kellementology

life according to me

Category: Uncategorized

  • That Simple Green Scent

    Okay, so I know this is ugly right now.  But at least notice the effects I learned how to create with Photoshop on the palm tree up there. Yes, I also know there are two boxes above that are supposed to be for ads.  I’m not game on the ads above my header, so I have to figure out how to get them off.  The serious bummer is that I spent a lot of time working on the “kellementology” piece and it doesn’t show up on this stoopid laptop.  I know.  I’m not supposed to have fun with the fonts, but jeez.  I get tired of the boring verdana, helvitica crap.  Life’s seriously more interesting with swirls. 

    I know this (blob transition) is wearing me out (yah, right) because I actually cleaned my house today instead of writing first thing like I always do.  Trying to write when my blog is a mess is like trying to relax when the house is a mess.  Wait.  Blogging usually is relaxing, which is why my house stays messy.

    Does it count as being messy when I have to use Simple Green straight up to get the catfood off the laundry room floor?  Or the catfood out of the laundry sink that has stuck to the sides after I’ve rinsed out the can in the morning?  Messy vs. dirty?  Hmmm…I know.  Gross.  But it’s clean now.  And laundry is swirling around in the dryer, the fresh scent of the RT’s whites wafting up the stairs near the garage — a marked improvement from the odor that was emanating from his bedroom yesterday morning.

    And I’m noticing our motley crew of pets is very content because they got their first dose of warm weather “flea medicine.”  No more Presh-Ass Yack Star Flea in-cu-bus lounging over the cable box and creating more tiny flea eggs than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime of owning cats.  Totally gross.  Biggity, our dog, is snoozing in the family room on the clean couch.  The one that the MoH stripped of its cover last weekend because it was sour smelling and covered with lick stains — a by product of the Big’s obsessive compulsivness.  We haven’t caught her licking it again — yet — but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.  It’s a drag sitting on the wet spot…

    And I could bore you even more than I already have to explain the condition of our carpet, beyond cleaning or repair because of the animals.  Yes.  The animals.  I don’t know what’s worse — the stains from the nocturnal hairball launchings, or the cleaning that happens afterwards.  Either way, I’m sick of the whole mess.  I know you’re sick of me ranting about it, but you have no idea how hard I’ve worked to avoid writing about the record size of some of the hairballs I’ve seen lately.  Guiness should have been contacted.  Somehow, taking a picture of a hairball seems a tad bit whacked.  Don’t you think?  Think about the poor RT. 

    “What does your mother do for a living? 

    “Takes pictures of cat hairballs to post them on her blog.”

    Uhhh…nope.  You’ll just have to wonder.  Or not. 

     I’m more convinced than ever that, even though I couldn’t live without them at times, that I have been thinking about how it might be “without them.”  The deal with kids is that they grow up.  Whatever “messes” they make sort of follow in line with their developmental progress.  But even if they’re completely slovenly as my gorgeous and loving sons have been, they grow up, go to college and/or gain relationships with others, and move out of your house.  The animals, the darlins — they stay.  And our house has definitely accomodated our animals.  Cat litter tracked up the stairs, dog “gifts” left on the patio, and rinsed down the drain outside.  Jeez.  It’s more work sometimes than I remember taking care of my two older boys who are only 17 months apart.  Way more work.

    Wait.  I am remembering that ugly sculptured and multi-colored brown carpeting we had when the boys were very little.  It was a complete disguise for myriad raisins, flattened beyond all recognition, and requiring scissors to be removed from their attachment.  Okay.  And I also remember the oatmeal I had to chip off the high chair and the wall next to the high chair.  Oh.  And those cookies — the biscuits that babies eat when they’re teething and disolve (the cookies, not the baby) into a disgusting mess on their cherubic faces.  Well, not so cherubic once it dried.

     But you know?  Blathering about our lovelies has really allowed me to avoid looking at the condition of my newest “pet” that seems to take up as much time as the other darlings I’ve had in my life.  So there you go.  It’s all good.  Except for the carpet.

    So I’ve wasted a perfectly good 20 minutes or so saying absolutely nothing.  Yes, my Warholled self will return as soon as I freaking figure out how the H-E-L-L  to modify it, save it, and paste it in the header.  Well, I can’t paste anything with this skin, so whatever.  Just hold your shorts.  I’ll get there. 

    Thanks for your patience while I’m learning about how to adjust fonts styles, colors, and sizes as well.  Like how all that work I did that looks gorgeous on my Mac looks like crap or non-existent on the MoH’s laptop which is what I’m using right now.  How stoopid is that?  Sheesh.  Thanks again to Thought Sparks who always keeps an eye on what’s up and offers assistant.  Very.  Nice.  Person.

    Okay.  Enough boredom.  Off to the store for coq au vin ingredients.  Yum.  Crusty bread.  Salad.  Wine… No party.  Just us.  I love good food.  So a great meal tonight AND tomorrow night will just allow me to avoid the blob for a bit longer.  Right?

    Toots.

  • Fitting into my Skin

    Still working on my blog skin. Still choosing. Still wondering what looks like, or at best may be a reflection of “me.” Something that isn’t beige or depicts “nobody.” A self portrait of sorts. Not My Self Portrait Or composite. Isn’t that what this strange business of blogging is sometimes all about?

    So don’t go away. I’ll figure it out. Billy Collins did in his “Instructions to the Artist”…

    I wish my head to appear perfectly round

    and since the canvas should be of epic dimensions,

    please trace the circle with a dinner plate

    rather than a button or a dime.

    My face should be painted with an ant-like sense of detail;

    pretend you are executing a street map

    of Rome and that all the citizens

    can lift thirty times their own weight.

    The result should be a strained

    but self-satisfied expression,

    as if I am lifting a Volkswagen with one foot.

    The body is no great matter;

    just draw some straight lines with a pencil and ruler.

    I will not be around to hear the voice

    of posterity calling me Stickman.

    The background I leave up to you

    but if there is to be a house,

    lines of smoke rising from the chimney

    should be mandatory.

    Never be ashamed of kindergarten —

    it is the alphabet’s only temple.

    Also, have several kangaroos grazing

    and hopping around in the distance,

    an allusion to my world travels.

    Some final recommendations:

    I should like to appear hatless.

    Kindly limit your palette to a single

    primary color, any one but red or blue.

    Sign the painting on my upper lip

    so your name will always be my mustache.

    And don’t forget — an entity is the sum of its parts… Check it out and see what you think. You’ll have to read it five or six times before your eyeballs settle back down in their sockets, though. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
    Lipzilla

  • Upgrades, Blog Skin, and Patience

    Count yourself lucky, because today, you were going to be subjected to either a commentary on last night’s “So You Think You Can Dance, ” or a scathing review of that book I’ve been trudging through. But I decided to do a bit of work under the hood, so to speak. I’ll subject you to the tortures mentioned tomorrow or the next day when you’re supposed to be out and enjoying the weekend.

    Yes, it’s that time again. Time to pardon my dust. I’m working on a WordPress upgrade today, and most likely, a blog skin change. You might remember that not too long ago, I asked people about whether the Tree was doing it for me. I had lots of great responses that ranged from, liking the minimalist aspect of the blue against the white, to considering it presents a sort of Forrest Gump meets Andy Warhol. One person invisioned me sitting on the bench while thinking “all this stuff up,” and other questioned the relationship of the blue tree to my “science of grasping life by the short hairs” to my Warholled self. Schizophrenic sort of covers it. But the two column design is really not what I’ve wanted from the beginning, and the grey, very small font — although tasteful — is difficult to see for some. And I agree. There has to be a good mix of aesthetics and functionality. I’m more wrapped up in writing than playing around with the design because it’s a great excuse to effectively avoid learning how to do the CSS properly, or design my own. I have absolutely nothing but time, right? So what the hell.

    Anyway, everything’s changing. Yes, again. Because I can. I don’t have many options for changing the furniture around in my house, or the clothes on my body, or my hair, or…..well, you get it. So why not take out my frustrations on my blob — which it could end up being a blob again if I’m not careful.

    So I’m embroiled in reading WordPress support for the down load and reviewing installation guidelines on my hosting service, digging out my FTP client and wondering about the connectivity of all this and potential baldness.

    But just in case you’re wondering what this may end up looking like, I’m thinking of: (and click on Test Run) under the image that comes up on the links if you want to check it out…)

    • this, because of the changeable header, the three columns, general organizational quality, and clean-white look.
    • this, because of the header again, the columns again, and the interesting addition of the two sections at the top that I could have some fun with; or
    • this because it’s very different, the organization is cool, the font is very readable on the dark background, and I like how it’s set up for del.icio.us plus more in the post.

    Who knows. I downloaded a bunch of others just to mess around with.

    So cross your fingers.

  • How did Emily Know?

    I was tagged a week or so ago, and haven’t reciprocated. Well, I have, actually, but I guess you’d have to pick it up by inference. If I remember correctly, the meme had to do with letting people know more about myself through an interview of sorts. I had already done the meme, as I was tagged by someone else first. So, I’ve been constructing a few posts that essentially do the same thing, but not in meme form. So Jo! I’m reciprocating — it’s just may not look like I am.

    Well, I couldn’t ask for a better transition…

    IMG_1850 Last night while we were watching House, one of the characters said, “He’s not afraid to be you, he’s afraid of who you think you are.” I don’t want to get involved in which character said this, or reference about whom. That isn’t the point. Do you like how I’m circumventing that one? Because I probably don’t know their names. I know I should, because I often watch House, but they’re really only fictitional characters, right? So what difference does it make? Like I was saying, that isn’t the point.

    The point is…that I immediately thought of my oldest son. The one who seems to be trudging through life — or flitting, depending on the observer’s perspective. My bets are on trudging, but I’ll get to that later. So what would make me instantly connect to him after hearing the line spoken? Because as a parent who has already raised two children to adulthood, I often wonder whether I did a good job. You know, whether the whole effort of creating two more humans has been a good thing for society. Of course I’m going to say yes immediately, but that’s the easy answer. IMG_1845

    IMG_1848 When my oldest son was about the age of 15 or so, I remember him saying that we — the MoH and I — made working look very difficult. That it was all we did, and that it seemed we weren’t very happy about it. My reaction was a combination of, “Wow, he noticed,” and “Crap, what the hell is that all about and what kind of an example is that to set for your kids?” My oldest son — MoS — is an amazing artist. He draws. He doesn’t sketch, or paint, or sculpt. He draws. He picked up a pencil very early, and just began to draw things he saw. He went through odd phases, where all his drawings were of empty intersections with complicated arrangements of stop lights and light posts. He also developed a very early fascination with how things work — in particular machinery, and buildings. So I probably don’t have to tell you about the number of Leggos we own, right?

    He began building very complicated buildings with his Leggos by the age of 5. And then he began to invent strange things like those automatic door closers that are mounted up on the frame. So we had those made of Leggos taped to all our doors. We had Leggos everywhere. You do know what it feels like to step on one, right? It’s a very special kind of pain. And sucking them up into the vacuum? You also know that you have to get them out of the vacuum because each freaking piece costs about 25 cents. Plus if that particular piece can’t be found, hours will be spent digging through the box of Leggos. You can hear the sound, right? That “digging in the Leggos” clacking sound. And when the piece isn’t found, the “dumping the entire contents of the Leggo box on the bedroom floor” sound. You know, right? Leggos. Thousands and thousands of them. IMG_1846

    I knew very early that MoS was an artist. So I made sure he had things to be creative with. But something happened along the way. This business of making work look hard caused a problem. Although everyone assumes when someone of MoS’ talent is plopped onto this Earth, that he will most certainly make a life and a living with that gift, sometimes they don’t. In fact, I know that lots of times very talented people are just square pegs in the very round hole that is our society. Especially in this country. MoS’ square pegginess is huge.

    At the age of 15, he took a look at his resident role models and decided that he didn’t want to turn his drawing into study at school and then a career, because he loved to draw. That if it became his living instead of his love, that he wouldn’t enjoy it any longer. It would become work. It would be “hard.” About this time, he became extremely interested in cars as well. Yes, he drew them. Drew the outside, the inside, drew different views, and yes, drew very intricate pictures of their engines as well. Just any car? Nope. Corvairs. Go figure. And he didn’t just draw them. He could take an engine out of one and install another in the same car in less than three hours, and drive off to enjoy an afternoon. Really. He’s truly amazing.

    IMG_1847 So if he isn’t drawing, then is he working on cars? Nope. He still does both these things in his “spare” time. He has very little spare time because he is in school — finally — I think. We’re never sure. And he’s paying for it himself. We think. But we’re not sure about that, either. Because he works between 40 and 50 hours a week managing a pizza restaurant franchise for someone who is no longer interested in running the business. I know how hard it is to go to school and work, and I wonder if he’s making it. Remember what I said about trudging? Are you convinced? He spends ridiculous amounts of time hiring and firing extremely undependable high-school and college-aged kids, filling in for them when they don’t show up for their shifts, and loaning them his car for deliveries, because they wrecked theirs, or don’t have one, or?

    What’s he studying in school? Architecture. What he was put on this earth to do. Draw. But we aren’t ever sure he’ll actually finish. He’s so busy making sure the damn pizza place doesn’t burn down, he barely has time for anything else. Maybe the problem is if he quits the pizza place, he’ll have to dedicate himself more seriously to school and therein lies the rub. He’s not afraid to be me, he’s afraid of who I think I am.

    What did Emily Dickinson say?

    I’m nobody! Who are you?

    Are you nobody, too?

    Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!

    They’d advertise — you know!

    How dreary to be somebody!

    How public like a frog

    To tell one’s name the livelong day

    To an admiring bog!

    He’s not afraid to be me — a hard-working, serious nose to the ever-lovin’ grindstone kinda human. Never say die — just occasionally gasp for air — He’s afraid of who I think I am — nobody. Well, somebody, of course, but always trying to just be beige. At least that’s what I think I am. No?

    Wow. That’s sobering.

  • Weekending and All that Stuff

    What a weekend. I don’t know what’s more significant — that there were what seemed to be a zillion cops manning speed traps on the way to dog beach this morning, or that the sun is finally out. Finally. And what a perfect way to end a very busy weekend. Absolutely no couch potatoing from me. But a good way to kick off summer all the same. Good thing to know there will be more money in the city coffers from all those tickets the police were giving out.

    In case you haven’t figured out that this post is about the weekend — here, let me say it one more time, this weekend, I went shopping with the MoH who has a tendency to wait an entire year before he replenishes his supply of work clothes. He doesn’t like to shop and doesn’t like to spend money. I would agree with the first thing, but the second? Sheesh. You gotta be kidding. I’m thinking it should be an olympic sport. And the big question that needs to be answered about this shopping excursion is — How long does it take to pick out a tee shirt? News at eleven. Me? I didn’t buy one single thing. In fact, I’m seriously thinking about going green on my wardrobe. You know, wearing recycled clothes. Okay, well, how about consignment shop clothes? You get the idea, right? Save money and the planet all at once.

    Saturday night, rocking to ’80s tunes at a local, but smoke-filled *cough-gasp* casino while listening to the MoH’s brother’s band, The Reaganomics, was very fun. Very. Almost as fun as it was watching the 60+ crowd get up to shake their boo-tayz to Cyndi Lauper and Madonna. Girls just wanna have fuh-hun.. The groupie with the black and white striped tards was a hoot, too, givin’ the MoH’s bro a serious hug during a break between sets. Have you ever hugged someone who’s been rockin’ for an hour like there’s no tomorrow? S-W-E-A-T-Y.

    Table's Set And we had to get together with friends to eat of course. So we rubbed our sleep-lacking and scratchy eyes, dragged our butts out of bed and stopped by the farmer’s market to cruise through the rows looking at veggies, Farmer's Market Fruit flowers, bread, Bread at the Market and drooliscious things like roasted artichoke hearts and garlic was perfect. I was able to get a pretty good start on part of the menu for dinner. Squash Blossoms Although courgettes weren’t exactly on that menu, I couldn’t resist buying some and finding a recipe to try. Thank goodness for friends to tolerate food experiments. Fried Squash Blossoms Surprisingly, the recipe wasn’t bad (stuffed with ricotta and parmesan, then batter fried)– at least better than the Pappa al pomodoro I’ve been wanting to make for many years that could give “mush” new meaning. Go figure. All that tells me is what I already know. Sometimes, planning isn’t worth beans. Although beans would definitely have been more tasty than the soup.

    Today? Lots of food blogging to post this and this. One of them will make you fat just looking at it, and the other is so you can lose the weight you gained by looking at the food porn. It’s a Salad ‘Stravaganza I’m co-hosting with a fellow food blogger, Lis from La Mia Cucina. Check it out and get involved. The more, the merrier.
    Now, I’m out to enjoy the sun before it goes away. I gotta finish that stoopid book I’ve been trudging through that is so totally not worth it, and seriously reinforcing the idea that if a book doesn’t get my attention by page 40, then screw it. But I said I was going to read all those books, remember?

  • Crack of Mother’s Day Dawn

    I’m supposed to be in bed sleeping — languishing for at least a few more hours in semi-slumberland and waiting for the MoH to bring me that strong, black coffee that he likes to make in the French press. But no.

    I’ve been awake since about 2:30 engaged in a rather extended session of flashing, sweating like a pig, then freezing my rear end off.

    Oh, and the random thought parade is in full swing with every person, idea, or “thing to remember” jockeying for position front and center. I just decided to get up. I could read — if the book I have been trudging through was actually enjoyable. But no.

    It must be fairly close to sunrise, because I can hear the first tentative chirp of a bird through the open window. I could at least be rewarded with the possibility of a rosy dawn since I’m here and everyone else is sleeping — well except my doggo who is semi-dozing a few feet away, disgusted that she isn’t on her pillow next to my side of the bed. I could. But no.

    It’s overcast and grey. As grey as the lint that I peel off the screen in my dryer. Or that record-sized hairball the Yack Star hacked up in the night that I still haven’t picked up. No rays of brightness creeping up over the distance today. Nope.

    I’m reduced to doing Google searches for the spam caught on my blog, and sucking down my second cup of Irish Breakfast Tea. I should have hair on my chest by the time the MoH comes looking for me and telling me I should be in bed so he can bring me breakfast and give me my present.

    So Happy Mother’s Day to me, and to you. Hopefully you’re at brunch somewhere, and not reading this stoopid post.

    Hopefully yours is as excellent as ours was yesterday. How do you spell calories? Mmmm…

  • Flower Smelling & Connecting Dream Dots

    “A well-rounded life is filled with delights and wonders. Why is that so easy to forget? Instead of getting caught up in another mundane drama, choose intrigue and awe.”

    Acer Hmmm…my horror-scope for the day. No, I’m not a daily reader, or even more than someone who comes across things like this occasionally and pauses long enough to think about how it relates to me — if at all. It’s fascinating when a few things come together all at once, though, like it’s someone’s plan — for me. Again, not really what I believe, but interesting to think about.

    For example, after I read the words quoted above, I started my day on the web ( I know…) and came across Mr. Besilly whose post today is about “Holding Onto Dreams.” I could wax prolifically about the words of the person he quotes, because I had an inkling of a thought of an idea one upon a time that I won’t call impossible — because I’m not one to call anything that — but was a very bright light in my life for the blink of an eye. Although it never came to be, I remember it with fondness whenever something reminds me of it. It was worth having that seed of a possibility for a while, taking the ho-hum out of my life, giving me the rich taste of what could be.Cute Purple Flowers Whose Name I Forgot.

    And then I remembered a post yesterday at I Live on a Farm called “Dream like no one is watching” and thought about the connection between dreaming, delights, and wonders. I suppose if you’re the practical sort, you’ve snorted a few times by now. You have a list, or lists, more likely: one for today, one for the week, one for the month, one for short term and long term things to get done. Maybe you actually accomplish the things on those lists, and fall into bed each night with a sense of “job well done.” That’s simply marvelous, because I would hope that you don’t end each day with a drowning sense of not being ever finished, or being obsessed with being able to count the things you did — like someone is keeping score and will catch you if you didn’t do anything. Do you? Yes, you do. That’s pretty sad. I’m an expert because I used to do that, too.

    Looks Like a FirecrackerThe Moh and I drove down to the beach for a walk in the the “May Grey” that precedes the “June Gloom” last evening to move our bones a bit and breathe the salty, brisk air. At some point, our talk turned to the idea of wanting, wishing, or hoping for more — whatever more is, and whether wanting more is something you can do aloud. You know, if you say it, you’ll be struck down, or frowned upon, or thought greedy because you should always be thankful for what you have, and there are starving people in this world, and it’s just wrong to want more. More. Lots and lots more. I’m sorry! Okay? Jeez.

    Now, picture a man standing with a solid, grounded stance, holding a balloon that resembles a woman reaching for the stars, suspended by a long, long string that he is trying to pull her to back to Earth with. That would be me and the MoH on our walk having this discussion. But at some point towards the end, he told me a story he heard on the radio about the mayonnaise jar and the golf balls. You’ve probably heard it already, but I hadn’t, and a simple Google search of “Story jar, golf balls, pebbles, sand, and coffee” gained me 23,900 hits. I never cease to amaze myself at how long my head has been completely buried in the sand for the last gazillion years. I chose the post called “Cup of Life” at joey moggie if you haven’t heard the story either — and welcome to my world.Lobelia

    First off, the Moh doesn’t tell stories, so the whole thing was pretty wonderful just listening to him. Yah, I really like the MoH. And I torture him with my malarkey all the time, so he gets a star for that. But even more interesting — his story connects with everything else that has been lining up lately. No, I’m not going to go off on some bizarro cosmos rant. But remember what I said about considering myself to be a pathological optimist and constructive pessimist? Well, these pithy words of wisdom have been falling all around me for days now, and I’m just now getting around to noticing their connection to one another. What I need to do is get a big cork for my constructive pessimism that is always yammering at and around me, telling me about all the “what ifs” I have to watch out for or else.

    HoneysuckleI’m surrounded by practical people everywhere — except the RT who’s drifty like me, and it’s really challenging to not listen to them. I’m thinking they should listen to me. Well, they do, but more. Somebody responded to one of my posts the other day saying that I just had to tolerate something because it was how things are. Just accept it because “we” all do. Society “we.”  My maternal grandmother’s response to that would have been, “Who’s we? You and the turd in your pocket?” Now that’s a woman who knew things. She just never got credit for knowing. Of course, she wasn’t very practical, either. I’m thinking practical isn’t all it’s chalked up to be. And I’m tired of being a round peg in a square hole — or something like that. So I’m smelling the flowers just about as fast as I can every day now, making up for lost time. I’m doing so much flower smelling my house is messier that it’s ever been, and it still hasn’t caved in so there must be something to my method.

    Now, where was that dream so I can blow the dust off of it and give it a few tweaks here and there. Maybe some mouth to mouth resuscitation. It may not be the stuff of intrigue and awe, but still. Then you’ll see. Just watch. Come on — hold your breath. I dare you.Martha

  • My Hair Even Hurts

    Oh my gawd.

    Can I just say that I am way too old to do the schlepping, digging, raking, bending over, dumping, trimming, and physically working thing. And can I also say, that my mother is almost 70 and she schlepps faster than me, harder than me. Well, everthing better than me. Plus, she’s cute.

    My thighs ache, my arms ache, my feet scream out in pain when I set them on the floor, and my back? Well. My back. And the mud on my clothes? This is a long story. But it’s a good one. I just can’t write it now because I need to go die somewhere.

    But oh, man, was it fun. You gotta like getting outside and working like a dog. Do dogs work?

    The Moh is bringing me take out for dinner. I’m drinking flat sparkling wine from the superior dessert I made a couple of days ago (did you check out Sass & Veracity?) and I’m thinking chick films are in order this evening.

    Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to have someone drag me up the stairs and roll me into the sack.

    You go have your Saturday night, and we’ll talk tomorrow.

    Wait for it.

  • Sudden Waning Interest Syndrome

    Teeter Totter In our local paper, Ruben Navarette Jr. writes with fair weather passion about “Judging the ‘Idol’ judges.” In a recent post in Parenting Teens, an overly-protective author writes about the “courage, commitment, and determination” of the “plucky” teenage performer, Sanjaya. In “Chinks in the ‘Idol’ armor?” Verne Gay puts on a spin worth considering about the change in AI’s rankings. It doesn’t matter, because as the television world turns…

    …the RT, MoH and I have reached the tipping point — that funny intangible place in our house where, after a couple of years of watching something together on television to unwind, the fascination is suddenly gone. We don’t need to know what happens next because Elvis has left the building. (more…)

  • Just another day in paradise

    When you’re completely burnt out and going to work isn’t something that you can bring yourself to do even one more day, maybe it isn’t really a crisis. Maybe it’s a revelation. Or it might be more like an awakening. Wait, no. Just plain waking up. Simple, right? Okay, picture someone standing in front of you, disgusted with the dazed look on your face after they’ve grabbed you by the hair, slapped you and yelled, “Snap out of it!” in a Brooklyn accent. That kind of waking up. Well, maybe that’s not a very appealing image. It may have worked on me, though. If it had happened, I’d probably still be at work, working. But that didn’t happen.

    Here’s the alternative. Imagine you are just coming out of a fitful sleep and don’t want to drag your sorry butt out of bed yet because things are way too fuzzy and the covers are feeling just perfect. As life comes back in pieces, what do you notice first? Scents? Sounds? Tactile things? The glow of light behind your window shades? The feeling that your three animals are all waiting for you to get over your reverie and feed them?

    You lay there just long enough to enjoy the quiet in the house after the two responsible people you love have left for the day. You stretch and wonder what comes next. Have you been reborn? Nope. Just rebooted.

    The date is November 6, 2006.