kellementology – Page 32 – life according to me

life according to me

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. 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? 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? 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.Â Â

August 13, 2007
SPAM: Earning Money From Home & Man Units

Can someone please tell me what in hell is going on with all the spam already? It’s completely out of control. Wasn’t the Spam King thrown in the slammer? Well, at least one was, but wait, isn’t this guy a spammer, too? And, uh, this one? Okay, so maybe all the spam spawn have hatched, or closet spammers have come out to infect the rest of us with their completely ridiculous crap. Who are these crack dwellers?

I’ve thought about this. I picture a seedy room with an unkempt individual who hasn’t seen the light of day in weeks, (no, not me — my office is pleasant looking) and is maniacally hacking into others’ computers, networks, and lives. I know. Pretty naive, huh? Okay so my revision of this diabolical scenario would be that the sleezy creature is wearing Gap cargo pants, flip-flops, and a Grateful Dean tee (a Beatle shirt?) cracking its whip at a bank of orgasmic spam bots. (You, Too Can Have A Home-Based Business). The whole concept is just bizarre. And I just don’t see how they can actually make money.

Seriously.

Well, so maybe they do make money. And the source quotes that “spam will overtake human-sent email sometime in 2007.” So, I guess that time is close to being now. And AOL will change their little email voice to greet people with, “Damn. You’ve got Spam!” At least I haven’t had to deal with the fake greeting cards. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
I’m sure I’m not alone. Yes, of course this site gets spam, but Askimet catches 99.9% of it and all I have to do is open my spam window and flush the toilet. Right now, it’s a toss up between the guys who are rabid car sales freaks and the seriously pathetic cockroaches who all want us to sport enormous penises and engage in unmentionable activities with various and assorted females, males, and sheep. Honestly.

Sheep? Ahem.

And then there is the email spam group. Unfortunately, that’s primarily my fault. You’re all dying to know why, right? It’s Friday. You have time.

Well.

Last October when I was beginning to feel as if my entire life was ready to cave in, (tune in to channel 11 on Telemundo…) I began to think about Working From Home. Big. Mistake. All you have to do is have an inkling of a glimmer of a seed of a thought, and your phone rings all day. Your snail mail box begins to fill with offers of wonderous wealth, and spectacular imaginings of shiny, sleek cars, McMansions, and yachts the size of battleships. And the email. My goodness. You get to learn about what affiliates are. You get to find out who The Rich Jerk is. Sorry, no link. I don’t want to encourage him. And don’t Google him, either, unless you love being verbally abused. Okay, so if you like Dr. Laura, you might enjoy The Rich Jerk.

At one point, I physically couldn’t keep up with the amount of pure manure I was receiving. It took a good amount of time each day to filter through it to find real emails. Nearly 2,000 of them. Yes, I know. Why didn’t I get another account? Uh, I’m stubborn? I shouldn’t have to? I didn’t ask for the spam mail? I know. I should have gotten another account. You’re correct. Print this and frame it, because I never concede. Never.

Anyway, the most annoying of the emails must come from some pyramid scheme having to do with home mortgages. They have continued for more than 10 months now. Long enough for me to wonder what the hell is going on when I don’t get one. The poor saps have been sold a list of names (mine must be on 10,000 of these lists) and told that whomever is on the list is a “lead.” You know. I’m going to be a sucker, respond to their email, and then they’re in. Someone, somewhere told them they could make a zillion dollars doing this, Working From Home. They’d be able to get hold of me and sell me something. Anything. Because I was desperate. Uh…not. Delete, delete, delete. And I completely love that there isn’t a link to “unsubscribe,” like I actually subscribed to something in the first place, allowing them to send inane emails. I don’t want a free laptop, a Gucci purse, fake Rolex, or any of that Adobe software that is discounted 75% with a poem thrown in for good measure. Huh?

And I definitely, absolutely am not interested in “Extra Size your man unit with Extra Size Plus.” Man Unit? Uh…No. Do people actually answer those emails? They can’t. Really? If you’ve actually gotten something worthwhile from one of those stoopid emails, I’d love to hear about it. Well, not if it’s about the man unit.

Speaking of subscribing. Don’t tell me I’m the only one on this earth who has clicked on a link to see what is “free” and then before you blink, you’re getting items in the mail that you are automatically billed for. And it’s a recurring bill. A big one. Hoodia? Did I order that? “Ma’am, it was in the small print. And I actually lost 10 pounds on Hoodia. It is pretty expensive to grow,” the phone person confided.

Whatever. Just don’t ever answer your phone when the area code is 866. Ever.

Or open the grant writing disk that comes in the mail.

Or the foreign language instruction cd.

Coffee beans from Florida (huh?)

Secret shoppers offers.

Travel club teasers.

Graduate degrees.

Affiliate this, affiliate that.

Employment typing at home.

And no, I don’t want a free Kaboom thingy to scrub my toilet with unless you’re going to send someone to scrub it for me as well, thankyouverymuch.

OR, an exclusive membership to a secret, ancient organization of people who have been wildly successful and are eye-poppingly wealthy. Totally creepy. Didn’t they make a movie about this starring Tom Hanks? Jeez.

I was able to break most of the connections I had with all of the crazies who seem to be Pod people from the planet Twylo people like you or myself, and who were stuck with a name to contact. They’re just trying to make us all want to reach through our monitors and rip their eyeballs out of their sockets Earn Money From Home.

Although most of the emailing nightmare was months ago, a new wave has come, and I think it’s because instead of just deleting the emails, I’ve been clicking the unsubscribe link. So call me Pollyanna for truly believing that since they legally have to post that link, I should be able to click it to be removed from their list. Excuse the hell outta me.

Whatever. So I’m gullible.

And since everyone now knows this, if you’re going to send me spam, could you just spell correctly, please? Would that be too much to ask? And use English at least semi-properly.

Or teach the bots how to spell since the mud suckers haven’t a clue. Shit. They must have skipped Kindergarten. And I thought there was No Child Left Behind.

p.s. Don’t ever believe anyone on the phone who says they will build you a web site with guaranteed traffic to a site like Amazon or E-Bay. A “website” that is something I now know enough to put together myself. A website that will somehow make you money. In your sleep.

It was an expensive lesson.

Yes, my mother did teach me not to talk to strangers.

And yes, I do know about that statistic on suckers.

August 11, 2007
House Sitters and Sexy Party Gifts

I think the first trip my husband and I took together was to Las Vegas. Neither of us had ever been, and I’m not sure what prompted it, but off we went to end up at a fairly seedy hotel and casino somewhere off The Strip and that no longer exists. We drove across the hot desert with not much on our minds but the glimmer of a possibility of hitting a jackpot — on a roll of nickels per day.

Although I’ve been fortunate enough in my life to have visited and lived in a variety of places (due to a somewhat nomadic early childhood and the military) my husband had not. So, we’ve made an effort to take time off and get away as much as we could over the years. Rarely has our travel been exotic, as the cost alone was something challenging for us to afford. Sometimes we took my two older boys, leaving the youngest, a toddler, at home, and others we’d take all three boys and throw in my mom for good measure. Often, we’d leave everyone behind, escaping by ourselves. We like each other. And although it’s lovely being together as a family when we’re traveling, the kids don’t always need to go, nor is it always fun for them. No, I’m not rationalizing. Yes, I’m picturing that faded blue VW bug my family had chugging through Spain with either a perpetual ruckus in the back or a stony silence in the front. *memmm-reeezzz… like the corrr-nerzzz of my mind… misty water colored mehhhh… mreeezzz… of the way…we were…*

We’ve been lucky when we’ve traveled because there has always been someone willing to keep an eye on things around the house. At first, it was my mom. We all shared a home for a time, and so it was easy to take advantage of depend on her. Then as my two older boys grew, we were terrified felt comfortable leaving them to the responsibility of the old homestead. Unfortunately, that came to a screeching halt when the oldest had one of those notorious parties where people never seen or heard of before show up looking for free booze and someone else’s bed to copulate on. And barf all over. Have you ever smelled clove cigarettes? And tried to scrape damp leaves off the floor? I’ll save you the rest of the gory details. Suffice it to say we weren’t so anxious to leave home again.

When we moved closer to the ocean, it became a bit easier because my husband’s parents willingly, graciously, thankfully came to stay while we went on our little excursions. Although they are fairly close, being residents of North County, they used to take the opportunity to treat their stay here as a mini vacation of sorts. We were at ease knowing all was well with our home and animals, and could count on our stellar neighbors to take an unfriendly swipe or two at them over inane things in anonymously written cards left on windshields. Ahhh…the perks of living in Paradise.

That’s all more difficult now. This last vacation, I had to ask my middle son if he could keep an eye on things. He works fairly close to our house, so the possibility of saving some gas money, and an offer to pay him for his time sealed the deal. The money will come in handy for his school books this next semester. Well, since I usually give him some money anyway, that would be rationalization. There was just one glitch. He had plans to visit Magic Mountain with his friends for an entire day. Hmmm… the dog would be a huge problem, bless her barking, pooping, howling self. I thought about taking her with us on our road trip for about a second and a half. She loves riding in the car and sticking her head out the window, but the thought of all the 409 I’d have to spray on the back seat every time we went around a curve…well, you understand, right?

So I began to wonder about my older son, a lovely mix of creative wonderment, and perpetual curiosity. I should have purchased a shirt for him long ago that read “Makes Sudden Turns” because he can be on the straight and narrow path, then vanish. For days. Like he was a figment of our collective imagination right when we thought he’d be there. Where he was supposed to be. Doing something he said he’d do.

As I was mulling over these thoughts, my middle son asked whether he could put a towel down or something. You know, in case the dog peed. Uh…no. The condition of the carpet by the garage door already effectively leads one to believe a race horse enjoys a stall in our home. So, there would be no towel.

All was worked out, because upon our return, the floors were vacuumed, the pet dishes clean, the floor swept, trash emptied, patio free of dog poop, and plants watered. Dishes were done, counters were wiped and windows strategically open so air could come in, but the barking dog wouldn’t inspire our not so lovely neighbors to send us their notes.

And the refrigerator was clean. Totally. Shelves wiped — even the shelves in the door. Even the one that had a variety of jars and bottles stuck in the petrified fudge sauce I’d been meaning to clean for about three years or so. No moldy cheese. No pickle jars sporting a lonely slice and pickling spices. No out of code marinade, or radioactive peach barbeque sauce I forgot to throw out before we left. Spotless. Imagine!

We were also left a note:

I left at 2PMish Friday. Ms. B went pee & poo 2x this morning. She likes to bark at her/your neighbors on her walks!!! (She so doesn’t do this when we walk her…) Blackitty and Precious are fine and have lots of fleas. (Oh, really? And does a chicken have lips?) (My kitties don’t have fleas and they are poor [East County Hood] kitties not rich [Paradise] ones. (We’re middle class posers) Check out Petmeds dot com for some flippin’ sweet deals. (Uh…I did apply one of those little vials of poison to the back of each of their necks on the very morning we left. I think the fleas like the way it tastes.) Thanks for the food. (Frozen pizza, taquitos, burritos, and the like. Oh, and ice cream. And root beer.) I cleaned up every day and [older brother] cleaned out the fridge on Saturday. He said [the RT’s] bed smells funny (You couldn’t pay me to sleep in that bed either, but the bedding was freshly washed and what would someone who frequently sleeps amongst the dirty laundry in his car know, anyway?) so he slept on the floor with Ms. B and 2 fighting, hissing kitties on the living room floor. (So maybe we’re even for the wild party all those years ago?) See you all tomorrow afternoon, RC >=B–<

And then he left this present for the RT who watched about 80 hours of Family Guy in the back seat of the car on our vacation.

My middle son said some of the crew at work got wind of his house sitting gig and wanted to know where we lived so they could “hang out.” I’m sure they were referring to the windows. Or something. About 17 of them. Sheesh. What a close call. Maybe that’s why the house was so clean, now that I think of it.

Ahhh… I just love my boys. I think they’re swell.

August 8, 2007
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.

What? You can’t see it quite clearly?

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.

August 7, 2007
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.

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. 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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.Â And in less than another day, my VGF was due to arrive.

Gentle folk….start your engines…

August 6, 2007
Ranting about Urban Sprawl & Open Spaces

I long for an entire day to sit and write. To mull over the time I’ve spent away and enjoyed. To remember and feel the endless blue of Lake Tahoe wash over me. To smile at how silly to not have known of such a beautiful, relaxing place. Oh to be in that water right now…so clear. So soft. Like glass early each morning, before boaters disturb its calm.Â Not salty.Â Not murky.Â No sea grass or kelp.Â Just brisk, fresh water.
But I also need time to relax and forget the angst I feel when I have to sit on a freeway with a ridiculous number of cars attempting to go somewhere. Anywhere but where they all are, inching along. Testing one another’s patience. Pushing limits. Practicing stupidity.

I’m not good at that. I can’t say how many times I longed for a laser or something like one might find on the Starship Enterprise. Zapping another’s molecules into oblivion because they see nothing wrong with darting in and out of traffic. Speeding up to and around cars in a burst of energy and then slamming on their brakes at the last minute, making me gasp with worry about what could happen to them and others nearby. Forcing me to finally grab for my book so that I wouldn’t have to witness what might happen next. I’ve gotten to the point where I can barely sit in a car that I’m not driving because of it all. “Take a nap,” the MoH tells me. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be possible. If I’m going to die, I’d like to know about it, or plan to go down with a very noisy fight, screaming obscenities about why idiots are allowed to drive and why they think they’re so much more important than the rest of us.

I’ve tried to blame it on the developers. Those individuals who just keep building. The ones who believe we all need to live on top of one another and then crawl to work each day on roads not intended to hold that many people. They’re just looking out for themselves. They want to make more money, so nothing else seems to matter except their bottom line. Once they’ve planted the last stupid palm tree in the last stamp sized neighborhood, they never look back to notice that on the best day, it’s difficult to see more than a mile or so through the haze.Â They don’t care.

Since I’ve traveled from our Paradise to another quite different, through the hell that is east of Los Angeles and back in this last week and can remember a time when much of that land was covered with lush farms and dairies, then I can say that I see no point to the sprawl. It’s so ugly. All of it. And it’s so very sad.

When I was small, we used to drive up the old 395 to see my grandparents who lived in Chino, and then Ontario. I remember the long two lane roads marked by broken lines of paint, and edged with enormous eucalyptus trees. I remember being able to see the wall of mountains in the distance that rose sharply into the sky. It was possible to get there without needing to drive on a highway that had more than two lanes venturing in one direction. There were no mega malls. There was no Honda complex or obscure distribution center where an unbelievable number of containers awaited loading and then shipment out to consumers elsewhere. There were no areas filled with housing so compact that our slice of Paradise looks grand in comparison.

Â Â I know I should be writing about things that are light hearted and carefree. I’ve just returned from vacation. But I’m always tired after returning — especially when I’ve had to sit in a car for 10 hours. Especially when three-quarters of the journey is filled with the most amazing beauty imaginable, and then just before arriving home, we’re welcomed back to reality with the ugliest slap possible. The slap of “who cares what happens later. Let’s just use up what we have right now. Who cares?” It reminds me of what a blast site must look like with its center wasted, and a wave of smoke emanating from that center. Somehow, “Urban Sprawl” is too kind a description, conjuring an image of a restless adolescent who has outgrown himself, stretching to ease his growth taxed limbs. Far too kind an image for this.Â Tree, anyone?Â Water, perhaps?

I have crossed the line. I am now old. I qualify for geezerhood because I wax about what once was. I find no beauty in what has evolved. I wince to imagine that it’s okay for others to have no need for personality in their neighborhoods. To want cloned strip malls or shopping meccas at an arm’s reach. To be so close to their neighbors that it won’t matter that they can’t see the sun through the haze.

Aren’t you glad I’m back?

Just refer to me as your little ray of sunshine.

August 5, 2007
I found a way to post. Yes!

We made it to Tahoe, and clearly, I’ve found a computer. Do I get points for that? I should. But I can’t be rude and sit here talking to you (as much as I’d like to.) We’re planning our time here. There are lovely things to do. If only I could afford it.

You should see the water. It’s seriously blue. B-L-U-E. And I was right. It’s not much colder than our lovely cove. Except I don’t think there’s much to see in this lake. It’s pretty deep.

Thanks to those of you who checked in. I’ve already taken a zillion photos. I am always amazed at this country and its landscape. It’s staggeringly beautiful. The sky has been lovely, and I wonder about people who at one point set their stakes down in the middle of nowhere to dig for gold. Amazing.

More later. Don’t hold your breath.

July 29, 2007
Spectacularly Scintillating Snippets
Today is the day. You will finally understand what you have suspected all along: that I am, in fact, not a person, but a trained seal. Offer me a meme, and I bark on cue. For free! I have Mark to thank for this one. Mark over at Mark Base – Helsingblog. He who runs an interesting series of posts on pub toilets. Yes. I know. But he does have quite the way with words and has an interesting spin on the “8 Random Facts” meme. He’s put out a challenge to choose those who are perched in our “Friends” categories, but who we may not frequent or comment on much…How does that happen? Too many blogs, too little time? Fickleness? Attention Deficit Disorder?

Rules:
- Post the rules before you cough up more exciting gossip about yourself give your facts
- List eight (8), not 7 or 9 or 19 like I have done before
- At the end of your post, sucker punch unsuspecting and innocent bystanders unfortunate enough to be in your “friends” category choose (tag) eight people and list their names (linking to them) which takes freaking forever.
- Leave them a comment on their blog letting them know they’ve been hornswaggled and then bamboozled tagged.
Yes! More excruciatingly droll information about me that you may not have known because it isn’t buried in my archives. And yes, I’m tagging today, so look for your name at the bottom of my drivel, then count yourself as one of my anointed “friends.” I hereby solemnly swear that I will stop by your blog more than I do, which sadly, isn’t very much. And for that I am wholeheartedly sorry. I know it’s worthy of my time, but in my addled state, I meander around the web and get lost, never to return, but happy that I’ve collected a few new bright, shiny things along the way.

Now let’s proceed, randomly:
1. It’s official: UCSD and Harvard have announced that “Obesity is ‘Socially Contagious.’” I’m a heifer because of my friends. It’s all their fault. Well, not all of them. Just the other heifers. Listen carefully and you will hear us lowing in the meadow while we chew the grass. We do have skinny friends who have resisted our evil influence, however. Uh…one. I’m thinking of challenging the study’s findings, questioning the impact a particular profession can have on an individual — especially when colleagues are also friends. But hey! Good news: the study has proven that fatness and thinness are both contagious. That means if I make a concerted effort to rub elbows with those less than gifted in the adipose department, I’ll drop some lubs.
2. I do not have a gazebo. I know this comes as a shocker, but it’s true. Nor a pergola, a belvedere, or summerhouse. I used to have a sort of shed, though, on the property of our old house. My oldest son built it when he was fifteen to have a space away from The Rest of the Family. It didn’t work, because we’d all go out there to bother him. He used to sleep in it occasionally, even though he neglected to build it large enough to stretch out in. Dreams of it rolling down the bank it was perched on stopped him from spending the night there. When I last drove by our old house, I saw the shed still standing, nicely painted, and glad that the new owners were taking care of it.
3. I routinely have to suppress the urge to label all my closets. There’s just something about the notion of having little stickers beneath sweaters and shoes I no longer have to wear or want to wear that say, “Black Pumps,” or “Black Sandals” or “Black Loafers.” The urge lasts about 2 seconds, and then I snap out of it. I have purchased a label maker, and now realize that others have this same disturbing tendency.
4. Less than two hours after posting an ad on craigslist yesterday for a free BBQ, the old black grease behemoth was gone. Bah-dah-bing. I even helped the guy hoist it into his truck. After nearly five years of living in this pseudo hoity Gated Reach Out and Touch your Neighbor McHood where we are not allowed to put our trash cans out before a certain time on trash day — let alone park things on the curb — I have discovered the free section of craigslist. So now you know that I not only recycle, but I’m a bit slow on the uptake.
5. I don’t really get jokes. Or comics. Or the “funnies.” If laughter is the way we’re supposed to measure whether jokes and comics are humorous, then there’s something wrong with me. On the rare occasion that I laugh at a joke, I promise that I will commit it to memory, and tell it to a group of people who will howl with laughter. But I can’t. Not only can I not tell it, I don’t even remember the whole joke. The only joke I will even attempt to tell is one that the MoH rescues me from every time he hears me try to tell it. The one about the man who goes into a bar with a monkey that ends up eating a cue ball…
6. I love to watch people. They’re interesting in all their individual glory. The entitled folk get me going once in a while, but for the most part, I don’t get too worked up over the others. Okay. So, occasionally when they’re completely obnoxious. Arrogant. Single-minded. Loud-mouthed. Entitled. Jerks. Entitlement doesn’t necessarily equate with being “moneyed.” Therefore, a woman in Target (men don’t do this) who leaves her cart in the middle of the aisle while she is 10 feet away blathering loudly on her cell about her latest Brazilian wax job while trying to decide which celebrity gossip magazine to purchase can be equally as annoying as the person in the Jag who is sitting in the middle of the street waiting for someone to vacate his parking place. Someone who isn’t yet at his car door. Isn’t even walking in the direction of his car. Both types fascinate me with their complete and utter self-absorption.
7. I’d like to not notice that people use it’s when its is correct. Or their instead of they’re. And affect when effect is the accurate word. And use then instead of than. No lesson is coming, but allow me to introduce the best little book ever published — The Elements of Style. Yes, we all have fun torturing the English language with our blogs. For me, it’s a large part of my enjoyment. But knowing which word to use, or more importantly, how to spell it is not the same thing. I know. I’m a bitch.
8. I love words. I especially love it when others over use them, such as in this book review of Breaking the Rules. The reviewer pulls out all the stops AND his thesaurus to try an impress with phrases such as “malleable and amorphous body of generalizations,” “copious research and data compilation comprise compelling evidence that lends credence…” Or slings around words such as iconoclasm, dictum, morass, execrable, and quagmire. But I have never heard or read the word foredoom. Why would anyone choose to use it and expect to be taken seriously?
Now for my “friends.” Aren’t you sorry you clicked that button at Blog Catalog or My Blog Log? Blame it on Mark, though. It’s his fault. But I did enjoy visiting your blogs today, reading your writing, smiling at your memories, and admiring what you’ve done with your blogs. I’ll try and be a better “friend.”

WRITING TRUE

Word Strumpet

“Sleeping Kitten – Dancing Dog!”

Finding Flabuless

Life 2.0

I Eat Snowman Poop

Goodness Graciousness

the rogue professor’s blog

I haven’t put a message on your blogs yet. Sorry. You can Un-Friend me if you’d like. That will serve me right.
July 27, 2007
Robosapien Spares Bloggers
Over the past few months since I’ve developed an interest in blogging, I’ve begun to notice other’s reactions to the idea of blogging in general. Several weeks ago, someone mentioned to me that “blog” is one of the “most annoying words” connected with the Internet. I get it. The word is annoying, hence, bloggers are annoying. I’ve encountered a person here or there who will inquire at a get together,”What exactly is a ‘blog?’” hesitantly, trying to feign interest after they’ve learned that “blogging” is what I have been doing since leaving my job. The conversation goes like this…

“Hey, how have you been?

“Great, thanks. Good to see you,” I reply.

“How is work going? What school are you at again?”

“I don’t work any longer. I quit a few months ago.”

“Is everything okay? What are you doing instead?” the person inquires because no one sane would give up their job for no reason.

“I write quite a bit each day.”

“Really. What do you write?”

“Personal essays and other pieces. I’m just getting back into the habit of it after several years of not being able to find time the time. I’m really enjoying it.”

“Oh,” blink, blink…

Another person approaches us. “She has a blog. You know. On the Internet.”

“Oh,” the first person repeats, and looks uncomfortable, like I might grab my wallet and throw a photo accordion of my 13 children at her. I’m tempted, but I wouldn’t do that to my kids even if I had 13.

She and others are most likely thinking, how sad that she has come to this, wasting her time on the Internet all day. Doing nothing. One individual reacted to my writing, struggling to read what I’d written, and succumbed to muttering the words aloud as one might tackle a treatise on an Analysis of Glucose Cycles in Mammals Indigenous to the North American Piedmont and uttered in confusion, “What kind of writing….is…this? Exactly…?” I completely understoond her reaction and was sure it must be the very stylized syntax of sentences. like. this. Or, btw—wtf, yanno? Perhaps a Bwahahahahaha or a snort. Or two. Huh? = )

Ahh, the frustration of one’s writing being in the hands of an audience it wasn’t intended for. Not exactly a novel dilemma, is it? I say this knowing that writers have always struggled with how their work is received. Anything that requires another’s interpretation is subject to the same risk. I do believe, however, that a person should have an idea about a piece of writing well before getting involved with it. But maybe that’s just me. I’ve lost the source, but I remember reading a particular author who believed his readers “write his books.” Said differently, any reader brings a massive amount of information, experience, and of course, at times, ignorance to a particular reading. With that, a book is understood in an infinite number of unique ways. That perspective either allows the reader to enjoy the book, or to question why it was even considered as something which might be enjoyed. Not everyone will appreciate every type of writing. I certainly don’t.

I believe it is important to note that those of us who choose to write in this very public way, do so for a variety of reasons. I also believe that as much as it is enjoyable to have others read what I write, not everyone will appreciate all of it. Some may not like any of it. Is audience appreciation always the reason for our writing?

I write because I want to. Because I need to. Because I can. Although my mother has kept personal journals for more than 25 years, to my knowledge, no one else in my family has been interested in writing. Just more proof that I must have fallen off the turnip truck. I can’t say that a teacher in my past had anything to do with motivating me to write because very few of them assigned writing — let alone taught the craft of writing. No, I was never even forced to write the venerable Five Paragraph Essay. Ahem. And we know how many of those are published annually.

Most likely, reading has influenced my need to write, as well as a well-developed ability to observe and remember nearly everything I see. Each author has a new perspective, a different voice, a way of allowing me to see through their thoughts. With that information, words and stories of my own evolve. As much as I enjoy writing my thoughts and observations, that is all they are. The way I choose to write them is exactly that: a choice. One that I value.

Yesterday while I was perusing others’ blogs, I came across one that featured a book review. The point of the review was clear: People like myself are amateurs. The business of writing is not something we are good at. In fact, people like myself are to blame for destroying the foundations of society, and card-carrying readers of “drivel” who will hardly be lining up “to read Shakespeare.” It was stated quite plainly that writers such as myself are only about “monkey business” and that all those who count themselves as “professionals” should work to find solutions allowing “those with talent to flourish.” I do have a suggestion: Write something others would enjoy reading. Fairly basic. Writing a few sentences about writer’s block doesn’t quite cut it, though.

So let me get this straight. I’m a professional if I write about education because I was employed as an educator. But if I choose to write about my life, my observations, my opinions, my ideas—which all belong to me, are connected to me, and referenced with that which is relevant to said life, observations, opinions, and ideas—I’m an amateur? And I need to stop this “monkey business” so the “professionals” can get a word in edgewise? Interesting.

I have to confess that reading the post, some of the comments, and comments made at amazon got the best of me. I haven’t been that worked up about anything for months. Embarrassing, actually when I consider all of the very important issues I should be worked up about. But I recognized what was causing my irritation. It all seemed so like the junior high students I had worked with for many years. Smug, egocentric, cliqueish. Very much a case of, “Hello? I’ve done the seat time required for the label I’m applying to myself, and while I’m at it, I’m going to pass judgment on you, on your admirers, and hell, our quickly disintegrating society in general because:
1. Bloggers exist.
2. Bloggers attract attention.
3. The attention is distracting others from noticing those who are more deserving.
4. Like me (The Professional).
5. Society is falling apart because no one reads Shakespeare.
6. Or gets in line to buy Shakespeare.
7. Because they’re bloggers.
8. Or readers of blogs.
9. Bottom dwellers.
10. Destroyers of the English Language.
William Faulkner said,

“Read, read, read. Read everything— trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the masters. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write.”

Well said, Bill, even though I never really enjoyed reading your writing when I was in college. Mind you, I know you’re called one of our best writers, and that you were A Professional, but I just didn’t “get” your style. Maybe I was too young to truly understand considering the experience I approached your writing with—or lack thereof. Did you actually write Sanctuary for college sophomores? You’re in good company, because Will Shakespeare isn’t my cuppa tea either. Was he A Professional? If I remember correctly, he had some issues with written English. But who am I to bring that to anyone’s attention. I’m only an amateur.

One who is contributing to the downfall of society one post at a time.

What will become of us all? Will we drown in technobabble? I doubt it. We’ve continued to survive legalese and eduspeak. We are engaged in trying to survive Dub-Yah.

But Monkey Business still abounds. Damn technology.
July 26, 2007
There’s No Vacationing in Bloggsville.

This business of blogging during the summer is rather interesting. I have come to realize how much I expect certain individuals to just “be out there” and when they have the audacity to go on vacation? Well, it’s kinda quiet in Bloggsville. The kind of quiet that happens when you arrive at a friend’s front porch and knock on the door expecting them to be there, and then they’re not. But you’re still there under that porch light. The one with the golden glow that hasn’t stopped the moths from practicing their persistent dance around its perimeter. Standing there. Alone. Holding the tuna casserole you baked especially to share. *ewww* I’m thinking a few nights there were actually crickets chirping just loudly enough to punctuate those bloggers’ absence.

Vacationing?

You were vacationing? Is that allowed? I mean, come on.

There’s no vacationing in Bloggsville.

What? Your life matters, and you have a family? Whoa. Where’s your commitment to the cause? Your dedication? Your principles? Sheesh.

And no, I wasn’t getting even by not writing since Friday. Technically, I wrote that wonkin’ meme on my other blog, so that counts. You know we have weekend-itis around here. We christened the opening of our local race track this past weekend by flopping down in our sand chairs, stretching out our legs, lazing in the overcast greyness of the day and slapping two dollar bets on the “grey horse,” “number 8,” “that good jockey,” or the “50/1” horse.

Okay, so those are the kind of bets I make. And I usually make the bet to place or show — rarely win. Why? It’s economical. More chances to actually win something. I think I cashed in on a whole $3.20 on one horse. Is that cool, or what? That’s like income to me about now. Let’s see — earn over 100% on an investment that pays out in less than two minutes while I’m sitting on my caboose. Not bad. Not bad at all. My husband does the whole numbers thing — of course. The Racing Form, past performance, adjustments in class, blah, blah, blah…I usually do as well as he does for all his analysis. It’s a numbers addiction. I’m telling you. Numbers…Mmmmmm…numberzzzzzzzzz.. On the way home, we were treated to a lovely sunset and a view of the hot air balloons that launch from Del Mar each evening. Wouldn’t that be something to do… Um… Honey?

If you add up all the weekends we’ve been making like tourists, it comes close to a vacation. It’s fairly easy to pretend to be on a vacation here, which is nice. We have successfully avoided the Zoo and Seaworld — which is about 10 minutes from our house — but I did see a gleam in my husband’s eye the other day when the Zoo came up, because they have “Nights at the Zoo.” Has anyone figured out all the animals are asleep? What do you look at for hoot’s sake? Owls?

It looks like our turn for a real vacation is just around the corner. We weren’t sure we were going to make it, but it looks like we’ll be gone for about eight days with friends and their families. No hotels. No maids, no room service, and lake water as cold about as warm as the ocean in Paradise. All night poker games and trashy romance or crime novels. We’re chipping in on a Lake Tahoe rental near the beach (completely more cost effective to stay on the Left Coast). So we’ll be cooking up a storm, and making beds ourselves. Raiding the refrigerator in the night. Parading in “public” in our jammies. And swimming, and hiking, a possible sunset cruise on a catamaran, and horseback riding? Water skiing? Kayaks? Maybe. I’m sure there’s a casino visit or two on the agenda as well. Fun will be had by all. Well, except maybe for my youngest whom we’re dragging along. We were hoping to bring along his cousin, but that didn’t work out. The doldrums of pseudo only-childness at the age of 15. We’ll keep him hopping and he’s a good sport, so all should be quite well.

My older boys will hold down the fort while we’re away and put a dent in the food in the freezer and fridge. I’m sure I’ll have a wealth of hairballs and pet yack to scrape off the rug when we return. I think it’s the way the mules get even with us for leaving them.

Of course, like the very responsible person that I am, I will try to keep you enthralled from afar. I’ll bet you just can’t wait. But if I can’t figure out how to do it, then I want you to remember those crickets chirping mournfully in the dark when you click up to my bloggstep and I’m not home.

Just don’t throw your Swedish Meatball Delight at me.

July 25, 2007