kellementology

life according to me

  • Is it Christmas yet?

    As I think of the weeks that lie ahead, many things cross my mind.  Yes, Christmas is upon us again, but it hasn’t quite descended upon our home life yet. I know it will in a week or so, and have spent much of today feeling the beginnings of worry I’ve grown accustomed to over the years related to “getting ready.”  But I’m thinking I need to get rid of the worries, and know that everything always works out.

    I head outside for my nightly visit with the sky and am surprised by the wind.  The palm fronds are tapping insistently against one another, and I inhale, expecting the slightest scent of the ocean, but instead, it’s someone’s late night dryer load filling the air, making me think of the laundry I didn’t do today.  The sky is a ceiling of clouds tonight, so there will be no gazing or counting of lucky stars.  The air is lovely, and not what you might expect on an early December night — even here.

    That means the windows will be open again tonight, and at some point, one of us will get up to silence the clacking the blinds make against the window sill.

    It probably won’t be me.

    .

  • Construction and Ugly Cookies

     

    I’m exhausted, and I’m always surprised when I realize it.  Like someone who doesn’t spend 12 hours a day at the office shouldn’t be tired — ever.  So not only am I exhausted, I’m annoyed that I’m exhausted.

    It’s pretty pathetic.  No, I’m pathetic.

    To give myself half a break today, I’m looking at the disaster area that used to be my house, realizing that my black mood is most likely the result of construction that isn’t due to conclude for another two weeks — well, and deciding to engage in nearly two weeks of baking and writing about cookies.  What in hell was I thinking?

    It’s always exciting when construction begins, but I’ve been through it twice before, so know that it gets stressful. I should know better, but the last two times, I was out of the house all day and didn’t have to watch and worry.  As nice as it is to be able to see all the changes happening each day, it’s not pleasant to see all the kinks in the plans, as well.  Add this additional cost to that additional cost, and the persistent drone from the talking heads on the television about the nation’s economic woes only makes it worse.  This morning I wanted to pull the covers over my head, wish the crew could let themselves in, and let them work as if I didn’t exist — which would be a bit strange considering the lump I’d make on the bed sitting in the middle of an empty room.

    Our room is the only one in the house that’s nearly empty.  The others have all had our possessions shoved into them and smaller items perched on top, stacked in ways I’d never have attempted in any other situation.  We’ve been lucky that only one thing has been broken, and it wasn’t valuable from a monetary sense, but did have some pleasant memories attached to it.

    There’s dust everywhere.  Even though plastic sheets are draped from time to time, it seems not to matter because the garage door is open, and the constant breeze through the house just distributes the particles everywhere.  In the beginning, I tried to vacuum at the end of each day in the small area where we can actually move around, but have given that up since I’ve run out of space to set things that weren’t packed.  I have dishes that have survived more than 100 years sitting in the middle of my family room.  As I stare at them, I wonder what I’m going to do with them.  Even if I purchased more boxes, there’s no more room in the garage to put anything.  And next week, the painters come.

    Being the foodie I am, you’d think that sitting in front of my Mac tending to my food blog and cooking to my heart’s content would keep me happily occupied, wouldn’t you?  And it should, but at this point, I’m tired of that, too.  In fact, I’m so tired of it, I’m questioning why I’m doing it — and not just the cookie making.  Somewhere along the line, it has consumed my entire life and I make time for little else.  Like I said — pathetic.

    All I want to do is clean my house.  I want to organize the piles and go through boxes and stacks.  I’m supposed to be choosing hardware for the doors and stair rails, but I’m not.  I should be tossing things we don’t need, and organizing yet another donation of items we no longer use, but can’t.  There’s no space to do it in.

    Taking a shower is a pain, and putting on makeup or doing anything with my hair involves squeezing into a little space in front of my mirror in between the cat food tray and litter box, so I don’t.  But when I have to, there are usually strange men walking back and forth and it’s not that comfortable acting like I don’t care if they can see me putting on my eyebrows or peering at the wrinkles under my eyes in my magnifying mirror.  But who cares, right?

    And the scariest part of all of this — Christmas is how many days away?  I can’t even imagine how I’m going to pull that off.  But I’ll try, and it will be great *whips superficial happy face from back pocket.* If one or two — okay, so maybe three bad days in the course of this is all I’ll have, then I guess that’s not too horrible.

    I just wish the intensity wouldn’t build up in me like it does, surprising me when I should come to expect it.

    And when it finally wraps its ugly coils around my throat, I don’t want to have to squelch my anger, or feel guilty over it and have to go into my “count my blessings” mode.  I don’t want to have a little heart to heart with myself about how nice it’s going to be when it’s all finished, or be thankful for what we have because we’re so fortunate, because I’ve already done that.  I do that every single day.  Relentlessly. It doesn’t erase the upwelling of ugliness that permeates every pore in my skin, and so I give in to it.

    What I do want is to take a hot bath.  I want bubbles, and candles, and wine with that bath, please, and a book that almost reads itself.  Just one bath.  That’s all.

    Maybe then, my mood could possibly improve to grey with chances of silver linings.

    But writing it here helps, and eating five or six of the ugliest cookies I’ve ever seen.

    Okay, so, maybe only sort of ugly.

    But ugly.

  • It’s Dark at 3am.

    Sometimes at night I wake and am not exactly sure how long I’ve been so, my eyes open and staring at patterns the too bright light across the street makes on our bedroom ceiling. It’s so quiet, even with the windows still open to let the cool Fall night air in. Everything is still.

    I have no reason to be awake at this hour. No worries, no dreams to think about. And assuming I’ve had enough sleep for the night, I feel my way into the closet for my slippers and a sweatshirt and head downstairs, my dog following me as she always does. The stairs aren’t easy for her anymore.

    The early morning sky is still dark, and I stand just outside the patio door while the dog takes care of her business, not quite wanting to venture too far away from me. She worries that I’ll leave her out there alone, and I know that if I could see her eyes, they’d register that concern. The stars are bright and I can see the Big Dipper hanging heavily, nearly touching the shadowy horizon in the East, each star twinkling weakly. I take my usual count and notice the Small Dipper as well, more brightly than I have in some time. And there’s the star that’s red and most likely long dead now, its light still traveling to us from so far away.

    The dog and I quietly go back inside, she wagging her tail for the expected Milkbone she’s gotten since she was a puppy for not peeing in the house, and I to risk the beeps of the microwave to heat up a cup of stale coffee.

    It’s Monday, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter so much anymore, but this Monday the RTR begins his week off school for the holiday, and we take on our third week of construction. Maybe that’s why I’m sitting here instead of falling back to sleep. It’s quiet, and I can sit in the glow of my screen and not see the shambles my house is in. There are no hammers or saws, nor questions to answer about decisions that will cost more money.

    So here I sit. Thinking about nothing in particular and waiting for the sounds of the day to begin so I can make a real pot of coffee without waking the others up.

    In the meantime, I’ll listen to the hissing of the refrigerator, and the snorts my cat is making, chewing on her fleas.

  • My Non-Fickle Car Life in Hondas

    This morning, someone on CNBC made a comment about American car customers being fickle.  I didn’t recognize him, and that doesn’t really matter.  Sometimes, I think the talking heads that flash on and off the television don’t know what comes out of their mouths most of the time, running a bit like someone who is in the throes of intestinal distress and searching for a bathroom.

    I immediately disagreed, knowing I would fail to qualify for fickleness.  I’ve had a love affair with Hondas since 1975 when I purchased a brand spanking new Civic hatchback with a “Hondamatic” transmission.  I was 19 years old.  I loved that car and the responsibility of making my $84.75 monthly payment.  I think it was the first time I actually began to feel like an adult with something that belonged specifically to me.

    There was a period where I was Honda-less, though.  I had a Jeep CJ-5 before Chrysler or whomever bought the company turned them into something that only looked like a Jeep.  It was fun for a while.  I learned how to drive a stick, let some air out of the over-sized tires and blast up the side of a giant sand dune — my hair bandana flapping in the hot breeze, my bikini clad skin darkening by the minute.

    I never quite fit the role of desert rat I was introduced to by my first husband, but it was what lured me away from Hondas for a few years.  I could talk about things like leaf springs, and 4-wheel drive traction.  I slept in a tiny tent in desolate areas, and drove around without doors attached to the side of my Jeep on warm days.  I visited shops that smelled of grease and sparkled with chrome rims and exhaust pipes.  I also spent time stuck in the middle of nowhere with flat tires, cracked radiators, and broken u-joints.  That’s what happens when a vehicle purchased for everyday use is thrashed about on days off and vacations.  The two don’t exactly mix.

    It was interesting while it lasted, but I sadly divorced the Jeep.  The radiator fan finally spinning off its track, I left it in a parking lot where a customer asked if he could buy it for his son.  I said yes, and watched as one of the more interesting parts of my life was towed away, its new teen-aged owner grinning ear to ear, leaving me with mixed memories.

    And then I bought another Honda.

    At that point, my two older boys were about five and six, and because the four-door gently used Civic made a strange noise when it was in high gear and reaching a particular speed, we named it the ST, for “Silver Tornado.”  It served quite a few important years getting me to and from work,  to SDSU to finish my abandoned degree, and my boys to and from school, and visits with their dad.  I have warm memories of our very own type of “car talk” revolving around the world they viewed from their backseat positions:  trees, hills, clouds…and water towers.  When I think of the topics now, they’re all that can be seen when you’re a small human seatbelted deep into a car.  Such very cute little boys.

    I miss them now that they’re grown.

    After I finished my credentialing program and the MoH and I married, we were able to leave behind our string of cheap apartments and purchase a condominium, creating a new home for our composite family.  Having a good monthly salary instead of the once a week check I squeezed while in school soon allowed me to donate the old ST to the local high school auto shop, and purchase a shiny new teal Honda Accord with a luxurious creamy interior and automatic windows.  Automatic transmission.  A moon roof.

    I thought I’d arrived.

    Although my two older boys had many years in that Honda, too, it quickly became the RT’s car.  His place to drip milk from his car seat, and then drop French fries from Happy Meals in cracks where I’d find them petrified weeks later.  His car to sit in more quietly since his brothers were so much older and often not in the car with him.  His space to have books and cars, rocks, and odd seeds he’d collect at school, calling them army men.  The creamy upholstery slowly began to age, the relentless sun in Paradise scorching it to the point where it would soon tear.

    So with a mere 11,500 miles on its not quite 10 year old engine, I sold it to one of my son’s friends and bought another Honda:  an Acura 3.2 TL which still sits in my driveway today.

    The plan was to give it to the RT when he was old enough to drive, and although that time is rapidly approaching, I’m not quite ready to give up my car.  Yes, there are dings in the sides of it from careless people in parking lots and students slinging backpacks over their shoulders in a hurry to get home.  The carpet is beginning to wear in spots as well.  I tire of the dust showing more quickly than it would on a lighter color, but I like it.  I like the idea that its reliability and comfort holds the remaining couple of years of driving my youngest here and there — he with his iPod earbuds in, me forgetting that when I want him to notice something out the window, forcing him to politely pull them out of his ears to listen to his mother.

    No, I think I’ll hold on to this the last of my Hondas.  It has a few more memories left in it.

    And then I’ll talk the MoH into one.

    April 10, 2012 — I am now the owner of a light blue MINI Cooper with a white top and the Acura I enjoyed for so many years now resides with the MoH’s parents who I hope are enjoying its comfortable ride.  I have to say driving the MINI does remind me a bit of tooling around in my first little Honda Civic — the small one with the hatchback.  I suppose this makes me fickle, but I’d say that considering 34 of the 38 years I’ve been driving I’ve owned a Honda, I can’t be too fickle.

  • Carly Simon and Memories about Choices

    Carly Simon and Memories about Choices

     

    Yesterday was a marathon of driving from one end of the county to the opposite and in weather more conducive to July than November.  To be more accurate, it’s cooler in July here than it has been the last many days.  I’ve given up wishing and hoping for weather that smells and feels like Fall, let alone the winter that is barely four weeks away.

    But when I’ve got a task to do that should have been completed weeks ago, I set my route and try not to think about it.  I just go, like I’m on auto pilot.  First one store, then the next.  Speak with one salesperson, then another — all the while taking mental notes and feeling my brain ready to explode with so many others’ opinions.

    I’d say that it’s because I’m thorough, but it’s closer to being an approval problem.

    Carly Simon helped.  Helped with the searching — not the approval problem.  I rarely listen to music while I’m in the car preferring quiet more, but felt I needed something to get me in and out of the car with each stop I made.  So Carly it was — and only because I sadly do not carry CDs in my car, let alone an iPod.

    My afternoon of driving was saturated with memories of the who and what I used to be when “Anticipation” and “You’re So Vain” could be heard on the radio when people actually listened to music on radios.  But my favorite was  “That’s the Way I Always Heard it Should Be,” the haunting melody something I loved even though at that point in my life, I wouldn’t have been able to relate to the words — a giving up of one’s self to something others did just because that’s what was done.

    I was too naive to see things that way.  I was too busy looking for fairy tales of my own and thinking they were something that existed instead of something created.  It takes a few mistakes to arrive at that conclusion.

    “But you say it’s time we moved in together/Raised a family of our own you and me/Well that’s the way I’ve always heard it should be/You want to marry me/We’ll marry…’

    I had no remorse about the eventuality of marriage because all of the other strings attached to the decision  were far more interesting, like having an engagement ring, choosing fabric for a dress I would make myself, selecting perfect invitations, a just right location.  You’re thinking there’s a minor problem with that line of thinking, yes?  The matter of “choosing to spend my life with someone who would never have understood me” type of a problem.

    “The couples cling and claw/And drown in love’s debris./You say we’ll soar like two birds through the clouds,/ But soon you’ll cage me on your shelf — I’ll never learn to be just me first,/By myself…”

    No, we didn’t get married.  The invitations were never ordered and the ring was given back.

    Funny what a song can make you remember, isn’t it?

    But I did end up finding what I was looking for on my marathon search yesterday.  It’s a vanity of sorts for part of our home renovation work.  I know you may not quite “see” it the way I do, and that it’s different than what you might put in your home.  I’m used to that.

    It’s because somehow along the way, I’ve learned to be just me first, by myself.

    Or — that I’ve already polled a zillion people on the choice since gawd forbid someone besides myself will have to look at it while they’re sitting on the toilet and think, “What in hell was that woman thinking?”

    But I’m used to people not seeing what I see in life and understand.

    You can still throw in your two cents worth on the vanity if you want.

    Yes, it's for the bathroom.

    Still not convinced?

    After all, it’s just a bathroom vanity, right?

    But when I look at it from now on, I will most likely hear Carly Simon’s melody reminding me that I have made some amazingly good choices in life.

  • Oh Look. Writing.

    Somehow, all the time I used to look forward to — all the time I spent thinking about what I might write here is gone.  The unfortunate aspect of this is that the writing voice I hear during the day has faded, its insistent prodding, its litany of opening lines, and reminders of possible topics have been pushed aside by life.  And what a small life it is.

    Sounds dramatic, doesn’t it?

    It should be, but I don’t have the time right now to make it that way.  Too much dust and food, and excuses.  It isn’t that I don’t want to write here.  Honestly.  It’s more about the type of writer I am.

    I have to use a food analogy.  Sorry.

    If you turn the burner on low and let the water simmer, then turn up the heat as the water approaches the boil, then that would be me.  There’s no turning me on high and cutting to the chase.  I could do that if I wanted, but what’s the point?

    Writing is a catharsis for me and if I can’t spend the time, then the words stay in my mind.  And I’m egotistical enough to know that once I’ve formed the perfect line of words to convey the just right thought, they’ll be forgotten unless I write them down.  It’s sad.

    I do get credit for:

    1) working on a cookbook for a friend which entailed making most of the recipes and snapping photos, right?

    2) spending more time than I wanted –surprisingly — looking at products for our home renovation.

    3)  getting ready to visit several blogging friends for a week!

    4)  having to reposition myself in my home while contractors tear it to shreds and dust settles on every possible surface.

    Excuses.

    Sad, because so much has happened that I have thoughts about — some lovely, and others, not so much.  And all of which would have been written at one point in time.  But no.  And it’s horrible.

    The other problem is, even if I write here, everyone has either left the building, or has stopped writing, their bloggy wonderfulness seemingly forever ended, their words and photos, just sitting, no longer collecting comments.  *sigh*

    What to do?

    Sign up for that writing class at UCSD extension so I’ll actually write?  Continue to wallow through this strange new life of mine?

    What?

  • Dear President Obama

    Dear President Obama:

    I can’t tell you how much I’ve anticipated your Presidency.  Thank you so much for taking the time to throw your hat in the ring to run for the highest office in this land.

    Now that I’ve made the perfunctory niceties, let me get down to business.  I have much to say…

    1.  I hear everything you say.  Now I want you to do what you said you’d do.  I know that it will take some time, and I’m more than willing to wait since I’ve waited for eight seemingly endless years for someone to save us.  I have faith that you’ll begin your work as soon as possible.

    2.  So there are quite a few Democrats in Congress who are probably rubbing their hands together just waiting to let the rumpus begin.  As seen by us all for the last eight years, a rumpus is not a fun thing to watch, let alone be on the receiving end of.  I have an inkling of an idea that you’ll give everyone a show with respect to NOT taking advantage of the majority in congress.  In fact, I believe you’ll hold your ground and work toward what you believe matters to the country, and not generally to a party line.  Right?

    3.  Sure those Dems will be pissed off.  Too bad.  Nobody wants to have the sweet bird of paradise crap all over their birthday cake.  And pissing them off will most likely put the brakes on quite a few things you’ve got on your agenda.  But hold your own.  They’ll get over it.  It’s not about them, after all, is it?  It’s about us — the people who voted for you.  I know you listened to us, didn’t you?

    4.  On the taxes issue.  I hear all kinds of crap about taking money away from the rich and spreading the wealth.  Poor souls don’t understand they aren’t the ones with the wealth you’re talking about.  But when I think about it, it’s kind of cool that people who earn a very good wage think they’re “wealthy.”  Only in America, right?  Those are the people you’re talking about strengthening, right?  They already pay quite a bit of their income in taxes, and I know it seems like they’re rich to those who make less, but at some point, just because you make more than those who make less doesn’t mean you need to pay even more.  Percentages are always good as far as I’m concerned.  So I’ll keep my eye on this one.  I am worried about how you’ll pay for the debt we’ve incurred in Iraq.  Somehow, that not so minor issue has been effectively swept under the carpet by many people who don’t love you as much as your voters do.

    5.  It has been suggested to me that being the white woman have been since birth, I voted for you because I feel guilty that I’m white and you’re black.  I’m not sure what to say about this other than I voted for the person I thought was the smartest and had the most clear vision of what was possible for our country.  I noticed you were black and that your father was from Africa, and that your middle name was something that sends some people into some kind of a panic, but I decided you were smart and that’s more than I can say for the person who has served for the past eight years.

    6.  You represent so much of what it means to be an American to me, giving hope to those who have come from similar backgrounds to know that they, too, with persistent effort, rise beyond their challenges in life.  It’s important to provide that hope, as much as it’s important to exude the hard work and effort it takes to achieve one’s dreams and goals.  Thank you for continuing to stress the importance of diligence.

    7.  Could you please get on the health care issue?  I truly think this is the most important aspect of your work.  Having a system that is about whether an employer pays for insurance or whether one can “afford” it herself isn’t efficient.  Do what you can, please, to help people understand that waiting in line isn’t all there is to a different more effective health system for us all.

    8.  I’m kind of sleepy so will make this short.  Well, short for me.  But I’d say that second priority is energy.  Something radical has to happen to steer us in the right direction regarding energy.  I love having choices, but I know the time is gone for me to continue to blithely say that I can afford whatever I have to pay for energy.  It’s not about that.  It’s more about what matters to the planet.  I’m tired of paying for foreign oil.  I’m tired of funding not being available to sustain the progress important to the development of alternative solutions.  Yes, there are people who will find problems with any alternative, but what are our options?  We need wind energy and solar energy, and nuclear energy, and…well you know.  Can you please keep all the oil mongers in line?  They seem to be quite the tough customer and only interested in themselves.  Shouldn’t it be illegal for an oil company to record $14 billion in profits for one quarter when consumers are paying astronomical prices?  They’ve made us all clowns while they’re on their way to the bank.  THOSE are the wealthy you’ve been talking about, right?

    9.  Okay, it’s time for bed.  Thanks for listening.  I’ll be back routinely just to let you know what’s on my mind.  I’m just one of hundreds of millions, but I’m willing to talk in a civil manner which is quite challenging for others like my brother who insists upon calling you “Barry.”  You’ll have to forgive him.  He’s a bit cranky, but down deep he sort of gets it some of the time.

    Thank you from the bottom of my heart for running for President.  You have restored my weary heart and have given me so much to look forward to.

    Sincere Congratulations,

    Kelly who happens to live in Paradise

  • Choosing to Listen

    Choosing to Listen

    Remember the movie Jerry McGuire?  Remember the part where Rene Zellweger said, “You had me at hello...”

    I watched Obama’s 30 minute spot yesterday evening.  I watched it twice, listening hard for something I hadn’t heard or didn’t know.  Listening with someone else’s ears — perhaps someone who won’t listen, just to try and imagine what they might hear.

    Later, I listened to the talking heads banter back and forth about whether it was too much, or too soon, or too expensive.  At some point, a screen caption on CNN questioned whether the Democrats were buying the election and I shook my head.  They’re so foolish.

     

    He had me at the wheat waving in the wind.

    I guess that makes me a willing participant, because if I heard him correctly, he’d like us to be a part of what this country can become once again.  And since I’ve never known any of my strongly felt opinions to sit quietly while others, stumbling over their illogical fears and deep-seated issues with stereotypes, feel comfortable expressing theirs, anxiety in their voices, panic in their eyes.

    It’s not rational, that behavior, and I wonder what it must feel like to be so entrenched in one’s beliefs that there’s no possibility of change.

    I think ultimately, that attitude is what forced me out of my profession.  The idea of being surrounded by people who have no vision, who can only think of possibilities that fit inside a tiny box in the corner labeled, “My Life,” and seem to fear not knowing what lies around the next corner exhaust me.

    I used to have the energy to argue with them, but I just don’t any more.

     

    I just want to wallow in the wonder of possibility and hope that we all have something amazing ahead of us.  Something that will slowly peel the layers off the onion-like fear mongers I hear booing in response to their candidates’ empty comments.

    But I will continue to worry about people who insist upon making others’ life choices their own business, and work hard to push others to see as they do — that the world isn’t as diverse as it actually is, and that not everyone should have the same opportunities they’ve had in life — some of which weren’t necessarily earned.

    Can you choose your parents?  Your country of birth, your gender, your…

    No.

    But I can choose to keep my mind open and allow that to help form my opinions, even when I don’t care for those I’m trying to understand.

     

  • I should make a list.

    It’s official.  I’ve finally gotten to the point in my life sans former profession where I feel like I need an additional six hours a day added to my clock.  I’m happy to say that in contrast to my former need for six hours extra *delete rant that was to have been inserted here…*, I’m happily feeling that I not only need to get all that I have to get done…done…I want to.

    It does not mean, nor will it ever, that I am perky, however.

    It does mean that I just may have to blow the dust off my calendar, or more realistically, use my cyber calendar more effectively.  The way I feel right now, I could become a compulsive list maker with the very first order of the day being, make a list, which has never made much sense to me.

    My very non-perky giddiness is being fueled by so many different aspects of life right now — and it’s an interesting one to me, if no one else.

    With the election just around the corner, I’m successfully undistracted by everything the media has to say about Palin, or Ayers, or the Dewey effect, or just about anything that’s coming out of their mouths right now.  They’re on overdrive and have me wondering what in Hell they’ll talk about after it’s all over.  I feel like I need to organize a party for election night.  When Obama crosses that goal line, we should be able to jump out of our seats and scream just like we do when any of our sports teams win.  Yes, I said when — not if.

    I.  Can’t.  Wait.

    In other news, my mother has a boyfriend.  She’s 70, you know.  But there’s something wrong with calling a man who’s well into his sixties a boy, and man friend sounds strange.  Man cake?  She says they giggle about silly things, email back and forth, and go to the kareoke sessions at their complex together.  Sounds like camp doesn’t it?  She also just garnered one of the coveted garden spots, inheriting some established rose bushes and will no doubt have it transformed into a veritable botanical nirvana before spring.  What does this translate to?  The guilt I’ve been carrying around not spending more time with her has eased up a bit, and I’m right in line to have her tell me she’s too busy the next time I ask her if she wants to go shopping or something — which happens once every blue moon or so.

    You go Mom.  What does he call you?  Blue Eyes?  Oh, my.

    And then, of course, there’s the remodel the economy tried to squash, but couldn’t.  In fact we started the process yesterday and now I’m feeling like I need to pinch myself over it all and then snap out of it.  There’s so much to do.  Do you have any idea just how many bathroom vanities, pedistal sinks, vessel sinks, over mount, under mount, wall mount, porcelain, stone, hammered copper, wooden, antique, modern possibilities there are?  It’s sort of Heaven and Hell all at once.

    Like hot flashes.  Raging heat, then freezing cold.  Okay, so maybe not. *looks at watch wondering just how long menopause actually lasts when one has no equipment left*

    Then there’s my food blog which has begun to feel like a business.  That’s a good thing, but I’m a bit slow on the uptake and need to sit down and think about it all while I’m not in front of my Mac which is beyond distracting.  I know I’m the only person on the planet who feels that way, of course.  Or better said, the only person who has no resolve, no will power, no stick-to-itiveness.  Actually, I’m great at all those things as long as they’re connected to my Mac.  I finally decided to take on my own domain with my food blog and having my memory refreshed about the process is less than thrilling.  But I’m relentlessly persistent and will figure it out…

    …after I’ve sucked it up and decided I can no longer put off creating a weekly baking schedule and menu plan.  Gina is a pro at this and posts it like clockwork. Impressive.

    But what about world peace you say?  Well, there has never been a time that I haven’t realized my freedom to have the quality of life I enjoy isn’t something to be taken for granted.  I know this.  I know there are people who haven’t had the opportunites I’ve had, or the health and food we enjoy.  I know there are people who have to deal with war every single day.  No, I can’t imagine.  The peace I enjoy is not something they understand…What did Cat Stevens sing about all those years ago?  Something about a Peace Train…

    **start copy**

    Join The Revolution
    Here are the rules and the story.
    (1) Copy this into a post (2) ADD YOUR NAME to the bottom of the tag list
    (3) Tag at as many people as you’d like.


    The Peace Globe project began in the fall of 2006 with a simple post from one blog, Mimi Writes. The post ignited a flame in the blogosphere. The flame became a passion. The passion became a movement. It amazingly traveled from blog to blog to blog across the globe. Bloggers wrote passionate articles on what peace means to them, along with the promise of three Latin words scribbled on a globe – Dona Nobis Pacem (Grant Us Peace) – branded with the integrity of their names or blog names. It was positively inspiring to watch. And it began to happen all over the world – from Singapore to China to Afghanistan to Brooklyn.

    It was simple. And powerful.
    In less than three weeks bloggers from all across the globe will blog for peace.
    We will speak with one voice. One subject. One day.
    Won’t you join us?
    November 6, 2008

    How To Get Your Peace Globe In 4 easy steps!

    1. Right CLICK and SAVE the peace globe below or choose from other designs here.
    2. Sign the globe using Paint, Photoshop or a similar graphics tool. Decorate the globe anyway you wish. You can even include the name of your blog. Click     here for hundreds of inspiring examples from previous BlogBlasts.
    3. Return the peace globe to me via email ~ mimiwrites2005 at yahoo.com – Let me know your blog’s name and url by leaving a comment     here and signing the Mr. Linky. Your submission will be numbered and dated in the official gallery . Your globe and post will be listed on the Official BlogBlast For Peace website and The Peace Globe Posts page.

    Here’s the most important part.
    4. On November 6, 2008 DISPLAY YOUR GLOBE IN A POST. Title your post “Dona Nobis Pacem”. This is important. The goal is for all blog post titles to say the same thing on the same day. Write about peace or simply fly your globe.

    Go HERE for the other 3 globe template choices!)


    If you’d like to help spread the word, take this button to your site. The code is in my sidebar.


    I, Mimi Queen of Memes, hereby royally tag the following…….

    (Before you copy this list on your blogs, ADD YOUR OWN NAME to the bottom of the list. )

    ………………………………………………………………………………………………YOUR NAME HERE.

    YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE TAGGED TO PLAY.

    Please passing this meme through the blogosphere. Peace + Power
    This is Mimi Pencil Skirt reporting from the lovely land of the Peace Globes.
    Memeing the Movement.

    **End Copy**

    I’m officially tagging (and I NEVER do this…) Scott, Gina, Jerry, Ben, Meleah, Ritzy, Francis, paisley, ladybanana, Phil, Mike who are all lovely people and will probably think, OMG, what is she doing?  By all means, consider yourself tagged if you’re in the mood.  Maybe even try to write a better post that I have about world peace…

  • Crickets. I hear crickets…

    I sit at my Mac on an enormous grey exercise ball scanning all of my open windows.  There’s twhirl in the upper corner — not nearly as noisy as it has been, but there, its colorful avatars proudly displaying each person’s thoughts, comments, responses, and taunts to visit yet another link.  And email is open, too, even though it shouldn’t be considering an audible reminder lets me know when I have a tweet, or more junk mail.

    Blurb is open too, as I’m compiling a friend’s family recipes into a cookbook.  But I’m here instead.  I swore I heard crickets coming from the general vicinity and thought I might fill the space a bit with words that don’t add up to much more than my thoughts, which I suppose are something.

    I’ve learned that in order to write more than what I’m taking up space with at this moment, I’ve got to read and be involved.  To do something other than what I’ve been doing.  I’ve also learned that I can’t wake up at 4am and expect to function at this point in the day.

    None of this is unfortunate, however.  In fact, it’s how I’ve always wondered life might be if I had the choice to do what I wanted and when from one day to the next.  My house is even clean.  My cupboards organized.  The last bit of cat crap sprayed on the wall in her last explosion decontaminated.  The nasty white carpet I’ve complained about for the past year and a half soon to be torn from the floor and replaced by indescribably beautiful wood.

    And we’re going to Las Vegas this weekend.

    Like how I slipped that one in there?  You’re thinking we just went, right?  Actually it was a year ago, I think.

    This means I have to go shopping you know.  Maybe a few tops to wear with my jeans.  Pretend I know how I’m supposed to dress…

    Like I could pretend even if I wanted to.

    It’s more fun to watch the the twenty somethings doing their party thing — from afar, mind you. *remembering that twentysomething girl barfing in a trash can last time…*

    But it will be relaxing as it always is, and there’s sure to be good food on our agenda.  What?  Like that’s a surprise.