kellementology

life according to me

Category: Gratitude

  • Perfect Days & Apologies

    I think this is the longest I haven’t written since beginning this place I miss so much when I don’t write. And the only legitimate explanation I have for not writing may not make much sense to most.

    I can remember living in a dreary apartment when I was finishing my degree. It was brown. Regardless of how much I enjoy that particular color at this point in my life, somehow, brown then seemed dreary. And it was. It was a means to an end, and I tolerated it because I had to.

    Well, I’ve been having trouble tolerating the orange. I know brown isn’t orange, but still. Surely you must have an inkling of an idea of why this is a problem. Let’s just say my house isn’t in order. Or my blog, in this case. It makes me sad.

    I actually like the layout. I really do. But I spent quite a bit of time on thinking about changing out the orange and switching the font, and all that sort of thing, and when I looked in my files, I saw strange things.

    Can someone please tell me why, oh, why do designers have to subject the rest of us to their particular style of code? I understand creative license, and all, but man.

    I can figure it all out. Really I can. I just don’t want to. I want to download a theme, plug in my widgets, make minor adjustments, maybe have some fun designing a header or two, and then think about writing. Because that’s the whole point of a blog, isn’t it?

    So in fewer words, I’m working on this theme, but not since Thursday, which was days and days ago.

    I guess I just become disgusted, and avoid the problem. And that causes yet another problem because I truly enjoy being here and taking the time to spread my particular style of propaganda. Except I haven’t.

    (more…)

  • Blog Wraps & Ballsy Mothers

    Clearly, my blog is having an identity crisis. A few days ago, my aunt who lives in New York emailed and said my blog wasn’t loading. Outside of that sounding like some strange kind of medical condition, I cringed knowing that things didn’t bode well for my new theme.

    I put a message up at MyBlogLog to see if I could get some responses and people were kind enough to let me know whether they could open my site or not.

    It turns out that Internet Explorer and the Evil Empire *just kidding Bill* was somehow connected to the problem. No comment on that one other than I routinely encourage everyone to download Firefox every time I get a chance, which works just fine. Scott of My Thermos offered to take a look and also pointed out that ads running on my site might also be contributing to the problem. It was pretty cool. His help. Not the problem with the ads. I had downloaded Skype some time ago so that I could IM with my baking friends, so he suggested we use that to try and figure out what the problem was. Like I said. Cool.

    In the meantime, I’ve taken everything out of my sidebars, reported the problem with the ads to BlogHer who quickly responded and guess what?

    It still doesn’t work.

    And the reason everything is purple is because I was trying out different themes this morning and then got sidetracked with my mom (which is normal because we’re sort of unfocused when we’re around each other…) and then I forgot the purple thing was up. I’m trying to find something that will work. You know, because I don’t have anything else to do but play with this ridiculous thing.

    She made it back to Paradise in one piece...catbox and all. But my mom! She made it! w00t! And our doggo has been beside herself with delirious happiness since my mom arrived. My mother is her favorite human in the world. She’s worn herself out following my mother up and down the stairs as her things have been unpacked and now she’s limping pretty badly. The doggo. Not my mother.

    She rolled in at about 3PM Sunday after leaving New York on Wednesday morning. She drove over 700 miles on Saturday alone. Amazing, huh?

    Remember those tornado warnings she drove through? The ones she was supposed to stop and find shelter from? Yes, those. She said it was like the sky just opened up, with blackness on both sides of the I-40 as it angles in a northwesterly path through Little Rock, AK. We later heard that six people died very near there in that storm.

    But she is here safe and sound. We stuffed her full of Huevos Rancheros a la MoH and some wine.

    Stay tuned for more adventures with mom.

    So for those of you who are sick of seeing those books in the background of my photos, you’ll have a change of pace since I’ve moved my Mac from the office to put together a bedroom for my mom. She’s up there fluffing her nest right now going through the things she’s managed to hang on to after moving three times in less than a year. New digs for my Mac.

    It makes me tired just thinking of it. Seriously.

    Thanks for your tolerance with my blog wrap. I’ll get situated.

    And you know about flying pigs, right?

    Um-Hmmm.

  • 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.

  • Open up that golden gate…

    Some time last summer, my mother decided she needed an adventure. A permanent one. She figured that before she was too old to actually do something about it, she would relocate to the East Coast. Maybe that doesn’t sound like an adventure to some, but when you’ve lived in one place for over 40 years, and you’re not planning on returning, it’s an adventure. She’s always had wanderlust, and if someone asked me to sum her up in one rich word, I’d say she’s a dreamer. And that’s not anything to be ashamed of.

    I am, too.

    How does one live any time on this earth without dreams? Without wonderings and urges or hopes to go places different than what she knows best, or become someone other than who she is now?

    I can’t imagine.

    But I’ve also learned that most often, dreams require work, and sometimes, the timing of all that’s necessary to make them come true is wrong. It takes amazing strength to admit that maybe, you’re just not strong enough to make it work. You’re tired.

    Lonely.

    My mother, who turned 70 late last year, has, with the help of her sister, once again packed up her little white car, bundled up her cat, Emily, and yesterday set out for home from upstate New York.

    She’s outfitted with a trip itinerary courtesy of her brother-in-law, a cell phone, and two daughters and a sister who are at computers, keeping watch of weather, and looking for motels along the way.

    Amazing, isn’t it?

    I think she is.

    Anyone who likes to wander,

    ought to keep this saying in his mind:

    “Absence makes the heart grow fonder”

    of the good old place you leave behind.

    When you’ve hit the trail a while

    seems you rarely see a smile;

    that’s why I must fly out yonder,

    where a frown is mighty hard to find!

    California here I come,

    right back where I started from.

    Where bowers of flowers bloom in the sun,

    Each morning at dawning

    birdies sing an’ ev’rything:

    A sun-kiss’d miss said, “don’t be late,”

    That’s why I can hardly wait,

    Open up that golden gate,

    California here I come.

    You go, Mom.

    Escape

  • 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.

  • Lavender and peace of mind

    I’ve been thinking about my mom quite a bit lately. It isn’t that I don’t think of her, because she’s always in my mind at one point or another in a days’ time for any number of reasons.

    When I leave something out of place, I hear her voice telling me to put it away. Or as I complete a task, I remember the times she explained how she would do it instead. I think of her when I cook and when I pull weeds, or when I simply think, because she does quite a bit of it herself.

    Yes, I know everyone thinks. But there are different kinds of thinking. Some are good at avoiding their thoughts. Others think solely to work through the mechanics of a day or a week. Even a lifetime — just so they have something to think about.

    There are those who keep themselves busy so they might avoid their thoughts. Perhaps moving one’s hands works as an eraser might, obliterating memories that replay themselves inhumanely.

    Some people do all of the above simultaneously.

    Relentlessly.

    I can hear her thinking right now.

    The lavender outside my back door is beautiful right now, its deep blue more intense than I’ve seen before. I let it get wild and rarely cut it to bring inside because I enjoy its cascade from the planter encroaching onto the flagstones, the long stems pushing skyward, attracting bees and butterflies. When I brush my hand over the blossoms, sweet fragrance fills the air.

    I couldn’t resist cutting a handful to put in an old vase she gave me a few years ago.

    Lavender for my mom…

    Lavender is soothing, relaxing the mind and the body, and it’s what I always want for her more than anything else.

    So on this Love Thursday, I’m thinking of this first day of spring, and fragrant flowers.

    I’m thinking of my mom.

  • Wednesday Wordlessness. Finally.

    My year in Foh-Toz. Five words. Not bad. Okay so now 12.

    And just to confirm that I am so not wired to be wordless, I began this post some time on Wednesday, of course, and here it is Friday morning. And I’m typing. Words.

    Actually, I’ve been going through my foh-toz from the last year and I’m always amazed about what I learn. Fascinating things such as, 1) I still don’t really know how to use my camera which doesn’t bode well since it’s a point and shoot and can’t be much easier; 2) I take a lot of photos of food — an unbelievable quantity — they need to be deleted — do you have any idea how long that will take? Just another thing to put on my list; 3) I’m enjoying life so much and smile lots every day at very simple things; 4) There’s quite a story attached to almost every single one and although another viewer may not know what that story is, I do.

    I can remember thoughts, concerns, larger events, weather, and so many other not so visible aspects of life connected to each shot. And most of the time, that in and of itself is what brings the smile to my face.

  • Bloggoversary Stats and Memory Lane

    Last night, I couldn’t sleep for some reason, so I found myself as I have so many times in the past sitting here, staring at my Mac. Midnight is most likely not a great time to open Firefox Firebug for the very first time (thanks very much Scott!) oohing and aahing over the newness of it all.

    But I had just finished going through the comments pages on my dashboard , reliving the evolution of my patch of space in Bloggsville and remembering just how things have come to pass. For those of you who are number starved, and whom I promise to continue to try and understand, I’ve included some stats. Hold on to yourself, please.

    (more…)

  • Almost a bloggoversary

    The anniversary of my first year as a bonafide blogger is approaching. You might think, “So what,” at first notice, but there is so much more that I’m mulling over.

    My blogroll is one of them. Although it’s changed depending on the mood I’ve been in, or what mattered on a given day, it’s remained remarkably the same since I began a year ago on March 15th.

    The Ides of March?

    (more…)

  • Where Do the Years Go?

    Twenty-nine years and about two hours ago, I gave birth to my oldest after nine hours of labor with absolutely no meds. I was 22 years old.  What did I know?

    But this isn’t about me.

    It’s about him.  Happy Birthday to You!

    Although I emailed him first thing this morning hoping he’d see it, and tried the cell number I know no longer works, I still don’t have the sense that he knows I’m thinking of him and how very fast time gets away from us all. Yes, I just saw him last Sunday, and sure, he came over and put his arm over my shoulders when I stopped in Whole Foods where he works, but still.

    When I was 29, he was already six and his brother not quite two years behind. I had big hair.

    Not about me. Not about me. Not about me.

    But it has to be about me to some extent, doesn’t it? I’m thinking about how things come to pass. How some decisions are made in life with purpose, and others like confetti has been tossed into the wind. Sometimes, I think life feels somewhat like a house with several rooms — each containing aspects of who we once were and how we lived our lives, kept separate from each of those that follow. When I walk past the photographs that line the wall of our staircase and see the differences in the faces within the frames, it seems those people — we — are not the same people. The events in our lives have changed us.

    As I think of him today, I unlock each of those rooms and enter, letting the memories wash over me, smiling at many, regretting some, and feeling wistful at most. There is so little I don’t remember. I hang on to it all like it was a gift.

    Craig & Me I could write forever about this man whom I swear wanted to live in the Fifties, and what has made him so unique, but I can’t. Not right now. Not today.

    Twenty-nine things will give a glimmer of an idea instead…

    You picked up a pencil to draw when you were two and never stopped.

    You loved Lucy and watched every episode over and over until we thought we’d go nuts.

    You love cats. Love. Them. Even though you can’t breathe around them.

    You never, ever fought with your brother — well physically, anyway. You did call him some interesting things like “gristle, fat, and lard,” which we now laugh about, including him.

    You loved music that we loved so saved us from having to listen to music we were ready to tolerate at best.

    You’ve only really asked for one thing, ever. One.

    I don’t think you wanted to poke out my eyeballs too badly when I encouraged you to go to the prom with that girl.

    Twinkle Eyes Your eyes twinkle when you smile even though they’re so brown I can’t see your pupils.

    You have a completely disgusting sense of humor.

    You love all things retro and used to wish they were still that way.

    You love Corvairs.

    You were in that Corvair club with all those old farts, and didn’t you have to bring a casserole or something once? Bwhahahaha!

    You tolerated the piano lessons until I stopped them, and then told me years later that you wish you’d stuck it out.

    You wear clothes you find that belong to others and it doesn’t matter to you.

    You tolerated a job that nearly sucked the life out of you, keeping you from doing what you really wanted to do. I think.

    You went to the vet when it was time to let Holis go and helped bury him because I couldn’t.

    You cut the molding for the stairs after the MoH and I couldn’t and it took you about three minutes.

    You used to disappear for a couple of days and when you got back, tell us you felt like driving to Arizona.

    You’re better than you used to be about visiting when you said you would instead of not showing up.

    You have always been respectful of me. Well, except the time you didn’t show up for your birthday dinner after you asked me to make it.

    You love your gramster.

    You burn the candle at both ends and don’t know I know it. I know everything. Really.

    You tolerate people and things you wish you didn’t have to — including me.

    Great Brother…well, sort of… You’re still nice to your brother.

    You’ve always been lovely to the RTR.

    You’ve never liked math and ended up studying something that depends on it.  Funny how life works.

    You told me long ago that someday you wanted to buy old houses, fix them, and then let people who couldn’t afford houses live in them. I think you were about 11 or 12. And no, I don’t know where you got that idea.

    You survived how many schools that I subjected you to? Goodness. A kid shouldn’t be as resilient.

    You’ve been friends to people who have taken advantage of you and then you pay for it. Literally. And you just deal with it.

    Is that 29?  Did I count correctly?

    Sigh.

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

    I love you and look forward to seeing you this weekend when I bake my very first gluten-free chocolate birthday cake.

    Goodness.