kellementology

life according to me

Category: Uncategorized

  • Dry & Vacuous

    I finally gave in. I turned on the AC. The MoH and the RT are out and about, so I’m blissfully content and for the first time in days, sans sweat running down my spine, drenching my shorts and giving the appearance I’ve sprouted a leak. I’m in heaven. Truly. I had almost forgotten what dry air feels like, so moist and sticky that it’s been here lately.

    To celebrate the completely vacuous mood I’m in, I’m going to indulge in a bit of nothingness. I could rant about the recent ruling by a judge here in California that will severely limit water to SoCal to save smelt. Or about how much hair our family pets are shedding on everything no matter how much I vacuum. Or whine about gearing up to tackle the RT’s bedroom, but I could work up a sweat and that would destroy the peaceful, dimly lit calm I’m basking in.

    Instead, I’ll comply with an obligation to a fellow blogger. An obligation to release some facts about who else? Me. Intriguing? Not necessarily. But pleasant for me to be able to remember, smile about, then write. Nothing to work up a sweat up about. So thanks to Caught in the Stream for the downtime today…much appreciated. Oh, it’s called the Fab 4, but that’s a matter for you to decide upon.

    4 Jobs I’ve Held: Babysitter — I worked an entire summer watching my three cousins from 8-5 while my aunt worked. I earned $200 and thought I was rich. I was 15 years old…Grocery store frozen food clerk — I worked 4am-1 and ordered, stocked, and inventoried the freezer cases. I’d wake at 3am, pull my two small boys out of bed at 3:30, drive to my mother’s and put them in a double bed in her spare room, then get to work by 4:00. I can tell you that when you get in a warm car after working in a freezer, the fat on your rear end and thighs really itches as it thaws out. Could be handy information…Substitute teacher for five school districts– I did this for about two terrifying months until I was hired by one district and then given a contract. I truly detested not knowing when I went to bed at night where I’d be working, which grade level I’d be teaching, and worse, whether the teacher had left lesson plans or not. I intensely disliked the anticipation of that phone ringing at 5am as well. I had my best day subbing in a place I thought would be the worst, and the worst day in a place that should have been great. Yes, as much as I learned to love them most in later years, middle school kids are not very nice to substitute teachers. Ever. In fact, they’re every bit as ugly as you think they are. Well, except for that time those 3rd graders kept pulling the fire alarm. School Principal — Interesting, but not a fun job. And much more difficult than I believe people know. In my next life, I will not choose this job again. And I won’t explain why because I’d begin to sweat — defeating the purpose of taking the bait on this meme…

    4 Films I Could Watch Over and Over (and already have): The Return of the King (my favorite in the Lord of the Rings trilogy…), The Grapes of Wrath (I love the story, the sets, the history, and Henry Fonda — goodness, but he was quite the intense hunk), Pride and Prejudice (the new one — not the old one, but I’d watch that one, too…).  Why?  Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy…and Notting Hill. I love the scrawny blonde male actor in this movie as well as several of the others I haven’t seen in other movies. Each time I watch it, I laugh.  This list could easily be 100 movies long. I love movies and some day will try and figure out just how many I’ve seen over the years instead of cleaning my house.

    4 Television Shows I Watch: Right now, ZERO. Well, that isn’t quite true. I do believe there are a few more episodes of Top Chef left, aren’t there? And I watch DVRd What Not to Wear, but I’ve seen all of them, so am out of those as well. I eyeball MSNBC financial something or other in the morning while reading the paper after the MoH turns it on, but I wouldn’t turn it on myself. And I loved, loved, loved So You Think You Can Dance this summer and last, wishing I might have learned to dance, knowing that it would’ve been a very difficult path to take in life. But, oh to be able to move my body that way. Amazing. Over all, I’m less than enthused about television. I hear there are good shows out there, but never seem to get around to watching them. The commercials drive me nuts.

    4 Places I’ve Lived: Key West, Florida, when I was in the first grade. I remember the heat, the clear water, my teacher, Mrs. Lindsay who beat me with a ping pong paddle, and giant oleander bushes. And those crabs in the ocean, too. Charleston, South Carolina, when I was in the second grade. I remember an easy walk to school, an enormous train yard, a dense forest beyond that, and a hurricane whose name I can’t remember. I also remember the white fence across the street from our house that had written on it: “F**k a rubber Duck,” and I wondered what that meant. Funny how your brain hangs on to stupid things like that…Rota, Spain, where I lived for four years and love to explore on Google Earth now to see how much it’s changed. Those were the very best years of my childhood — no contest. If I could go back in time to relive any part of my life, it would be this with absolutely no regret. San Diego, California, in about eleven different homes and communities over the years. It’s a pleasant place to live for many reasons — most of which I complain about frequently. It’s all in good fun, but variety would be lovely weather-wise. Add it all up and it’s a lifetime full of sun, sun, and more sun. It’s no wonder I’m a bit tired of it all.

    4 Favorite Foods: So this is like the movie list. I could name 100. To be very simple…Pizza — I love, love, love it. Making it, ordering it, eating it. The only thing I don’t like about it is thinking about how anyone could put pineapple on it. YUCK. But proscuitto, parmesan, arugula and green apple is to die for. Steak — Perfectly seared and seasoned. Delicious. What else needs to be said? Cinnabon — No, not cinnamon rolls. Cinnabon. They’re just different, somehow. Especially that gooey part right in the middle when they’re fresh out of the oven. Goodness, they’re amazing. Salad — in every combination possible. Just get me a trough and I’ll jump in, grazing my way through it. But not slathered with bottled dressing. BLECH. Just light vinaigrettes — mostly made with citrus and olive oil. Delicious.

    4 Websites I Visit Every Day: Hell, I don’t even visit my own every day now. But with the greatest frequency, not counting my own, La Mia Cucina, Wandering the Ether, Freak Parade, Thought Sparks, and Wonderland or Not. Oops! That was five. But there’s at least ten more I’ll check in on when I’m on line. Routinely.

    4 Places I would Love to be Right Now: Floating on my back in the ocean while looking up at the clouds instead of swimming hard to the marker, turning around and huffing and puffing back to shore. It’s one of those “stopping to smell the flowers” aspects of life to take note of. On my way to France, then Italy, then England for a month-long decadent vacation. In the middle of a winter rain storm and sitting with a cup of tea, watching the palm trees lash around, listening to the rain drum against the skylights, and feel the wind blow up against me as I leave the house to get the mail. But I’ll settle for Reading a good book downstairs which is next on my agenda because I’ve finally finished another on my list.

    4 Favorite Colors: cobalt, indigo, aquamarine, and turquoise. You know. Blue. The sad thing is, I don’t have much of it in my house, or in my closet. I wonder what that’s all about? I must be attracted to it because I’m full of piss and vinegar, fire and brimstone and need a bit of cooling off.

    4 Names that I Love but Would/Could not use for My Children: Okay, so now this is lapsing into one of those junior high memes. Who thinks of this stuff? Huh? So how about Chloe, Zoe, Phoebe. I have three boys, so it would have been rude to have named any of them Chloe, Zoe, or Phoebe. Right? But what about Fabio? Oh, wait, that’s cheating. Or Atticus? Octavius? Okay. Popeye? Bwah-hahahahahahaha!

    So, done. And no, I don’t know whom to tag. It seems like everyone’s done this one and I’ve been safe up until now. So if you’re completely brain dead and don’t have anything to write about, tag yourself and give it a go. It’s not too bad.

    Maybe I should come up with my own meme…one that has a nice bite to it…

  • Fly Snappin’ + Eau de Espresso = Blog Love (mwah!)

    I’m whipped. If my butt was dragging any more than it is right now, I’d have to have a skid plate installed on my caboose. And it’s Monday. Jeez. But let’s review why I’m suffering from a serious hitch in my giggy-up today:

    Remember those maggots? The ones the RT and I worked so hard to rid our hacienda of — what, about hmmm…nine days ago? Yes, those. And since I’m in a quizzing type of mood, how many days do you suppose it takes for one of those lil’ maggots to hatch? Uh…that would be…yup. Nine. Give or take a day. Are you still with me here?

    So that would mean that when I came home from somewhere last week after only being gone for a couple of hours, what do you think I was greeted by? Do I hear anyone with “flies” for $500? Yes, flies.

    Hundreds of them. No, I’m not practicing hyperbole. It’s true. They were congregating in one corner of a large window that looks out on our patio….and two more windows that are in the dining room, and another window in the living room. Totally and completely gross. But just for the records, no where near as disgusting as the maggots. House Fly

    And do you think that we’d own a flyswatter? Uh, no.

    But damp dish towels and dishrags are swell fly snappers. You can just go crazy flapping the rag and watch those little black winged annoyances hit the floor in any number of gruesome parts. A head here, a thorax there. The only problem is, sometimes they’re just stunned, and then I find one sort of wandering in a dazed, limping fashion and have to snap it again just to practice my aim. The dog totally hates it, and lowers herself from the couch to slink upstairs. No, I do not hit my dog. She’s just a big chicken.

    This swatting ‘stravaganza went on for three days. Three. I think I got the last one this morning. The problem is, they’re ready for sex and babies two days out of the pupa. Little suckers. So that means while I’ve been snapping the 250 progeny of that one fly left in our house not quite two weeks ago (yes, those little obnoxious insects can lay that many eggs in one sitting…) the remaining one was most likely having an orgy somewhere in our house last night with a friend just sitting and waiting out of my range for the occasion.

    And I’ve been persistent about getting rid of all of them because of course, they carry disease. But wait, you say? They were born and raised in our house, so where could disease come from? Well, they were fairly stupid flies, never exactly finding the cat box in the laundry room, but that was a possibility. The real issue is that they could have found the RT’s bathroom. The one I don’t want the health department to find? The one I tried to shoot Lysol POWER Toilet Bowl Cleaner into from about five feet so I wouldn’t have to actually walk in there? Yes, that bathroom.

    Like I was saying, no flies for me.

    Plus, my oldest son, my brother and his family came to dinner last night, so I couldn’t exactly have buzzing insects in the room and on the food. It’s disgusting to even think about. I scrubbed, and wiped, and vacuumed around and under everything. Hell, I even vacuumed the Yack-Star. I’m sure she’s ready to leave home since I gave her a bath last week, and now have resorted to using the upholstery brush to suck the fleas off her hind quarters. I don’t think she could quite decide whether she liked it (she had her rear hiked up in the air) or was flipped out (her eyes looked as if they were ready to pop out of her head). She’s lucky I don’t have a Flowbee… Flowbee

    So I’m completely pooped. But it was worth it, because dinner was relaxing. Very. And to be honest, I could be whipped for more than just snapping flies and cleaning and cooking. Perhaps it was this…
    German Wine
    Have you ever tried German dessert wine? Well, have you? It’s thick. It’s sweet. And this one smells like flowers and tastes like apricots. You have to SIP it. S-L-O-W-L-Y. And of course, there were two more types to sample after this one. “It never gives us a headache,” my sister-in-law told me the last time we sampled the wine. Umm-hmm. Right.

    But today, well, as I mentioned previously, I’m considering that skid plate about now. But it could have been worse…

    Waking up to the fragrant aroma of a rich, dark coffee, my day would have been perfect. Except the smell of coffee was coming from…uh…me. I reeked of it and most likely have the remnants of a fine grind on my sheets. No, I didn’t sprinkle it on myself in an attempt to stave off the anticipated hangover. Last night, I opened a fresh container of coffee I occasionally treat myself and others to on special occasions. Espresso It has a lid with a pull top and must be vacuum sealed. I’m not sure about what went wrong, but when I pulled the tab, there was a very loud pop, a rush of air, and a good portion of the finely ground black gold sprayed me from head to chest. And whatever hit my head, promptly dropped down my shirt. If I had died from an insta-caffiene attack, the police wouldn’t have had to use white tape to mark my body because of the amount of coffee sprayed across the kitchen behind me. I’m sure there was an outline left. Bless the MoH’s heart. I was already trying to wipe it from my eyes and hair and dig it out of my decolletage when he gently offered, “You need to go in the bathroom and check yourself.” Oh, really? I suppose he could have said, “BWAH—–HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. You look hilarious,” and grabbed the camera for a photo op. But no. He’s a very nice man. Check myself, indeed. Considering that it was quite warm, and I am no stranger to a perpetual coating of sweat, hot morsel that I am…I was bound to smell like the filter in my coffee pot.  Oooooo, baby.

    Yes, I showered. No, it didn’t help.

    Clearly, I needed some R & R today. That’s all.  I don’t think it was too much to expect that I could park my sorry coffee-scented butt at the computer and wallow all over my seriously neglected Bloggsville. But no. My computer or service provider, or who the hell knows — did that ridiculous reassigning of our IP address. I think it does this to get even with me. So I had to fiddle around with the router. And the cable modem. And my network settings. But no. So I had to call the service provider and get warm and fuzzy with the level two help who was nice. While I was crawling under the desk, I asked him about whether they considered that people could be 85 and not able to crawl under desks.  He didn’t answer me. I asked him if I was annoying him.  “Oh, absolutely not!” was his quick reply.  Not helpful.  But then I fixed it.

    So here we are. Finally. Together again at last. I do have a little smile on my face after all of that. Because look what I have.

    Love Your Blog Badge

    Yes, it is so. Another badge. WOOT! I LOVE this one. And many, many thanks to Dawn and Ann, the superior creators of TwistedSister and totally Pissed Off. I heart their blog, too! They’re really just softies. I know they are. And they love a number of the same blogs that I do. Meleah, Paisley, Mad Goat Lady, Sam — whom I neglect = ( I’m so sorry, Sam!)– are excellent people. Great minds do think alike. I’m just getting to know Amber. And I can add Freak Parade, Thought Sparks, Radioactive Jam, and last, but certainly never least, The Domestic Minx. Quite the diverse group, don’t you think? That’s what makes it all so worthwhile. You know there are lots more, right? Lots. So if your name isn’t on this list, don’t get your drawers in a wad.

    Thanks you guys for totally making my day and loving my little spot in Bloggsville– even if I still can’t get the coffee smell off of me. Good thing the MoH likes the way good coffee smells, huh?

  • Dust Motes and Have To Tasks

    I’m remembering the days when I was finishing my degree. I used to settle in at the kitchen table, spread all my books and class notes around me and plan to spend an entire evening or Saturday getting ahead of things. It all sounded so grand and I imagined that all would be good at the end of it.

    But then I’d notice the dust ball under the coffee table.

    And the cobweb above the front door.

    Or the smudges on the kitchen cupboards.

    And wait!  Wasn’t that the microscopic Lego piece the boys were trawling through their toy chest for that I told them I didn’t have time to help them find?

    Oh, and then there were the dust motes.  They drifted down from wherever they began in their dissent to the floor, just waiting for me to purse my lips and puff in their direction to watch their panic.  They were so distracting in the sunlight I wished I could venture out into to do anything but sit and stare at the work in front of me.

    So much for plans.

    And that’s what the past several days have been like. Without the dust motes. Not a dust mote in sight.  It’s not quite as romantic, but replace the dust with the monitor. It’s as distracting. More so.

    The first day, I began my work downstairs. What?  You don’t think I know myself?  I had enough to read and sort through, so I wasn’t worried. But eventually, I had to go upstairs to do more investigating by way of the Internet. Sounds sneaky, doesn’t it?

    It’s true. And so I did.

    But the Internet may as well be a room full of bright and shining objects. A million dust motes reflecting the light of the sun, all determined to keep me from doing what I have to do. I know how children in dull classrooms feel trying to listen to something they have already deemed unworthy of their attention. Email that wasn’t worth glancing at is suddenly my link to an afterlife.  Desktop icons scattered across my screen are calling for my attention, annoyed that I’ve left them to exist in such a state of disarray.  I’m such a failure at this game. I used to be so good at it. I believe I’m used up.  One can only play so long.

    Perhaps the maker of all things has put me in this position so that I will finally make a decision. Or the decision. The one I may have been too naive to make all those years ago. The one I’ve been stepping around for far too long. It’s a game we play, that maker and I.  I’m almost there.  But maybe this project is the cherry on the sundae.  Maybe when I’m done, I’ll actually get to the real task.

    I have gotten some work done, but in memory of those days when my older boys were so young, and I so idealistic, I distract myself from my task with anything bleating for my attention.  Anything.

    It reached the heights of hilarity today when I gathered up my fat, female cat — yes, the Yack-Star — and feeling sorry for the fleas she’s been enduring, lowered her into a sink full of warm water. She was less than happy about this.  Mind you, this was after I had used a regular brush, a flea comb, and a warm sponge on her feet to try and rid the white fur of ugly flea droppings.

    But she outlasted the ordeal with flat ears and howls of horror while the water in the sink turned brown, and then mahogany from the droppings the fleas had left. At one point, I thought there was something wrong with her and that she was leaking.  Or something.

    Afterwards, she purred in the towel as I rubbed her fur and murmured to her that all would be fine. She actually seemed fine, and maybe more comfortable for the effort of it all.  I would not have tried this diversion from my work with my black cat.  It would have been an ugly sight for the MoH to come home to if I had.

    I would think that bathing one’s cat is quite a stretch to take to avoid doing one’s work.

    It’s funny how I’m never distracted by anything when I’m writing here.

    Ever.

    If there was a blogger’s god, she would pay me for this work I put my heart in to.

    Wouldn’t she?

    What if I promise to stay on task, keep my house spotless, and never say bad things about my neighbors again? Eat fish on Friday? Give money to the slackers that beg with signs at the busy intersections around town?

    No?

    Fine. I’ll get back to work tomorrow. And stay on task. No memories. No shiny stuff. Just work.

    I know. Quit whining.

    Whatever.

  • August Dog Days of Sweat

    See the face up there in the header? The one with the gaping mouth. That would be me. Me dealing with — or half-assed trying to deal with and summarily failing to deal with the heat. And the humidity. OH MY GAWD.

    I knew I never liked this kind of weather. But now I know I really detest it. Completely. And one might think that one might lose some poundage since she’s sweating rivers all day. But no. Instead, I make like a dirigible, or something. Oh, that I could float away on a summer breeze to a place far, far away.

    So if you’ve been taking notes, don’t ever plan a vacation here in August. Ever. Or September. Or October. It’s too freaking hot. And I don’t want to hear it from you guys from the Right Coast. Okay? You’re so done with the sucky weather about now, aren’t you? Plus, you get rain. We never get rain. Well, at least we haven’t had any this year. Okay, I know Texas is floating away and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, truly, but do you have any idea when the last time it rained here? Huh? My glasses are sliding off my nose. The inside of my elbows (is that an anatomically correct description?) are sticky, and the back of my knees (see parenthetical insertion earlier in this sentence) are beginning to drip. Hell, my fingers are sweating. Is that even possible? I’m beginning to feel like a braised dumpling.

    It’s Sunday evening. I’ve just finished making yet another knock down drag out pasta dish. (Check out the lips in the side bar….swagger, wink) And a salad I’ll have to try again all by itself just to savor the interesting flavors. And where do you suppose everyone else is? Downstairs. They’re watching 300. A couple of them for the umteenth time. They’ve eaten, and now they’re going to wallow, yet again, in surround sound, chest thumping, guts and glory. No thanks.

    I’ll just bitch and moan all by myself. (Insert fingers in ears at this point.)

    I haven’t been cranky all day. I did get to slide into the Pacific a bit after 8:00 this morning, the sea grass no longer grossing me out to the degree it used to. The water a soothing 75 degrees. The water smooth as glass with barely a swell to disturb the surface. If only I could get my fins on gracefully. But no. No matter how regally I stride into the water, and then lower my body in to slip on my fins, even the most gentle swell pushes me back into the sea grass, knocking me on my ass, scooping copious amounts of heavily grained sand into the crotch of my conservative black Ralph Lauren one piece suit. The one that’s three years old. The one that if I suck in my gut, I don’t look quite so bad. Well, to me, anyway. Like that matters, since what I’m there for is to swim. I’ve developed a bit of the buff attitude since I’ve figured out that quite a number of people are less than comfortable with the idea of swimming in the ocean. Interesting. (This is another swagger opportunity.)

    Today, I decided again to try the snorkel and mask so can swim differently, pick up more speed, and if I gird my loins, take a peek at any fish that may be swimming near by. Do I need to tell you what a pain in the ass the whole mask and snorkel are? Yes, the fish are great — well, the small ones — but the little black gizmo that keeps my snorkel pipe attached to my mask broke while I was already out some distance, so I had to find a different way to keep the stoopid pipe in the air. That would be the whole purpose of wearing it — so I could breathe while I was swimming, right? But then all was fine, and I was able to look at what little I could see under the surface of the water.

    Long golden strands of kelp still attached to the sea bed swayed in the current, the water a slightly cloudy and pale aqua hue. A shadow here and there — perhaps my own or that of my friends — caught my eye occasionally. And there were columns of bubbles rising heavily to the surface, released by scuba divers far below. Occasionally a fish would leap from the water and then quickly back flop back in. And if I wasn’t paying attention, I found myself swimming in circles with my friends far ahead, calling, “Where are you going?” like it was some kind of a plan on my part. Yes, a plan to put one arm and then the other into the water and stroke, stroke, stroke to shore where by 9:00, the small sandy beach was already packed with people, their towels and blankets spread on the damp sand, ready to bake themselves in the already sweltering heat.

    I’d like to be there right now, floating in the briny water. Letting the gentle swells lift me up, then leave me behind to wait for the next. It was lovely.

    But now it’s hot. And it’s nearly 10 PM.

    Wrecked Web

    I’d go out on the patio to cool down since every window that can be opened is opened, and the air is thick, damp, and still. But I can’t. It’s that time of the year, and the orb weavers are back. They have a tendency to build their webs very near the patio door, and across the patio, so when one of us tries to venture out to get the cats in for the night, or to look up at the stars or the moon, we snap the web across our faces and run screaming back into the house. Well, not quite, but we’d like to. It’s pretty disgusting imagining whether the spider is in my hair or not.

    Wjat

    The white blob in the center is the spider. If it’s this large already, I can’t wait to see how big it grows this season. Perhaps I’ll give them names this year. Gus. Or Barney. Maybe Eddie. Why not?

    And it’s a bit sad to see the damage we cause after they’ve worked so hard all evening to create their webs. I’m sure they’re disgusted by us and our nighttime fumblings. But they get right back to business after we’ve gone, and by morning, they’ve taken the whole web down and are no where to be seen.

    Just. Like. That.

  • I owe, I owe, so off to work I go.

    Well, it’s happened. I actually have a responsibility that will take up quite a bit of my writing time. And I actually get paid to do it. Yes, it’s writing. No, it isn’t creative — well, not creative writing. The writing is for a project that is very creative, and extremely worthwhile.

    So much for languishing in Bloggsville whenever I want for as long as I wish.

    Now I have to figure out how I’m going to manage writing here, writing for submission, and writing for the project. Okay, reverse the order on that list, and that’s the frame of mind I need to be in.

    I know there are most likely people out there who can manage this — in fact, much more — and I would have been able to as well about this time last year. But I know myself. And when I jump off the treadmill, it’s quite difficult for me to jump back on while it’s running at a good clip.

    So schedule it is. Goodness knows I’m good at that. I scheduled every minute of every day for most of every year for nearly two decades. I still shudder with the horror of it all.

    Regardless, I will recommit to the habit of each night, doing my schedule for the next day. It’s a compromise, considering that my life was scheduled from a yearly, monthly, and weekly perspective before. I’m not breaking out my planner. Yet. But I may have to. Ugh. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.

    But I can’t neglect you. It would keep me awake at night, wondering about how you’re doing, and imagining what you thought about why I’d abandoned you.

    So don’t give up on me. Not just yet.

    It’s all for a good cause. I’ll tell you about it later…

    Time is money.

    Sigh.

    p.s. The woman across the street is speaking very loudly to her gardener about making the hole for her lemon tree deeper so the water can run into it. He has an accent and his English is very intelligible, but broken. She must think that if she yells her directives as if he is deaf, he will understand her better. And the man must be quite patient, tolerating such a client.  He’s already completed the task, and the woman is now praising him with the tone a Kindergarten teacher uses on a 5-year-old who has remembered to wash his hands after exiting the restroom. I’d pay money to know what he’s thinking about her right now. Who the hell came up with the idea of “ignorance is bliss?” Jeez.

    Okay, now I’m behind. Ugh.

  • Birthdays Boys and Paradoxical Sunsets

    I could mull over the paradox that is “America’s Finest City,” or what I lovingly refer to as Paradise:

    palm trees and NIMBY pettiness;

    temperate climes and a questionable, tenacious city attorney;

    luxury housing and chronic homelessness; or

    cutting edge schools and an on-going disparity in achievement between African American and Latino students, and Caucasian and Asian students.

    But I’d rather not. Well, not today, anyway.

    It was the MS’s (Middle Son) birthday yesterday, and at his request, we moseyed on over to Joe’s Crab Shack to sit upstairs, squint and sweat in the setting sunlight, eat, drink, and listen to The MS’s good friend talk about techniques for meeting women. It seems he’s purchased quite a number of products on eBay on the subject and is very close to being a poster child of sorts, soon to hit the road and profess his new found wisdom. The MoH was enthralled, but only long enough to ask about the young man’s success rate.  Mmmm….numbers.

    The RT remained mortified throughout the meal, especially since the MS’s friend directed a good bit of his commentary toward the RT, and encouraged him to “take notes,” because if he’d known at 15 what he knows today…well. The RT? A kid who couldn’t bring himself to walk down the “pink aisle” in Toys R Us when he was little? Uh, no. No note taking on the “how to snare women” lecture.  But graciously, the MS’s friend shifted his tutelage to that of something more closely related to the RT’s interests:  war games.

    Before long, the two were discussing a way to profit from purchasing models, painting them, and then selling them.  Of course, with some financial padding from D-A-D to really get things going.  Great.  Headlines on Yahoo read:  “Teen makes fortune in garage.  You, too, can have a home-based business…”

    But the MS was quiet — a rarity. He’s already familiar with his friend’s good-natured schtick, but still. It was his birthday and he’s been making his presence known verbally since he was born, earning him the nickname, “Cryin’ Ryan.” No, he’s never been a whiner.  Quite the opposite. He is much more quiet in his utterances now, but he always has something to say, always. Information, information, information.  So I found myself wondering whether he regretted inviting his friend, whom we all have known since the two were in junior high, and have enjoyed. Who knows.

    Maybe he was mulling over being yet another year older. Uh, what about me, here?  Or rethinking Joe’s. They have been known to circle the table to howl a birthday ditty while urging the guest of honor to gallop around the restaurant, straddling a child’s pony on a stick. Really. Or, he could have been lamenting the lack of a Birthday Check at that point in the evening, which did surface later.

    Perhaps it was the homemade card. Homely Mugs (No, it’s not snowing — that’s art.)

    The MS’s Bday “Cake”

    The birthday “cake?” (I had the peaches, okay? And those are blueberries, not raisins, so unscrew your nose. Besides, it’s not your “cake.”)

    Note And the greeting for his arrival on our front door? (What’d you expect? Balloons? That’s so junior high.)

    Aren’t you glad you’re not one of my offspring? It takes work to keep them humble, but they keep coming back for more.

    We finished our dinner and beverage-ez right at the 7PM tourismo hour, walked across the street to the beach and headed toward Crystal Pier to enjoy the sunset. Various and assorted “night folk” were already gathering, others settling in for the night with blankets, bags full of worldly possessions, and a ragged novel in hand to squint at in the waning light. Welcome to my bedroom…Only one less than cogent fellow verbally accosted us, yelling something none of us could quite understand. But we weren’t special, because he seemed not to discriminate in his quest to let people know he was there. Yelling. And trying to get into the restroom, which was locked. So add that to my list above:

    Blazing sunsets and incoherent drifters.

    Yes, you might be able to see just why Paradise is a veritable paradox — a place where you never actually have to stick your head in the sand to be a card-carrying member of the “not my problem” club.

    You can just allow yourself to be hypnotized by the pretty colors.
    Sun Orange Glow in Paradise
    Oh, and very handsome men. Whattahunkster. Nice guy, too. But he h-a-t-e-s having his photo taken, so this was a serious gift to me.

    Birthday Boy

    I’m surrounded by them.

    Cheers, Dude.

    But you won’t ever find me whining in the men’s room.

  • Whining in the Men’s Room

    daily KOS A few days ago, our local paper ran Ellen Goodman’s piece on “The male-dominated blogosphere” where she spent three columns questioning why the “forceful, sometimes demagogic, message-monger organizing tool for the progressive end of the Democratic Party” has “chief messengers [who] are overwhelmingly men — white men, even angry white men.” Hmmm…sounds like nobody chose her for the kickball team.

    The piece continues on to point out that “the typical political blog reader is a 43-year-old man with an $80,000 family income. Is it any surprise that Hillary gets only 9 percent in most online-activist polls, while garnering more than 40 percent in traditional polls?” She’s approaching that high-pitched whine and it sounds like she’s gearing up to blame someone else for something that matters to her.

    Mention is made that “the blogosphere was supposed to be a place where gender didn’t matter and voice was all. So what happened?” Okay. She’s there. Wah-wah-wahhhhhh….

    She finishes by asking, “when will the members of these netroots look more like the nation?” Huh?

    There are so many comments I can make about this, I barely know where to start. So I’ll fudge by starting at the end. She’s kidding that she really expects the netroots (internet political activists) to look more like the nation, right?

    Take a look at some of the characteristics of netroots (for example, those who visit DailyKos.com) taken from a 2006 source:

    these internet users are perhaps more philosophical, financially savvy, and more engaged in online entertainment than the average internet user.Move People Up

    1. Let’s see. How does the routine go? You arrive at work with coffee in hand. You log in to your computer to check your email and your calendar for the day. Or, because you may have set your preferences to open to MSN or Yahoo, or any number of options that would allow you to personalize a homepage to include news, finance information and other snippets of information you’ve deemed important, you’re already “tuned in” for the day. And how long did that take?
    2. Now let’s compare. You don’t work in an office. You don’t have access to a computer that has internet access. Your boss most likely does, however. From the time you arrive at work, you are either in public, serving customers, or out and about taking care of whatever responsibilities your job expects of you. Yes, you may have already done the routine described above before you left for your shift. Maybe. But I doubt it. So perhaps you settle in during the evening after your shift. Hmmm…
    3. But what if you don’t have a computer. Or, what if you have a computer, but no internet access? What if your life is consumed with making ends meet and thinking about anything other than what goes on outside that singular goal, doesn’t matter? It’s too far away. Those people and what they’re campaigning for can’t possibly relate to you. In fact, you most likely don’t know who they are. Nor would you be able to recognize one of their names if questioned about it. Your world is as big as the block you live on.

    Door number 1, door number 2, or door number 3? Chances are, if you’re reading this, you are seriously not someone behind door number 3. Now that I’ve blathered on to this point, here’s the real issue that people like Ellen Goodman completely know and understand, and yet they continue to print their opinions as if they woke up one morning and everything in the country was brand new. Blink. Blink.

    The real issue is, what’s the ethnic, socio-economic break down of each individual in the scenarios I described above? There’s no way that number three involves any great number of whites. Sad, but true. Yes, there are areas of the country where it’s possible, but in what numbers? Remember that my rant is about Goodman’s question on internet political activists “looking” more like the nation.

    I’m fascinated to know what she believes our nation “looks” like, and the extent to which she knows anything real about the people and their lives after she gets past the “looks.”

    When you teach in public schools, you learn quite a bit about this country. I’ll try be completely objective, but will struggle with my sarcasm…You get to read and listen to all the crap that politicians and constituents, the media and supporters on one side or the other, throw back and forth. Spend some time in schools. No, not just an hour for a photo shoot, or for a visit that is prepared for. A real stay. Sit down and listen to the students, the teachers, the parents. No, I don’t mean interview them. I mean sit and immerse yourself in the day-to-day goings on. Listen. They are public schools. You are allowed to do this.
    You learn that a shocking number of families don’t have a place for their children to do homework or have basic supplies like paper and a pencil to work with. There are no books in the home. None. There is no newspaper that comes in the morning. There is no computer — and if there is one, chances are that a few video games are played on it, but that’s all. Discussion about current events concerning the economy, politics, or new legislation? Most likely not. Often, family members can be illiterate in their own language, so helping, discussing what is important to the country — sometimes, not their country — is most likely not going to happen.

    You also learn how many families sit down to eat a meal together. And if they do, whether it’s done without a television on that is tuned into anything but news. And what is news, anyway? Word of mouth information about the latest shooting a few streets over. Rumors of La Migra driving through the streets. Gossip about the new woman who has walked her children to school, and who acts like she’s too good for everyone else. About the man two houses down who is cheating on his wife. And the old man who urinates in the flowerless flowerbed right outside the office every single day in plain view of anyone who looks.

    Yes, I suppose that country could be set up with their own blogs so Goodman will feel better about the netroot being more diverse — more representative of the nation. So why not begin with those on the lowest rung of the economic ladder? Because what I’ve been describing is an economic issue. A societal issue. A generational issue. Poverty. It “looks” a bit different that most think it does. Take a look at the bios listed at Daily Kos. Look at the backgrounds, the experiences, the opportunities. Then think about it.

    Sure. You could probably find someone to fund a project like that. Maybe The National Endowment for the Humanities. I could make it work since there are humans somewhere in humanity, right? Or at least there are supposed to be. Because then, maybe, you’d have a chance of getting the lowest portion of the huddled masses to tune into what’s going on. To have a voice. To belong to a “growing power in politics.” The Netroot. But you’re going to have to get them desk jobs first. And if you can accomplish that, they’ll most likely feel much better about life in general, so may not have the number of complaints that others accustomed to their own rung on the ladder may have. That’s sure to piss everyone off. How dare they show up and like what I don’t like. What are they up to, anyway?

    Correct me if I’m wrong. Don’t people have to want to be involved to um…be involved? And is it just about being involved, or actually believing you are directly affected by what is going on, and that being involved could change your circumstances. You can lead a horse to water… It all depends on what flavor the drink is. And much of the time, if you get even the smallest taste, the experience is powerful enough to change lives. That gets people involved.

    Now, as for the gender side of this issue is concerned, women fit into the scenarios above just like men. Goodman discusses that with respect to the blogosphere, “half of all 96 million blogs are written by women.” But she also expresses concern that “what is touted as a fresh force for change looks an awful lot like a new-boy network.”

    So fine. We’ve all learned that men do talk. Well, of course they talk. They just like to “talk” with their computers. Women can do both. And regardless of the number of political blogs authored by men, women do read, do have opinions, and do vote. Do women want to be in the thick of a new-boy network any more than they’ve really wanted to be part of the old-boy network? A few will, just as they always have.

    And many will continue to rally around their own causes, raising public awareness on what matters to them, and to their families. But until someone figures out how to relieve an enormous number of women who have their own careers, and continuing primary responsibility for running their households and children, I’m thinking time for rolling up sleeves to dig into the arena of internet activisim isn’t going to happen any time soon.

    Lots did take time to get away and attend Blogher, though. Clearly, women bloggers do think and blog about politics. So maybe Ellen Goodman needs to get her head out of the Men’s Room and pay attention to what women are doing.

    Oh, and whining in print is even more unbecoming than in person.

  • Sunday Mornings and Floors that Move

    The RT is quite the gamer. I’ve mentioned before that he’s got a passion for tiny figurines and war machines that he spends hours painting. Small enough? So yesterday, the MoH and I drove him and a friend to Games Day up in L.A. Yes, another road trip in less than a week. Thankfully, there was no hotel involved, and we’d decided to leave early to miss any traffic we might have run into, so the prep work for this excursion was nil. The MoH and I would just cruise around the enormous mall near the convention center until it was time to collect the boys, and then race home before the dog released her bladder on our rug. Not that it would matter considering the damage she has done in the past.

    I fell into bed early Friday night, and neglected to straighten up the kitchen. We hadn’t had a big dinner, so it wasn’t that bad and for some reason, I was beat. Since we were planning on being on the road by 7am, I just didn’t want to think about anything. I’d straighten up after we got back home.

    Saturday morning, I quickly made my coffee, ate the RT’s left over Pop Tart (how can anyone not want BOTH Pop Tarts?) and glanced around a bit annoyed that I hadn’t emptied and then refilled the dishwasher the night before. The trash wasn’t full, but did smell a bit, well, like trash. Or maybe it was that sponge. Whatever. It could wait, because I was sure I was just being picky. We really needed to run.

    After grabbing my purse and heading for the garage, I noticed with some irritation that the same fly I hadn’t been able to swat the day before was still lazily buzzing around. Flies are a reminder around here that: 1) the RT didn’t take care of his patio duties cleaning up after the dog; or 2) hot weather is coming…

    We made record time to L.A., dropped the boys off at the convention center, enjoyed way too many carbs at breakfast, and headed to the mall. The day was relaxed and easy, and I scored at the Borders outlet. Yes, I know I made a commitment to not purchasing books until I’ve read all the others I have, but I couldn’t resist. Besides, the MoH was sleepy and took the opportunity to snooze in a comfy chair while I spent a ridiculous amount of time choosing my books. Five for 20 bucks. Not bad. Not bad at all.

    The boys had fun, we only hit a bit of traffic on the way home, and miracle of all miracles, the dog hadn’t peed on the floor. The Guinness Book of World Records needs to know about this dog’s bladder. Seriously. So all was well.

    Or so we thought.

    The ringing of the phone woke me up at about 8:30. My mom was calling from Virginia, and everything was fine. We blabbed about nothing in particular — just an update of switching over the basic things one has to when one moves across the country. The record heat is cooling down, she loves the deer, her cat Emily is adjusting — sort of — and she’s applied for a job. All’s well.

    With a smile on my face, and an attempted glance through my nasty looking puffy eyes in the bathroom mirror, I headed downstairs to say good morning to the guys whom I could hear blabbing in a relaxed manner.

    Ah….Sunday morning. The sun was already out and a soft breeze was ruffling the trees on our patio. The paper was just waiting to be perused. A rich, dark cuppa Joe had my name written all over it. An entire day stretched out before me, waiting to be claimed. What did I feel like doing?

    While meandering over to make my coffee, still ignoring the few dishes (uh, like 10?) on the counter I hadn’t taken care of from two nights ago (no, there was no disgusting food encrusted on them) and a couple of dishtowels I had casually thrown to a corner on the floor to be taken to the laundry room, I grabbed my broom (an obsessive compulsive morning ritual) and began to sweep while listening to the MoH talk about nothing in particular. The brewing coffee began to fill the air with its rich aroma, but there was a twinge of something else coming from…somewhere. What was that?

    And what were those…things on the floor that I couldn’t quite sweep up? They were kind of…sticky…rolling a bit, but getting stuck on the floor instead of being swept up into the dust pan. Where were my glasses? By this time, I’d already created a messy “dust” pile on the kitchen floor and had moved onto the floor in the family room. “Can you see this stuff?” I asked the MoH while peering down at my feet then over at the “dust” I’d swept up in the kitchen which wasn’t quite as neat as I’d left it a few minutes ago. Huh? He’d already figured out something was not quite right. The floor was moving. Or to be exact, what was on the floor was moving. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Especially in the kitchen.

    I had already walked in there and across the floor. Twice. So had the RT to make his morning toast. I didn’t want to think of looking at the bottom of my feet.

    It looked like someone had spilled orzo on the floor. Lots of it.

    And suddenly it all came together. The funny smell. The not quite full garbage.

    And that fly.

    Hundreds and hundreds of maggots were crawling across our floor. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to see maggots on a floor that looks like this? Milk? Or on a wood floor that has bevels where the ugly little undulating larvae can race to where ever the hell they are trying to get to? Bone? YUCK. They had even begun to burrow into the fibers on the edge of the rug. Funny how our Ani-Mules wouldn’t go anywhere near the area. They totally knew what was up, looking at us, and waiting to have their breakfast without having to worry about those disgusting slimy little crawling things.

    It took an hour to scoop them up, trying to keep them in the dust pans while we scooped, and then washing them down the sink with the garbage disposal running and the faucet spraying scalding water into the sink. I didn’t want to think about any of them getting onto the counter, because we’d seriously not be able to see them then. G-R-O-S-S.

    We couldn’t quite figure out where they were coming from because they were EVERYWHERE, crawling in every direction. Even up a wall. Was I going to need to get out the vacuum? And if I did, how exactly would I get them out of that? This was getting uglier by the minute.

    Finally, I did look in the trash, and the smell was a dead give away once I pulled the door open to peer into the bin. I’m not sure what was in there, but I didn’t want to find out. Out it went to the garage, and out our dumpster went to the curb, whether it’s allowed in our CCRs or not.

    Ah…I just love Sunday mornings. Don’t you?

    So much for leaving a lone fly and a half filled bag of trash in my house for 12 hours. Go figure.

    Now you seriously know I’m not Martha. Am I completely distraught over it all. Nah. I’m fairly tough. I just deal with it. Besides, we’d already had a run-in with maggots years ago when the kids left four Easter eggs under the RT’s bed and we couldn’t figure what all the tiny flies we had to swat every day when we came home from work were coming from. For TWO WEEKS. And the smell? Now, that was gross.
    When I see tiny flies tomorrow, I’ll know I didn’t quite get them all.   House Fly

  • Third Pounders, Slim-Fast & a Stevia Chaser to Go, Please.

    I’ve got food on my brain today. I know you’re currently questioning an image of me with a fried egg on my head or something. Or perhaps wondering if I’ve gone bonkers having decided that if I lay food on my head, then I won’t be able to absorb calories, and will still be able to nourish myself. Condition my hair at the same time as well? Ah….no. I’ve succumbed. I’ve pulled the Slim-Fast from the back of the fridge. And worse? I’ve cracked open a jar of 100% Pure Stevia for my coffee this morning. And fat-free Coffee Mate. Blech. Seriously.

    So that means I’ve consumed any number of barely pronounceable “ingredients,” and “minerals” this morning. *sigh* How I miss my Kashi and blueberries. And what the hell is Stevia, anyway? I saw it at Trader Joe’s, thought about it for two whole seconds and threw it in my basket right before vacation. Past experience has proven that no matter how much I have walked, or as in the case this year, swam and paddled a kayak, I return blimplike. A veritable dumpling just missing the gravy. A chubbette. Or phattissima. Have I made my point?

    Retrospectively, I did not pork out on our vacation:

    Chicken and Sausage Kabobs with Rice and a salad. Not big portions. Roasted veggies, mushrooms….YUM. Oh, but the MoH made Banana pancakes the next morning. Yes, and he drove them to the beach slathered in butter and “lite” syrup where my VBF and I were staked out with lounge chairs and building our compound at 8AM.

    Then Grilled Tri-Tip, Roasted potatoes, and salad. Again, not big portions. Oh. But there were lovely berries and cream with chocolate chip merengues. Meringues don’t have calories, right? And berries are loaded with antioxidants. So there was only a plop of cream. Not too bad.

    But there was breakfast again the next day. But then there were those grilled pork chops and quinoa salad with grilled bread. And pancakes and waffles the next morning. Oh my gawd, and then that pasta the last night with grilled sausage, chicken, veggies….And that baked blueberry crisp. With vanilla ice cream. Y-U-M.

    Of course, I consumed absolutely no wine the entire time. Don’t blink or you’ll miss those low flying pigs…

    Okay, so does no lunch every single day count for anything? Jeez. What am I supposed to do, starve myself?

    Um…so on the way home we stopped at Mickey D’s. I just had to try one of those new angus Boi-gahz. Had. To.

    Lunch on the Road What? You can’t see it quite clearly?

    Boi-gah It actually tasted like a real hamburger. For the first time ever. And I don’t want to hear anything about Fast Food Nation, okay? Gimmeabreak. I’m not a Fast Food Frequent Flyer and I eat my grains and veggies regularly, okay? So no surprise that I’m not a vegetarian, but I have read recently that vegetarians are eating more meat… Just not Mickey D’s.

    So how many calories could be in one hamburger? Huh? Uh, according to this source, only about 800. Uh, approximately three Lean Cuisine frozen entrees. That’s three lunches. No, I’m not checking on the fries. Or the Sprite. So probably four lunches.

    My Slim-Fast has 190 calories. The Stevia zip.

    Whatever.

    Tomorrow I have to deal with the Thinner Bitch, that heartless, cold, slab of worthless metal and springs that I may launch across the street if she gives me any grief in the morning.

    Thinner Bitch

  • The Sunshine Vacation Chronicles

    I have been knighted, or princessed, or smacked upside the head with yet another honor. Phil at Thought Sparks, the extraordinary guy who helped save me from ripping out my eyeballs when I switched over to my own domain, has dubbed me “Inspirational,” and that is a very cool honor. It means that Phil is willing to weed through my writer’s moods, confusing musings, and contradictory thought trajectories enough to find glimmers of purpose. It’s kind of like a roller coaster ride from one post to the next, dipping and spinning. Then rolling along smoothly until a sudden drop you didn’t anticipate sends your stomach up into your throat. Like Phil said, Inspirational. Woot! Thanks, Phil. And thanks to Christy at Writer’s Reviews whose ingenuity gave birth to a variety of positive recognitions for those in Bloggsville. I will dub those I believe are inspirational, but plan to do so over a period of time as I get back into the saddle again after being on vacation. I’m evidence that one can actually not blog for more than five days…

    And to celebrate my new accolade, I will launch into the first of “The Sunshine Vacation Chronicles.” Actually, they began last night in the wee hours, as I needed to flush my attitude a bit. And having dragged my rear end out of bed somewhere around 10am today to the scent of something….ahhh….smelling not quite right, and the steady roar of the exhaust fan over our stove, I am quite rested, and ready to roll — although I’m glad I missed breakfast. The MoH saved the evidence. Sunday Toast

    Now, this is the part where you may want to take a seat in the back row and catch some zzz’s. You know. Like when you’re forced to watch a slide show of someone else’s vacation shots? Like that. Kay? For those of you inclined to stay, gird your loins and prepare for a glimpse of the more easily overlooked, but very best gems on our way to Tahoe.

    High Points on the Trip Up.

    We didn’t hit the road until 1:30. On a Friday. If that doesn’t sound the alarm, then you might as well give up, lay down and close your eyes. So Cal. Mid Day. The last week of July. Friday. So we’ll donate our brains to science, okay? Because no one in his or her right mind would actually PLAN to do this. But we’re the adventuresome sort. Right. So HP #1 is having ridiculously optimistic attitudes.

    Downright giddy, actually.

    We covered 70 miles before we had to stop on the parking lot that was supposed to be the I-15 North. We’d been driving 1 hour and 7 minutes. I could probably tell you how many gallons of gas we’d burned, the average speed, and miles per gallon our car was getting, but I’ll spare you. Yes, the MoH knows all of this and will report immediately upon request. You don’t even have to insert a quarter. Font of Information Oh. I forgot. The temperature was also being tracked: it was hovering at about 100 degrees. Swell, huh? Well, my ankles and wrists did, loving excessive heat the way they do. So HP #2 is managing to get out of San Diego county before parking on the freeway in scorching afternoon heat. This traffic jam was sponsored by a minivan that didn’t quite stop when the fast lane traffic must have, so veered off the road and flipped a few hundred times. There were no ambulances, so there must have been a flock of angels hovering in the vicinity. It caused just enough commotion to stop both sides of the freeway with rubberneckers gawking at the wreckage. Eyes not on road + heavy traffic = crash.

    HP #3 is creatively busying ourselves with mindless activity and pithy games to keep from paying attention to the less than interesting, scrub-covered landscape that stretches to the horizon. We keep track of license plates. I know. It’s so ’50’s, but it passes the time. Kind of like when I was a kid on road trips, my brother, sister, and I would whack each other when we saw one of those pseudo wood paneled station cars and scream, “BEAVER CAR.” Uh, no, I don’t know why they were called that particular term. Then my dad would launch a low flying whack to the side of one of our heads in retaliation. We’d resort to stealth pinching or poking from that point on until my sister whined about it and we’d get whacked again. A father’s arm reaches pretty far in a VW Beetle. Far. If you try to escape the whack, you bonk your head into the side window, then you get whacked for moving away from the oncoming whack. I guess that means we were double whacked. This is true and today, I think it’s called child abuse. So the MoH, the RT and I count license plates. We aren’t quite June and Ward, but we garnered 20 of the 50 states with Massachusetts being the one from farthest away. Poor saps. They won’t even find Dorothy or Toto in this place.

    Old 395 I also take note of strange things like small fenced areas in the middle of nowhere with nothing different inside the fence than what can be seen outside the fence. Areas with hand-painted signs that say, “Stop the FTAA dot org.” Hmmm… What could have been inside that crude fence at one time? And whose land was it? Only cars speeding anxiously toward the next passing lane and a series of enormous power lines were visible for miles. Whose attention could the organizers be wanting here? And why? I had to wonder about this for seven whole days until Google put me out of my misery. But I would have forgotten about it if I hadn’t seen it on the other side of the road on the way back, or been enthralled with our mindless activity. Of course, now I have to wonder about those folks and their campaign.
    HP #4 was seeing all those solar collectors out in the high desert while we were racing up and over the ribbon-like road and thinking that someone had a freaking clue. According to Wikipedia,

    Boron [near Four Corners] is also the home of the worlds largest solar power production facility. Florida Power and Light operates five thermal trough technology Solar Electric Generating Stations (SEGS) plants. These units generate enough electricity to provide the electrical needs of 30,000 to 40,000 homes without the use of fossil fuels.

    Four Corners Collectors There must have been a million of them shining in the searing heat and sending power back to a sort of conversion station at Four Corners (which had the most unbelievably long traffic light and endless number of semis mixed with racing cars waiting to pass through.) Sorry. I missed the photo of the Ferrari. But seeing the collectors just stirs up my attitude about why, why, why there can’t be more. About why it’s so difficult to push those who keep steering us toward the use of non-renewable energy. Four Corners Traffic

    Oh, how foolish of me. It’s money — just not ours. Their Money

    Well, it was ours, and now it’s theirs. Funny how that works, don’t you think?
    HP #5 was staying overnight at Mammoth. We juiced up at Starbucks in Bishop (no, there wasn’t a mom & pop coffee place open…) at about 9PM in the still sweltering heat before ending our day at a condo kindly offered by an acquaintance at the last minute. So no motels in lonely places for us. It made for a restful night, and a seriously cool trip up Mammoth Mountain on the gondolas the next day to gawk at the view and gasp in the thin air. Literally breathtaking up there on that humongous chunk of volcanic rock more than 11,ooo feet in the air.

    Mammoth Mountain

    HP #6 was thanking our lucky stars that my car managed the dirt road to Bodie, CA, a bonafide ghost town left over from the gold rush. What a stark, but beautiful place. I’m still wondering why that particular area was where Bodie decided to dig for gold at an altitude of 8400 ft., with daytime temperatures peaking in the 80’s and plummeting into the 30’s even at this time of the year. Desolate. A bit creepy even with visitors walking among the decaying buildings on a sunny day. I suppose I should read the guide we bought, huh? I was too busy taking photos.

    Bodie Ghost Town

    HP #7 is that we actually made it to Lake Tahoe without a map. This was by design since it was one very long road all the way there. How hard could that be? A total of five turns were made. The bummer is that maps often can explain strange things you see on the side of the road. Like odd black rocks that rise up from the earth and gather into a formidable ridge that just ends after reaching a height of hundreds of feet. What the hell were those things, and how old were they? If it was an ancient lava flow, where the hell was the volcano? I somewhat recognized the basalt structure thanks to that geology professor at SDSU, I think. Maybe. And that very odd looking red hill jutting from the earth. Was that a fissure, or something. What was the redness about? Iron? Simply stimulating, don’t you think? Rocks completely fascinate me. Of course, so does Google, because thanks to this intelligent source, I now “get it.” Simply spectacular. Truly. You can tell I’m a nerd, right?

    HP #8 is that my VBF was already at the rental in Tahoe when we arrived at 5PM and was getting chicken and sausage kabobs ready for the grill. The wine was cold, and a hammock was waiting between two pines just behind the house.  And in less than another day, my VGF was due to arrive.

    Gentle folk….start your engines…Hammock upon Arrival