life according to me
How was your weekend? Lovely and everything you dreamed of? I certainly hope so — especially if you are one to have weekends off. I’ve lived in both worlds: working nights with never a weekend day off, and working the daily grind with every weekend off — that is if you consider having to plan lessons and grade umpteen gazillion papers down time. Um, no.
So what did we do this weekend? Shucks. I thought you’d never ask.
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.
It’s Spring Break here.
That means that at least in Paradise, the clear blue sky and brilliant sunshine will coax you outside after you’ve donned your tee-shirt and shorts only to find that the air is less than warm. Chilly, in fact. It’s rude.
What’s even more rude is having to look at winter legs that need lotion, a good shave, and some color.
Whatever.
Spring Break is also a time for the RTR to engage in some serious house potato-ing. Yesterday he saturated himself with shows he DVR’d in preparation for this week. Today, he’s mid-gorge session, loading the second of three Pirates of the Caribbean DVD’s. The blinds are closed and the sensurround is turned up enough to cause the floor to vibrate on the good parts.
Arg, mateys.
It’s 11:08 pm which means I still get to post my bloggoversary cake. They’re actually cupcakes, but still. Take a bite. I made ’em ‘specially for today.
I know. I forgot the candle. If you’re dying for that I’ll have it on my food site.
And yes. I have a new theme. No complaints, okay? At least not right now.
The sprig with the water drops is kind of nice (I already looked in the images file to switch it out…) and the single side bar is okay, but I’ll have to get used to the real estate at the bottom. No matter.
Funny how this one is aqua, too. I’m seriously not planning this. It just happens.
But I’ll work on it.
Firebug is making a bit more sense now, so I may just be able to change that color after I figure out the new header.
Don’t you just love a work in progress?
That would be me.
So cheers!
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.
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?
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. 
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
If you haven’t been reading my blog for any length of time, then you need to know that my idea of Wordless Wednesday is to write less than four or five pages in a single post and add photos. That would be today, even though the orange glow of the setting sun on the houses across the street reminds me that this is easily categorized as better late than never.
Whatever.
I have a foodie blog friend who lives in Ohio who often mentions their weather in less than loving terms. Suffice it to say that her description of mornings finding her car door frozen shut have been quite colorful and completely hilarious.
I have been hounding her for photographs of her home town all winter, and yesterday I received them. Oh. My. Goodness. I had a clue because my mom recently moved to upstate New York and has sent me a few, but she isn’t out in her car. No sirree.
So… I ran outside and took a few of my own photos to warm her up. I figured since most of you live in places much more…um…FRIGID than I do, I’d warm you up also.
It has been in the mid-seventies for two days now. Even I like it which is semi-miraculous considering the grumpster I am about Paradise and sunshine.
We slept with our windows open last night, and today?
Today I put on my shorts, went for a walk, and sat down by the beach waiting for the RTR to finish up with his math tutor (news at eleven…) and watched the surfers.
Totally excellent. Dude.
I’m sitting here just like I so often used to each day, wondering where I should begin. No, not with my writing. That’s rarely an issue because I can just sit down and write most anything I feel like writing. Whether anyone wants to read it is a completely different issue, isn’t it? Sometimes, it’s more of a battle with respect to what tone I want to indulge in, or how many distractions there are on my screen that also vie for my attention. I look at the clock in the upper right corner of my toolbar and am always alarmed at where the time has gone.
Some of my diversions are quite relevant, as they relate to current events that occupy my mind like the debate between Hillary and Obama last night (and I’ll bet you just can’t wait for me to spew about the whole health care issue, right?) Or the outcome of the first round of eliminations on American Noodle (and wasn’t that cut throat the way the first kid went out?). But many of the distractions that delay my writing when I actually get to wallow in Bloggsville now, are anything but. They’re more like pleasant detours involving the people I’ve met along the way for nearly a year now that I’ve been writing at kellementology and in the land of foodies. Very pleasant detours, diversions, and distractions, all.
I’ve been trying to get organized, finding that I don’t use my blogroll in either of my blogs. I know. You’re thinking that a blogroll isn’t for me — it’s more to let everyone else know whom I enjoy reading, and to share a link which helps them in the land of Google and Technorati, and all things virtually searchable or something like that.
So in an attempt to keep in better touch with others, I’ve begun to collect feeds in the reader I chose — Netvibes. I know everyone else seems to use Google Reader, but my affiliation with Google is only through my membership in the Daring Bakers, the ever expanding group (I think there are well over 500 members now…) of loveable foodies with whom I bake once a month. My food blog is hosted by TypePad (which is a network I almost never wander around in for some reason), and this one is my very own, of course. Without my connections to MyBlogLog, Blog Catalog, and more recently, EntreCard (which I haven’t developed a strong opinion about one way or the other), I wouldn’t be very good at keeping up with people. Feh, like I have actually been doing that successfully anyway.
So I’ve changed the settings on my Mac to open to my Netvibes home page and am racking up the feeds. I know you’re snickering right now thinking that I’ve been under some rock and that having recently freed myself, have discovered something that has been around since Al Gore discovered the Internet.
Go ahead an laugh. I can take it.
But the big question is — are YOU in my reader?
With nearly a week ahead of us and the rarely accurate weatherman’s doom and gloom forecast for the week messing with our heads (not), our jaunt to the Ritz-Carlton Laguna Niguel as a Valentine from the MoH to moi is now officially a memory.
But what a lovely one.
Remember those commercials that one of the cruise lines used to run depicting an average person pumping gas and day dreaming about their experience in temporary splendor? Doesn’t ring any bells? Fine.
Well, that was our weekend at the Ritz. Totally. Amazing. Now, it would have been a bit better if the coffee we stopped for on the way would have had a lid that actually kept the coffee IN the cup instead of dripping down my white shirt, but no problem. I just happened to have a damp towel in the car so I could wipe down the console on the way to keep the valets from actually knowing we were slobs instead of just wondering.
I’d been to the Ritz once before with a group of girlfriends and since then, a make over of more contemporary lines, patterns, and color palate has given the hotel a fresh summery look — so much so that I had trouble remembering it was mid February. You know, with temperatures in the high sixties and low seventies instead of mid-eighties? Sorry. I couldn’t resist. You do understand that I would enjoy having a real winter, right? I know I’ve made that perfectly clear.
But I digress.
So how relaxing was it?