kellementology

life according to me

Category: Fridays

  • Dorothy, you’re sort of in Kansas.

    This morning before leaving for work, the MoH told me that my mother was headed into some very severe weather. Right before heading upstairs to see for myself, I heard that storms had gone through in the night and that someone had died in Missouri.

    Glancing at the clock, thinking of the two hour time difference, and knowing my mother’s Emily most likely woke her up at the crack of dawn, and that she’d been driving for a few hours already, I knew my mother was probably not in a great place.

    “Where are you?” I began as I have for the past few days.

    “Headed into Little Rock, AK,” she responded as I stared at the weather map opening up on my monitor covered with huge yellow and red sections punctuated with exclamation marks indicating tornado watches.

    “Mom, there’s an enormous storm headed right for Little Rock. You have to stop. Go into a coffee shop or something.”

    “Well, it’s strange, because there isn’t anybody on the road this morning.” She’s been traveling on the I-40 with lots of big rigs. “But my sister called a while ago and told me to turn on the radio and listen. I heard about last night.”

    “There’s nobody on the road because they know about the weather, Mom. You have to stop. You might have to leave Emily in the car.”

    “Okay, don’t worry about me too much.”

    About 45 minutes or so have gone by as I continue to watch the weather and I finally decided to call her again.

    Do you think she stopped? No. She drove right through it saying “it got really dark for a while, but the sun’s out now so I’m going to stop for lunch.”

    Unbelievable.

  • Gullibility and a Strong Core

    In case you were wondering, I’m alive. I did go out on a couple of early morning walks this week, smartly attired in my plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt. By the time Thursday rolled around, though, I was on auto pilot and made a nose dive back into bed. Rude.

    Tone your core while you blog! But today is Friday, and you know how I feel about that under normal circumstances, but today? It is my very first non-working, permanently retired if I feel like it Friday. Okay, so retired from working for others work. Payroll work. Having to get dressed and go to work work. So how did I celebrate?
    I broke in my new ball.  I sat on it all day and tried valiantly to do something about the organization of this pathetic looking blog of mine.  Nothing has improved on the blog, but at least I’ve rolled and swirled and bounced myself toward a firmer core.  Yes, you, too can burn calories while you blog!  Of course we may not be able to get out of bed tomorrow, but still.

    What else is new?

    Not much, but yesterday when I was coming out of the grocery store with one of my green bags I finally remembered to remove from the trunk, a young man with a nice smile and a multitude of those disks inserted in his ears and a few other places I can’t remember right now, looked in my direction. He had a clipboard and a purpose.

    “You want money, right?” I began since I’m not very good at beating around the bush when I talk. His eyes even smiled.

    “Do you know about Greenpeace?” he began.

    “Of course I know about Greenpeace,” I told him, flashing on images of news footage years ago of ships with nuclear reactors being prevented from entering a port in Australia or something like that. “But do you have any idea how many requests we get each week for contributions? It’s out of control. Even NPR hasn’t been able to peel my money out of my fist yet.” Who do you give money to when everybody wants it? His smile never left his eyes as he let me blather on until I asked if I could make a donation on line. And when he began to respond, I interrupted him realizing that he wouldn’t get credit for the donation.

    “I need to be able to show something for my effort her today,” he told me.

    “So fine, can I give $15?”

    “No, we’re only set up to take monthly contributions,” he told me, explaining that it helped the organization have a more steady stream of cash instead of having to wait until the end of the year for a lump sum.

    “Okay. Okay. Okay. Where do I sign? Can I do $10 a month?”

    “No, I’m sorry, the minimum is $15. That’s only $5 more,” he added as I looked away from the form I was already filling out, and making it easier for those leaving the store to escape my fate.

    “I can add. The math’s not that challenging,” I mouthed off, and he laughed good-naturedly, most likely thinking I was nuts.

    “Do you want a sticker?” he continued as used the side of a brown crayon to rub an impression from my credit card on the form.

    “Sure. I need something to show for my money, right? And if someone steals my credit card number, Greenpeace will be paying the bills. Make sure you tell them that, okay?” I called over my shoulder after picking up my green bag to walk away. “I’ll blog about you…”

    “Thanks!” he said, still grinning. Talk about job satisfaction. Jeez. But I always wonder when I send off a contribution to any organization, just how much of it is eaten in administrative costs.

    So when the MoH got home, I asked what he knew about Greenpeace since I joined.

    “Great. They float around on a boat and cause a lot of problems,” he mumbled, partly in jest.

    I’ll have to work on him a bit more. He’s no where near to being green.

  • Who pulled our plugs?

    Who pulled our plugs?

    A couple of days ago, on the day after the official end of busy season, I was speaking to someone at work and mentioned that I’d considered calling 911 when I woke up that morning, in jest, of course. You may recall my whining about needing air in my tires or something, yes? And when the individual questioned me about whether or not I was in charge of my own destiny, I became annoyed.

    (more…)

  • Walking, talking, and thinking about good things.

    It’s still dark in the morning when the alarm goes off at 5:10 and I rarely hesitate before throwing back the covers to step over the doggo and find my way to the closet. If I’m lucky, I’ll avoid the Yack Star, who will want to eat, and actually make it downstairs with two shoes that go together. Navigating the stairs in the dark is scary enough to have to feel my way along the wall, making sure I land solidly on each step.

    Still not quite sure I’m awake, I glance at the clock and notice that only a few minutes have passed, so I pause long enough to grab a glass of water. My heart is pounding as I reach for my car key and wallet, hit the garage door button and fall into the driver’s seat. I cautiously back out, and head to my friend’s house, sometimes not quite realizing that I’m not still under the covers, snug and sleeping soundly.

    I never know if she’ll be awake when I arrive and so use the sloping curb of her driveway to stretch my stiff calves while I wait. Once in a while, the elderly man who lives across the street comes out, wanting to know who I am. He’s just being a good neighbor. But since my friend and I have gotten back into the swing of things, she’s been up and ready to go. I’ve not had time to even consider whether I’ll be brave enough to tap on the glass next to her front door, hoping she’ll hear me, and causing her dogs to bark.

    We start out with her loping yellow Lab each morning, barely awake, and it seems the first point of discussion is food. Often it’s more of a confessional, with comments like, “I wasn’t very good yesterday,” or “My husband looked at me and said, ‘Wine?’” Other times our talk is about which recipes we’ve tried. Somehow it makes getting up and over those hills much more easy.

    There’s something soothing walking that early in the day. The annoyance of cars leaving for work or taking kids to school comes much later, and except for the occasional ghostly shadow of someone who has ventured out to retrieve their morning paper, we see no one.  Hear almost nothing beyond the rustle of some small animal in the ivy, or the soft hooting of an owl somewhere high up in the eucalyptus trees.

    We’ve improved our route time by about six minutes even though we haven’t worked to do that. And only one incline continues to kick our butts, even though we’ve figured out that if we’re absorbed in a conversation, our minds don’t linger on the agony of lungs stinging for air or bodies gravity insists upon keeping close to the asphalt.

    As we approach the end of our route and the last rise, I feel the air change. It’s warm, and hints of the weather we’re to have this weekend — sunny and near 80 on the coast. For a moment, I think of summer and all that comes with it.

    By the time we return to the starting point, the sky is much lighter, and I drive home knowing that I’ve done something good for myself. We’ve walked about 16 miles since Sunday and I smile, acknowledging that it’s not bad for two well-seasoned chicks. I make plans for my day — not strict plans, though, because it’s Friday and I don’t have to do anything if I don’t feel like it.

    But I do feel like it. I feel like continuing to think carefully about what I eat. I feel like finding a place for my mom to live when she returns to Paradise from her non adventure on the Wrong Coast. I feel like cleaning my house, and planting some flowers, and lining up what I’ll be cooking this weekend.

    And I feel like spending time with the MoH who has been putting in 15-hour days. With any luck at all, I’ll actually get to see him. It puts a dent in my style when he’s not around.

    Maybe I’ll bake something with dark chocolate.

    It’s loaded with antioxidants, you know.

    Happy weekend.

  • Wild Mustard & Spanish Tests

    Ahhh…the delightfulness of a Friday yawning ahead of me with nary a plan in sight. My favorite sort of day.

    I should have known that it might not be so when I forced myself to get up at a minute before eight because at least I could have bragging rights to it. Not that there would be anyone who cared, of course. Most people I know would have lounged in bed after getting up at 5am for the past three mornings to walk a few miles before starting the day. My feet hurt. My ankles hurt. My back hurts in a place I didn’t even know existed. It is so true about what they say about using it or losing it. I’d like to lose it, because at least then it wouldn’t hurt.

    I valiantly edged out from underneath the rising garage door to retrieve the paper, averting my eyes from anyone on the block who might see me in my tacky sleepwear of wrinkly lime green tee and wadded up brown and pink polka dot bottoms. What might they think?

    That I’m a blogger?

    I was determined to straighten up the kitchen, and then relax with my coffee. I’d read the local paper, which hasn’t been removed from its bag in quite some time, building up in the garage after being kicked in each day to collide with the others in a move one might execute in a lawn game involving colorful balls.

    I did get the kitchen cleaned, but I never made it to the paper.

    And somehow it was suddenly 11:40. And then it was 1:55. How does that happen? I knew I had to pick up the my son at school and drive him to spend the weekend with his cousin who is also sort of like an only child. They have quite a bit of fun together laughing about things I can barely understand. It’s fun to watch them and it’s important that they spend time together.

    But my son had a Spanish test today, and I made the grave error of asking him about it after we were involved in the kind of talk we both enjoy while on the way to his cousin’s house. Like smacking each other when we see a Prius and yelling, “LunchBox!”

    I know. But we think it’s hilarious. If we see a red one, it’s worth three. I’ll get around to explaining how it came to be some day when I’m not wallowing yet again in self loathing.

    At some point, after I’ve explained my frustration with his chosen inability to learn enough Spanish vocabulary to understand the questions he’s expected to answer on exams, when he can memorize entire lines of dialogue and recite them ad nauseum, he does direct my attention to the hills that edge the freeway.

    They’re ablaze with wild mustard. You know it’s spring in Paradise when the wild mustard blooms alongside the golden poppies, and it is quite beautiful when you take the time to notice.

    mustard04.jpg

    He is doing more than trying to change the subject.

    He’s trying to make me feel better because he knows I love pleasant distractions. He also knows that I am so tired of anything that has to do with school I can’t see straight. I have spent only four years of my entire life without being involved in school at some level and those years were the first four of my life.

    I’m so fried, I’m crispy around the edges. Done.

    I dropped him off, telling him to apologize for me about not going in to say hello to my sister-in-law. After removing his bag, guitar, and box of models, he shut the car door and bent over to look through the window at me. Smiling.

    Nice kid. Really.

    Too bad his mom’s a pain in the ass. And my state only deteriorated after dealing with Friday traffic in Paradise which isn’t nearly as bad as that of L.A., but bad enough. The trip took nearly three hours. Three.

    And so I’m sitting here sifting through the remnants of this day, looking at a card I found shoved in a drawer I was looking for batteries in earlier today. My mouse finally died, and when I pushed through the clutter, I found the card. It was given to me by two people whom I once knew. The inside message was hand-written and I think it’s apropos:

    I am still determined to be cheerful and happy in whatever situation I may be in, for I have also learned from experience that the greater part of our misery or happiness depends upon our own disposition and not on our circumstances.

    — Tehmina Qureshi

    So true. So very true.

    Good to think about on a Friday.

  • A nice little Friday rant.

    I’m supposed to be paying bills. I used to harass the MoH about not paying them on time and isn’t it amazing that I’m doing the exact same thing. It’s nice to know after so many years of bliss that I can learn about yet another of our common proclivities: procrastination. Misery does love company, doesn’t it?

    I should also be cleaning my kitchen, but I don’t feel like it. If I really rolled up my sleeves and did what needed to be done (reorganize ALL the cupboards) I’d be in there all weekend, and I’d rather clean toilets. Well, not really, but it sounded good when my fingers typed it.

    I really need to schedule our flights for our summer vacation, but I purchased a couple of travel books last week and after plowing through them with stickies and hi-glow yellow marker in hand, made a decision to sort of re-route the vacation, which of course, changes what we need to do with flights to and from there. So do I hop to it, and take care of the plans? No.

    I have problems staying on track just writing from one day to the next. Can you imagine all the bright and sparkly things my brain is diverted by when making travel plans? It’s shameful and I’m completely entertained by it all.

    And to confirm that all I really am is a total nerd, what I was derailed by today was this article. It’s Friday, for gawdsakes. I should be out basking in the loveliness of the day, doing some spring cleaning which I actually enjoy and go figure that reorganizing the kitchen doesn’t fit into that category…

    I should be not sitting here. But I am.

    (more…)

  • Just another Friday

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

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

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

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

    “Yes.  I’m ready.”

    “Do well on your tests today, okay?”

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

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

    “I won’t, Mom.”

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

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

    “See-yah-later.”

    “See you later, too,” I finish.

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

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

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

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

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

     

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

    the RT

  • Hair Truce at the O.K. Salon

    Hair Truce at the O.K. Salon

     

    I survived the salon. I was described as “glowing” by Marco and Jocelyn — before the big equipment rolled out. It must be those hot flashes I endure nightly. People are beginning to notice. I must be singed around the edges or something. Crispy crunchy. It most certainly can’t be my personality, which isn’t exactly electric. Magnetic? Hmmm… Nevertheless, they were glad to see my money —the MoH’s cash —my plastic that the MoH pays for me again. And that’s the RT in the photo. I just wanted to see your jaw drop onto your keyboard.

    No matter how much I try to get the lovely people at the salon to understand that I don’t care what they do with my hair, they’re fairly conservative. I beg for layers. For dark hair. For sassy. But I get, “Blonde works best for your grey areas because it blends as it grows out.” What they’re most likely worried about is whether I have lawyers ready to slap a suit on them for ruining my hair. Paradise, remember? Like a good client — well, except for that 10-month lapse — I give in to their suggestions every time knowing that they really don’t want me to look like Pepe le Pieu. I tell them, “Short is okay.” But I get layers that only I notice. Conservative ones. They must know how much I’m damaged by having to wear underwear on my head when I was little. They must know how much I like hair that goes where it is supposed to go. And they totally understand that I have to have a pony. They probably figured out a long time ago that I’m fairly high maintenance even though I love to suggest that I’m not. Might I lobby for being discriminating instead?

    It was a relaxing catch up session, and a leisurely perusing of Fast Company magazine — my attention captured by an article on Travis Knight, the man who will inherit Nike, and another about Al Gore’s $100 million makeover. I should have been looking at a magazine with humongous photos, because I didn’t have my glasses. But I’m a great masochist — especially with an audience, so why not act like I can see the page? The fact that my arm was extended as far as it could possibly reach most likely gave away my sham, but the ordeal kept me occupied during waiting time between coloring, and accelerating. Shampooing and massaging. Cutting and blow drying. Ironing and trimming. It was a serious challenge to yank the magazine in each time a stylist dashed by to greet a new client. Or cruised by to check on someone’s foils. And if they hadn’t moved me from the spot where I was braising under the hood, my extended arm most likely would have been the cause of one client hitting the deck. The one who caused the whole salon to freeze.

    For about four seconds.

    Then Marco whispered to me that it was only Mary, a mature client who usually arrives for her appointments loaded on OxyContin. Do drop in, Mary! Unfortunate, actually. The salon used to offer red or white wine in addition to hot herbal tea or mineral water, but can you imagine Mary imbibing? Evidently, there was some concern about clients oozing out of their chairs and on to the floor in mid cut. It was thought that might not be good for business to have clients in Paradise laying on the floor with their drawers showing.

    I can’t imagine why not.

    So what do you think?

    Real New Do Is it better than this?

    Before the Cut

    I hope so.

    And you should feel quite special, because it was a bit damp outside this morning on my walk, and damp and my hair don’t exactly mix. I was a veritable fuzzball by the time I got back home. A poodle. An urchin. I had to fix it up again. Just for you. There.

    I’m thinking Keira can have her gorgeousness. I can muster up some glam myself — sans the battery operated fan, of course. Because it would mess up my hair. Not quite Grace in the Fabulous Fifties, and no, not Shelly in the Esoteric Eighties.

    Glam Four Just me, in the…um… ah…well, now. Oh-tees? Whatever.

    So Tah-Dah. Aren’t you glad that’s over? And just in time for Friday. The sky is completely gorgeous today, a soft breeze is ruffling the trees, and an amazing 76 degrees is helping things along — including the eau de dog whiz wafting through the window.

    I’ll have to find somewhere to swish my hair tonight.

     

     

    Somewhere other than this room and for someone other than PhotoBooth. I’m thining the MoH is elected, lucky dude.
    See what happens when you drop out of society? It’s all down hill from here. But with great hair.

    Kind of like dying with your boots on.

    Okay, perhaps not.

  • Fridays

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Fridays are for appreciating that the next two days are special — unless you work, which is too bad. Really. They’re for enjoying the sunshine streaming through my clean — well, sort of clean, but streaked windows, and straightening the house — unless you have a housekeeper, which makes you one up. Fridays are for knowing that you’ve made it through another week, and have most likely not accomplished anything significant. And if you did, well pat yourself on the back, because there’s usually no one standing in line to congratulate you, even though they should. Fridays are for having good friends over to eat exceptional food, drink wine, and talk some serious smack about things that don’t matter to anyone but us. Everything will be solved by the time we’re done. No one will ever have to worry about anything again. Until next Friday.

    So tonight, I’m the hostess with the mostest. Although I can do a knock down drag out job in the kitchen to prepare for these end of the week extravaganzas, I’ve never been able to manage making myself look as good as the food. In fact it’s likely that I’m wearing parts of the menu even as my guests arrive, but no one ever comments about it. You know — like having spinach in your teeth? They’ve also never commented on whether they’ve opened the closets and cupboards I’ve thrown stuff in to give the illusion that my house is tastefully kept. Or mentioned that the couch smells a bit strange near that spot the doggo compulsively licks.

    But today, I’m ahead of the game. In fact, my roots are done, so no one will recognize me. My hair may actually look pleasant. No pony or clip. Combed. Possibly styled. It will distract the others from noticing what’s lacking in my clothes — so “what not to wear.” Who cares? After all, the food will be very un-dietlike.  Truly the only thing that matters.

    Mmmm…Friday…Cheers!