green bugs in the vicinity.

  • Books, Brioche, and…Boredom

    Finally, finally, all things Italy are done.  The planning, the packing, the photos, the writing.  And when you’ve spent the time that I have getting ready for a trip like this, there’s a kind of void after it’s over.  A huge void.  Kind of like the Grand Canyon.

    I just might be…

    …and I’m not quite certain…

    …but thinking perhaps that…

    I’m bored.

    Wait.

    I’m never bored.

    Ever.

    I’m not quite sure what to do about this feeling.

    And even more strange?

    Because I’ve been up to my ears with all things flickr, Photoshop, iPhoto, and Blurb,  I’m not in the mood to sit here, either.  It’s Friday and the whole weekend is yawning ahead.  It is Friday, isn’t it?

    I thought so.

    I’ve got three cookbooks opened to some very nice brioche recipes all requiring overnight refrigeration, (I can’t decide if I want plain or chocolate…) and I’m wondering whether the MoH would like to go down to the water tonight to sit and stare at the horizon with a bit of food and something nice to drink.  Or maybe go see Mama Mia…

    But there are other things to consider as well:

    • Like how to get my doggo to stop her incessant scratching and my cat’s interminable yeowling. The fleas are beyond nasty this year, and although I’ve sprayed, and vacuumed, and washed, brushed, combed and yes, finally broke down and bought some Frontline (disgusting poison…), it doesn’t seem to have put a dent in them.  I.  Hate.  Fleas.  Which is why I hate carpeting.  And whomever conducted that study that reported simple vacuuming daily will eliminate up to 99% of the fleas because it destroys their shells?  What-ever, dood.  Sounds good, but no cigar.  Well, not around here, anyway.  My cat is the world’s greatest fleabus.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  We have almost NO dirt anywhere.  There are flagstones, and concrete, a few flowerbeds that are predominantly damp, a patch of damp grass…WHAT GIVES?
    • I need a new book. I loved Such a Pretty Fat by Jen Lancaster (laughed my ass off…well…not quite since my scale still insists upon telling me the gawd awful truth).  It lambastes Jenny Craig and the whole concept of a weight-loss plan that includes packaged food AND has the greatest kiss-off line I’ve heard in a long time.  Click the link and watch the video.   I also just finished The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Pachett, one of my favorite authors.  It was her first novel, and I’m letting it stew a bit before I say what I need to say about it.  But her books have that effect on me.  And since I’m on a “thinking about writing seriously” kick (again) and still have 8 gazillion books here I haven’t read that can inspire me from one perspective or another and keep me from actually doing my own writing, Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is next up.  It looks to prove that when you want to write a book, you can write whatever you want, and sometimes, people notice.  Yes, even people like myself, who notice, then let it sit on their bookshelf for, oh, about five or six years.
    • I need to sign up for a photography class and a writing class (you know, because sometimes, homework is a good thing…) through one of the university extensions here.  I seem to have recovered from my post traumatic distress syndrome over all things “school,” and both of these classes will occupy my time, feed my creativity, and give me yet another excuse to not actually start my own real writing. Okay, so writing somewhere other than this blog.
    • I have to make a fix-it list for this house. I know I used to joke quite a bit about it, but jeez.  I’m tired of putting money into having the carpet cleaned and want to rip it out of the house and heave it out the windows.  I need a painter to even out the walls where boys incapable of standing up without hanging onto the walls have left smudges that can no longer be wiped.  And the fence on the patio needs replacing (along with the neighbor it shields us from), along with the drip sprayers and lights.  Then there are the screens the cats wrecked (and the one I totaled while we were trying to break into our house last night after swimming because we were locked out….) because the extra key wasn’t in it’s normal place… and…yes, things need to be fixed.  I checked.  There is a Handyman section in the Yellow Pages.  My fingers will be walking.  Soon.  They will be walking miles.
    • And last but not least, try not to feel so wistful about this blog. It’s sort of crawling along while my food blog is roaring.  Okay, so, not like the Internet Market type roar, but everything’s relative, yes?  As much as I enjoy both of them, this one is special because it’s just about whatever comes to mind.  It’s me.  And sure, so is the other one, but it’s about my food, which isn’t necessarily me, even though they say, “You are what you eat.”  Um, thank-you.  Next?  But the crickets have been chirping loudly here lately, and I’m trying to adjust to the idea that it’s okay and that I didn’t set out to write here to do anything other than expend energy and get back into the habit of writing.  From that perspective, it’s all been worth it.  One step leads to another, right?

    Right.

    So shut up and write.

    On to the brioche…

  • Through my new lens…

    Garden Mirror

    It’s interesting, this new writing venue of mine, no longer in our office since my mother’s taken up residence there. My used to be vanity is now my desk, positioned in front of one of my bedroom windows, allowing me a gauzy view of the palms outside, and my neighbors, an unearthly glow sometimes after twilight.

    Today, the palm fronds are damp and tossing about in the stiff breeze that Mother Nature has put upon us, taking the June Gloom we’re accustomed to in Paradise to a new level. It’s cold and grey, the street is actually wet, and I’ve had to shut all my windows or freeze my ass off while sitting here, pretending to be pithy.

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  • Indiana Jones & Film Critics

    My menfolk know I’m a sucker for Indiana Jones. I always have been. Sure, Harrison Ford has something to do with it, but I’ve always been easily swayed by anything related to Raiders of the Lost Ark and all that followed. I get a sappy grin on my face and know that no matter how many times I’ve seen any of the movies, if the opportunity arises, I’ll plunk down and watch. I love the corny humor, and the “no way could that actually happen” adventures Indy and his side kicks become involved in.

    If you’re shaking your head on this one, here’s my thinking — and it is relatively similar with respect to books and music and food, of course: if I like it, then it’s good, but I won’t argue. What’s the point? Isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?

    I can sit and watch No Country for Old Men and enjoy it as much as I enjoy something like The Holiday or Amazing Grace, or Four Weddings and a Funeral, or Citizen Kane. In other words, I’m all over the place when it comes to anything I say I enjoy. But as much as I can say I have a wide range of movies I enjoy, only some rate watching over and over. The Lord of the Rings trilogy fits into this category, and so do the Indiana Jones films. No, they have nothing in common other than I enjoy them.

    So when I read Union-Tribune Arts Critic at Large, Lee Grant’s review of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull last week, you’d think it wouldn’t bother me, being the magnanimous person I am with respect to others’ opinions being sacred.  Right?

    Wrong.

    Movie critics drive me crazy. They remind me of disgruntled wannabes, whether they never made it as an actor, or screenwriter, or had fantasies about being the next great director. Hell, half of them can’t even write, yet they are paid to write about movies they frequently don’t enjoy just to crap on everyone else’s entertainment parade.

    “The film is a disappointment, as dull as a bunch of 60-year-old guys sitting around and, for fat paychecks, coming up with something to recapture their youth and the blockbuster movies made a generation ago,” Grant grumbles, most likely annoyed that the fat paycheck he mentions won’t be going into his own pocket. And if George Lucas and Steven Spielberg want to make a movie they know people like me (and my boys who grew up on those blockbuster movies Grant mentions) will enjoy, why not? I’ll probably purchase the DVD when it comes out, too. Why? Because it’s guaranteed to make me smile which comes in pretty handy some days.

    Returning to my rant…

    Grant takes the time to mention in his review that “the film is set in the late-1950s and we know that because the initial soundtrack music is Elvis Presley’s ‘Hound Dog.’” Oh really? Clearly a significant piece of information. I’m thinking it was smart to set the film in a later decade considering all the actors had aged quite a bit and nothing is more annoying that trying to make us all think they haven’t.

    But I’m ahead of myself here. Friday, six of us (including a nephew, my mother, and one older) son piled into two cars, headed to a favorite sports bar to eat, graffiti up the paper that’s spread on the tables for just that purpose, and then went to see the latest of Indy Jones. Outside of having to stifle snickers about the young woman sitting behind me having to rely on her date to explain what was going on and who the characters were, the movie was everything we thought it would be: a fun trip down memory lane with a few new things thrown in for good measure. We had some time to talk about the movie afterwards at Cold Stone while slurping on ice cream in the very winter-like weather we’ve had in Paradise this holiday weekend, but only comments about the parts we liked. My middle son knows everything there is to know about the older Star Wars movies and all things Indiana Jones, so he was in rare form talking to the two younger boys non-stop.

    Hell, he’s the one who should have written the film review, not Grant, whose ideas must have taken an entire three minutes to put to paper. Does one lose one’s credibility as a critic if one doesn’t slam a beloved character? Why not just avoid writing about it at all?

    I don’t need a film critic to tell me that Indy’s “iconic bullwhip [is] now used with a little more difficulty,” but that “he’s not a guy you’d trade in for a fresher model.” Well, not yet, anyway. Hmmm…maybe that’s the bigger issue. Mayhaps Harrison Ford is a reminder to some that they, too, are aging.

    Like this is new information? I get it, okay?

    Grant drones on with his attempt to mimmick a turd found in the punchbowl before the party starts by judging that Cate Blanchett is “struggling” in the role of Agent Spalko, and that “those big, bad Russians seem dated.” The film did get a rise out of members of Russia’s Communist party, however, evidently offended that their youth may be negatively affected by how Russians are depicted, accusing the West of tricking them. Now that’s completely hilarious.

    Am I missing something, or did Grant actually go to this movie thinking that any of it was supposed to be believable. Really? Scary to think he might me in sync with the offended Russians on this. Isn’t the point of movies like Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull part kitschiness? The characters are generally exaggerated, and reminiscent of those found in films from an earlier era. I don’t want Indiana Jones to be realistic, or believable, or anything other than what it’s been.

    But what do I know? I’m not a film critic. I’m only someone who’s spent a lifetime loving movies in all shapes and sizes.

    Well, and Indiana Jones.

    Okay. So, Harrison Ford, too.

    He’s looking pretty nice for 65.

  • What’s the point of this, anyway?

    It’s funny how things sometimes change, and as much as I can see that beginning to happen — to not want it to happen — it does anyway. There’s nothing I can do about it. Things that once mattered end up in a place we never intended for them to be, and they get lost amongst all the other parts of life that are…well, life.

    I guess I’ve reached the point where I’m wondering what this is all about. This. At first, I began here to simply write. But I’ve never been a journaler, not having the patience to put down what happened in a day’s time I’ve always been more of someone who has a noisy mind, and writing always helped to get some of what was there, out. It’s been nice that in the process, I’ve also gotten to do something I love: work with words.

    I love words. And as odd as it may seem, the simple look of some, or the feel of others as I speak are fascinating. Regardless that English has myriad synonyms able to get across a particular point, only one of those synonyms is the best for a sentence to convey exactly what I intend. When it matters.

    But there seems to be so little time now, and I’m not sure why that is.

    I’ve had my other speck in the bloggosphere as long as I’ve had this one, so that certainly isn’t the issue, although that speck is extremely high maintenance. Sometimes, unbearably.

    I’ve enjoyed working with them both, as they’ve allowed me to know a variety of people with different interests. But with the growth of my high maintenance speck, this one — troubled as it’s been with its identity crisis — seems to get pushed aside. And now, often, it just sits here. Doing nothing.

    That makes me quite sad.

    As much as I love all things food, and as much as I can have my mind wrapped around it quite a good portion of my day, writing about it doesn’t provide me what this space does. And when I don’t take that time for myself, I miss it. No one wants to hear my horror-scope and then take a gander at my cookie recipe. Or survive my latest rant, and then dig into a chocolate mousse. Somehow, that doesn’t quite work. When I’m in my kitchen, I’m usually not waving a wooden spoon and complaining about the guy I have to listen to on the radio each morning when the alarm goes off. As much as writing here provides me a sense of balance, so does being in my kitchen. The two are completely unrelated.

    I miss being here quite a bit.

    Are blog years like dog years?

    So is this the part where I sort of fade off into the sunset? I’ve noticed when others have stopped writing. Their blogs sit there unattended. Forever. Others just disappear. I know I couldn’t do that. There’s too much of my life wrapped up in these words and to me, a significant part of my life. I’d have to put it somewhere because like all the photos I’ve taken in my life, it’s part of me.

    I’ve always embraced change and chided those who avoid it. Change is inevitable. It is the one thing we can count on in life — and learn from. But I also know that in spite of change, constants remain.

    Maybe the constant for me here is to write when I can.

    For me.

    There is a little box I can check to keep my writing private.

    Is that what I need? I doubt it.

    I was going to write about something I saw on one of those network morning shows yesterday that really got me going. But today, it’s overcast and chilly, and I just don’t care now.

    This is the part where Scarlett O’Hara would remind herself that tomorrow is another day, and Annie would begin singing, Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you, tomorrow, you’re always a day away…

    Tuesday has never been my favorite day of the week.

  • Obama the Dream Boat?

    One of the entertaining aspects of being completely incapable of getting a good night’s sleep these days is being able to remember the dreams I have. I’m actually awake long enough to acknowledge them, think about them, and give each a kind of evaluation. Nothing complicated. Just a sort of, “Whoa. That was interesting…” and it crops up through the day as I’m putzing around. A doozie will actually garner a mention of the dream to someone.

    Like yesterday.

    I was in my less than lovely lounging attire: flannel and beyond silky soft with wear jammy bottoms, a grungy blue tee, and an old Eddie Bauer oversized so not matching blue plaid shirt. It’s day time, or as much daytime as my dreams ever are. It’s my mother’s old neighborhood. The one we lived in the longest in the house right next door to my best friend’s house. I actually wonder whether her mother still lives there in all of this strangeness. There are lots of people standing behind yellow plastic Do Not Cross tape and a tall thin man in a great suit is striding away from where I’m standing with the crowd in the street. They’re cheering and pointing at him as I walk toward him, never quite seeing his face.

    No one tries to stop me as I approach him, catching up.

    I reach around from behind to embrace him as one might someone they care about and haven’t seen in a while completely unaffected by the oddness of this situation I find myself in.

    “I missed you,” I say to him, wrapping my arms completely around until they meet and I clasp my hands at his waist.

    “Why?” he answers softly. “I’ve been here all the time.”

    “Because I spend all day reading and thinking about you,” I tell him, picturing time spent on the Internet seeing his face in a story here and and an article there.

    How romantic, but it’s a bit strange when I consider that the man is not the MoH, it’s Obama.

    Excuse me?

    I had a dream about Barack Obama?

    Okay…

    So, first of all, I don’t spend my day reading about him on the Internet. In fact, I’m quite bad at reading news on the Internet period. My “homepage” is Google. So I see bits and pieces of news on the television in passing if the news is on, or hear snippets on NPR in the car while running errands and shuttling kids to and from school. I do keep my eye on the goings on and do tune in when yet another primary is approaching just so I can make sure I’m still as sick as I was of the pundits and their crap as I have been all along.

    It sounds like a big fat load of excuses, doesn’t it?

    And couldn’t I just dream of maybe seeing him? You know, in passing after a speech or something? That might be a tad more normal, don’t you think? Slightly?

    I actually remember thinking in the dream that I could, clad as I was in my beyond tacky house potato attire, shed a poor light on his quest to be our next president. That people may not vote for him because some deranged woman, who surely must know that Michele Obama would be kicking her ass for touching her man, was, erm, touching her man. Embracing him. In public. With a crowd standing by.

    Of course I had to consult with a dream interpretation source. I filed through the alpha list of “characters,” impatiently looking for what character Obama might represent while on my way to the “P” section. Politician, right?

    Celebrity…Godzilla…Hero…Lawyer…Mummy…President…Wet Nurse? But no politician.

    What does it suggest when one can find dream interpretations for a wet nurse, pervert, or a zombie, but not a politician and I’m dreaming about one?

    Okay, so maybe it’s more about a feeling and not a character. The source mentions that dreaming of love denotes “intense feelings carried over from a waking relationship. It implies happiness and contentment with what you have and where you are in life.”

    Whew. It had me going for a while to think that maybe my subconscious had the hots for the next President of the United States. Let alone that I’d be stoopid enough to go out in public in my slovenly comfies. After all, he does have very nice suits. I would only look that much worse standing next to him.

    Or embracing him.

    Obama.

    Baby.

  • Horoscopes and Fairy Godmothers

    img_6936.JPG When I actually think to read my horror-scope, I like to read it at the end of the day. Somehow, it’s all so much more mysterious when given the day’s events, I’m able to analyze the extent to which the stars have been correct. Or at least that Holiday Mathis, who happens to write the horoscopes our daily paper prints, is correct.

    Today, mine stated, “Neither here nor there is a good place to be. It’s not that you’re undecided or wishy-washy. You’re thinking is flexible, open — just in case a better idea comes along. It will tonight.”

    It’s amazing how that works. I know it’s all about interpretation, but still. “Neither here nor there” has to do with my opinion on whether my mother should move back to California or Virginia. She drove across the country to Virginia seeking adventure last summer. She sold her casita, gave away almost all of her possessions, packed her car and left. Why Virginia? Because my sister and her family recently moved there and it makes sense that when you’re 70 years old and you want to relocate on limited resources, you might feel more confident if you know someone once you arrive. I know I would.

    But things didn’t go quite the way my mother expected and when she couldn’t face the challenges that kind of a move forces on everyone, after a few months, she drove to New York to stay with her sister. There has been no adventure. Zero. I was hoping there might be, because my mother can have quite a spirit, but I was wrong.

    I’ve been wrong before.

    img_6938.JPG

    Mom, you know it’s true. But wouldn’t you have rather had me encourage you than tell you you couldn’t do it? That it wouldn’t work? That you’d never stick it out? That you’re not strong enough, or too old? If I’d believed any of that, I would have told you. I actually believe people can do things they don’t realize they’re capable of. I’ve seen it. I’ve also seen what happens when they’re suffocated by someone who thinks they can’t do anything. Can’t meet expectations. Won’t fit into whatever box has their name on it. It makes me sick.

    I’m a Pollyanna. When I believe in something, I really believe it. I believe it so much that I’m convinced that being positive can influence even the most negative circumstances. I think people struggle with this idea when they really know me, because I’m also very blunt. I haven’t seen a rule that suggests that if I’m an optimist, that I must also be coy. Or “wishy-washy.”

    I suppose some may consider that being wishy-washy is one of my characteristics because I choose not to say exactly what I believe is best at a particular moment in time with five seconds of thought on the situation. Call it the effect of working with and caring for over 1,000 students in my career, each of whom was very different from another. I’d say that being “undecided” about something is more about “flexibility” because the very best decisions are made after time spent measuring and thinking, stewing and talking.

    But that’s difficult for some. Sitting down, making eye contact, and actually talking in a constructive fashion is daunting. I’m supposed to be understanding about this, and I can when I have to, but I’m just not feeling the love right now. What could possibly happen? People might actually understand how one another feels?

    It’s annoying.

    img_6939.JPG

    If I was a calm person, I’d be able to shake it off. People often tell me that. But I’m incapable of shaking anything off. If I was a dog, I’d be a flea bus. Things sit with me, or on me, nudging and poking me to pay attention to them. To argue, to fight, to figure them out…yesterday. Isn’t that ironic? You’d think I wanted to get them over with. But I can’t, because they require time, and what I’ve learned is that with time comes reason.

    Think about all the great aspects of life and living that come with time: babies are born, seeds sprout and blossom, a roast braises, a plot unfolds, wine ferments, love deepens.

    I’ve started this three times and have deleted all that I’ve written. I won’t this time because I’m tired. I shouldn’t be, but I am.

    Going back to the horoscope, as far as a “better idea coming along tonight” is concerned, I’d say yes. I vote for my Fairy Godmother to tap my head with her wand and grant me any wish to come true.

    I’d wish that you were free of worry, Mom. That you could be happy. That you could laugh and enjoy life. That you felt you deserved things…

    …for starters.

    What do you want, Mom? Do you know?

    Have you ever known?

    I can’t imagine.

  • Not a rage in sight…unfortunately.

    I wish I could say I was doing something that was so stimulating I had no time to sit here and write. But I don’t.

    I spend the littlest time possible getting ready in the morning to get in my car and drive to work for half a day. I do errands if I have them. Then I come home. If I’m lucky, I’m able to sit down and write something, but most often now, whatever I write is less than meaningful. It just reminds me that I am not finding the time I used to have.

    Like now.

    I’m supposed to be getting ready for work. The only reason I’m sitting here is because I didn’t get up at 5:10 to walk. I don’t have to drive semi-comatose and less than thrilled about having to go to class teenagers to school today.

    What I can say about this strange life I’ve been leading for the past few months is that it’s very mechanized, and I’ve thought much about people who have led this type of life for years.

    I would have dropped out of the human race long ago if I’d had to do this for any length of time. It’s monotonous.

    My brain can’t engage when I don’t have extended periods of time to do things that require thought. I’m able to just get started, to begin to think, to warm up, and my eyes flit to the clock on my monitor reminding me that I need to get dressed. I need to put make up on. Comb my hair.

    Get in my car.

    I don’t want to.

    I don’t feel like it. But I will. And I will see pleasant people today who will smile and say hello. I’ll do my work, take care of my errands, and come home.

    I’ll take care of a few things that can’t wait any longer, and then the evening is here.

    I have no clue what’s going on in the world because my short time in the car allows me the barest dose of NPR and its incessant diatribe of Iraq.

    I did get to watch Gordon Ramsay last night on Hell’s Kitchen though. I need to rage against something like him.

    Do not go gentle into that good night,

    Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

    Because their words had forked no lightning they

    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

    Range, rage against the dying of the light.

    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    And you, my father, there on the sad height,

    Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Dylan Thomas

    I’d say that just about sums things up. Like I said. I need to rage about something.

    Anything.

  • Blog Horoscope 2008

    Now that I have another year to look forward to blog-wise, I’ve decided to look to the stars to determine what may be in store. It’s not that I don’t believe I have control over this, because obviously, I do.

    I’ve not seen anyone else’s fingers a pecking at these keys.

    Having said that far less eloquently than I intended, please let me define exactly which stars I’m referring to.

    Horoscope stars. And if my limited knowledge in this particular area is correct, a horoscope is dependent on an individual’s ability to discern the extent to which certain celestial bodies are aligned, thereby deciding one’s fate so to speak.

    I wonder if it works for a blog?

    Since I created this blog’s first entry on March 15 (which in and of itself is not a great date when one considers that the Ides of March did not bode well for Julius Caesar), I shall use that as the official “birthday” for this exercise. And please trust that I will not forget to refer back to it to measure the course of accuracy as the year proceeds.

    What? You thought this might end up as the now defunct phoodplan did? My fingers have no difficulty exercising, so the likelihood that this experiment will work is fairly high. No. Calories. Involved.

    So moving right along, after surveying a variety of on-line sources and comparing their main points of interest, I chose this one.

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  • American Idol Short Timers

    I’m throwing in my two cents on which people are going to get voted off American Noodle tonight, because I can imagine that you just may want to bump up your thinking about my ability to just know things. I can’t use this remarkable skill for anything that would make a difference, however, such as winning the Lotto, investing my new wealth in highly intelligent ways that would quadruple my winnings nearly over night.

    You know.

    Like when viral traffic is driven to your site after you show lame photos of celebs in compromising situations, or tell completely hilarious stories about what your little kids say about body parts and that sort of thing. *heart you, mel* Okay, so maybe not quite viral. But still.

    Then I could be added to the list of the world’s richest people, causing them to look over at me when we are all lined up for our photoshoot and wonder…“How did she get here?”

    You’re not falling for this?

    Fine.

    But here are my pix: In the list of “Boys,” 1) Luke (how he has made it this far is beyond me…) because he is the epitome of what Simon loves to call “cabaret” and reminds me of someone who takes the stage in a decent sized Vegas casino in the afternoon before the real action starts. But he is handsome, so if he isn’t booted off tonight, it’s because he keeps getting the hunkster vote. 2) David Hernandez. He sounds great when he’s on key (I know…), but gets lost in the mix. Well, that is until people found out what his day job used to be. That will probably get him votes since it has nothing to do with singing. Or, I’m thinking some members of the audience were really entertained about his bit on having boogers in his nose during his little pre-singing video on Tuesday.

    And for my pix on the “Girls,” 1) Kady. I honestly think the only reason she wasn’t voted off last week is because she looked almost exactly like Alaina who could actually sing. 2) Amanda has to be off. I know it’s nice to keep a rocker around, but the person needs to be able to sing and she’s already got the attention she needed to hook up with a band who needs a lead. Plausible? Nah — I’m just making it all up. But it’s funny watching her not smile, like if you’re a rocker chick, it’s against the rules.

    Okay, you heard it here. Place your bets at the door on your way out.

    And take a second to admire our sunset this evening. I haven’t seen one quite like this in quite a while, thanks to the RTR who knows his mom loves a colorful sky and yelled from downstairs so that I wouldn’t miss it.

    Nice kid, huh? IMG_6471.JPG