kellementology

life according to me

  • Complexity + Change = Simplicity

    IMG_0925 The following segment of Julius Caesar by Shakespeare used to be posted on a bulletin board above my desk a few years ago:

    There is a tide in the affairs of men,

    Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

    Omitted, all the voyage of their life

    Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.

    On such a full sea are we now affloat;

    And we must take the current when it serves,

    Or lose our ventures.

    On first glance, it seems to be a bit gloomy, fatalistic. On another — and to me at that point in the extremely difficult work we were engaged in — it meant something very hopeful, promising. It meant that if what we were trying to do was going to work, then it was going to be “now,” and that everyone needed to join in to make it happen. Unfortunately, I also knew that many of those involved did not want to be a part of any change, for any reason. Being involved wasn’t on their agenda. They were mired in their day-to-day existence, and not loving it. Often, that routine — whether enjoyable or not — is something concrete that can be depended upon. IMG_1051 The tension around the idea of “letting go” and trying something different, or learning and growing as a common endeavor was too enormous for many, and so, our work failed. That sounds so dismal.

    To think about it in a different way, you have to picture a surfer who is waiting for that perfect wave. She gets ready, is up, is going to go for it, begins to coast up that curl toward the seemingly elusive tunnel ahead of her as the wave grows, but somehow the power is just not with her. She misses it and rides over the back of the wave, watching it rush to the shore without her. IMG_1045 Of course there are other waves…Other beaches…

    During that time, I was recommended a book by Margaret J. Wheatley called Turning to One Another: Simple Conversations to Restore Hope to the Future. It’s a beautiful book I had hoped to glean something from to encourage the work I referenced above. In leafing through it now — several years past — I know now what I suspected then. Ideas of this kind would have been scoffed at by those who were afraid of opening themselves up to change. Ideas of this nature were threatening to them. Ideas about “the courage of conversation…”

    Where can we find the courage to start a good conversation? The answer is found in the word itself. ‘Courage’ comes from the Old French word for heart (cuer). We develop courage for those things that speak to our heart. Our courage grows for things that affect us deeply, things that open our hearts. Once our heart is engaged, it is easy to be brave. ( p. 25)

    Ideas about “willing to be disturbed…”

    We can’t be creative if we refuse to be confused. Change always starts with confusion; cherished interpretations must dissolve to make way for the new. Of course it’s scary to give up what we know, but the abyss is where newness lives. Great ideas and inventions miraculously appear in the space of not knowing. If we can move through the fear and enter the abyss, we are rewarded greatly. We rediscover we’re creative. (p. 37)

    Ideas about being “willing to reclaim time to think…”

    If we can pause for a moment and see what we’re losing as we speed up, I can’t imagine that we would continue with this bargain. We’re forgetting the very things that make us human. Our road to hell is being paved with hasty intentions. I hope we can notice what we’re losing — in our day-to-day life, in our community, in our world. I hope we’ll be brave enough to slow things down. (p. 96)

    So it’s Friday. Time to slow down, time to converse about possibilities, time to reflect, and be creative. For me, that means giving Photoshop some time and learning how to create different images with the photos I’ve taken around here. Here’s a sample of what I’ve done so far. The one below — not above. The RT did that one. Not bad for a mouse potato, huh? Well, actually, a pair of mouse potatoes. Now I just have to figure out how to get mine into the header on my other blog. But not today. That’s a working kind of webmastering thing. I just want to create. Well, I may have to do some housework. Feh!

    Have a peaceful weekend…
    S&V Banner

  • Flower Smelling & Connecting Dream Dots

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Blob-li-cate: How not to plug-in

    Horror-scope for Today: You have the presence of mind to put your attention precisely where it’s needed. Whether this means doing feng shui on your office or answering emails rapid-fire, at the end of the day you go home feeling organized.

    1. I have no presence of mind. I’m trying to fix my blob problem.

    2. My attention span is non-existent.

    3. I don’t have enough emails that aren’t junk to “rapid-fire” anything except mass delete.

    4. What office?

    5. What’s organized?

    *breathe deeply*

    …The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach — waiting for a gift from the sea… Anne Morrow Lindbergh

  • Thinking About Dog Turds, Dead Birds & Report Cards

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Sometimes, life leaves you little packages. Some are pleasant, and others require thought. A few are earned, and the rest may be deposited with you whether you want them or not. They make you wince, hold your breath, shake your head in disgust, or shed tears of remorse. Yesterday was one of those days. A thinking type of day.

    Thinking about things like:

    • What that thing was on the third riser from the top on the staircase. That rounded, dark-looking, too big to be one of the RT’s mishmash of military paraphernalia. That…glob…leaning up against the wall. Did the doggo drop a piece of her load on the rug? No. Can’t be. But there it was in all its glory, a turdlett, most likely left accidentally on her way out the door first thing in the morning. She just couldn’t make it. Somehow she knew that I had found it, and avoided making eye contact as I carried it to the trash, her eyes flicking up and away, knowing she had been caught and was embarrassed.
    • Or the sweet little yellow-headed bird Blaxter brought up to me like he was awarding me a bouquet of roses — his mouth full of feathers after laying the no longer breathing feathered beauty softly at my side on the rug. His green eyes searching my face for a response for his deed of gift-giving. What possessed him after eight years to catch a bird? I patted him on the head, gave him a few scratches and rubs, and carefully scooped up the poor bird to take it somewhere a bit more respectful for a while. No little boys at home any more to coo over the loss, and with whom to hold a ceremony. And just a patio with no land or space of dirt to dig a hole and bury it.
    • Or the report card. The RT’s. One last stretch until the end of the semester. Until the end of his first year in high school. A decent report card– excellent in some areas (Biology), definite work needed in others (The Geometry Teacher’s Class). The report card felt more mine than his. What can I have done to support him more? How do we instill in him the need to engage? To connect the dots. To join the world of the practical. Maybe he has it right, and everyone else has it wrong. “RT, I really need you to hop up and down, pull your hair out, look generally miserable about school and stress out about everything that’s going on. You know?” It’s funny that when I remember being in ninth grade–and I do clearly–homework was insignificant, the assignments required little thought, and my classes were less than inspiring. I went every day, did what was expected of me, and spent almost no energy on any of it–but not consciously. So what am I complaining about?

    My ultimate report card?

    Today was weigh-in day for progress on my diet. I’m not feeling very svelte this morning, and it isn’t because of the wrecked hamstring in my left leg. There’s nothing to celebrate, that is unless I consider my health, and all that kind of good stuff often taken for granted. I’m back up about a pound. It must be Thursday night’s very reasonable portion of Chocolate Mousse–Banana Split Style which was so delicious I could have eaten all of it myself, but didn’t. Or pasta a couple of different ways over a couple of different days, or the pizza on Saturday when we were working like dogs, or the Eggs Baked in Cream yesterday morning…Whoa. Oh, and the wine. And the beer. Looks like I’ll have to pop that celery out of the veggie bin. Dinner needs to be on a smaller plate. And I probably don’t need sugar in my coffee.

    On the brighter side of things, a few weeks back, I received a very pleasant review of my blog which I believe I neglected to share. In his review, Billy Mac said, “New kid on the block Kellementology is on the path to stardom. She has all the right who…what…where…and whens in order, her format is set up nicely and she posts on a regular basis. What else can you ask for from a blogger.  Now it’s the waiting game to watch the blog blossom. Keep up the good work…keep the content as good a s it is…and good luck.”  I swear I blushed when I read it.

    Then,  Confessions of a Former Bookworm anointed me with a Thinking Bloggers Award, and in very good company, as well.  Perhaps it makes sense that I gave you all my pensive  thoughts above to consider  while I was thinking about it. Just sharing the thinking one post at a time, whomever, and where ever you are out there.

    It’s a pretty diverse list, but the following people give me pause in their various regions of the blog world, sometimes like a cold splash of water, or others like the brush of tall grass in a gentle breeze. I discovered Wonderland or Not fairly recently. I like her edgy, witty point of view and general voice in whatever she writes–even though I have to scratch my head occasionally, and stew over it. And Dave, of course, at Wandering the Ether, who never fails to make me feel guilty for writing about American Idol, or the RT’s messy bedroom instead of societal issues that are perpetually swept under the rug. Or like Writing Under a Pseudonym whose writing on life and its trials is hauntingly beautiful at times, and so achingly sad others, that I feel as if I’m an intruder as I read, and don’t know how she makes it from one day to the next. I don’t read these blogs the same way, for the same length of time, or for the same reasons. I respond to one, and hover around the other two. They simply make me think each time I check on each of them. They coerce me into a world more serious than the one I’ve wanted to be a part of recently and I appreciate that.

    So, in the spirit of thought, I’m off for my walk early today, to think. Free as a bird, listing to the left a bit, weighing more than I want, but ready to pound the streets in search of anything a bit less serious in Paradise. Because a bit of levity is good for the soul. Would you put this on your house? Really? Shhhhhh…..I’m thinking.

  • Will Schlep to Help Sale

     

    My sister has had her former home on the market for months. Her husband retired from the navy and took a job across the country, so they slapped a For Sale sign out front and blew out of here in January. Unfortunately, the house is still there, unsold, and no one seems to love it. And it’s a bit stressful trying to manage this business when she’s so far away. Things just don’t go the way she’d like them to all the time.

    So she flew out from VA this past weekend to make sure her recent investment in trying to get her house sold in East Paradise Gated McNeighborhood works. What that entailed was rounding up the family mules: Gramster Mule, Betty Mule (yours truly), and Officer Mule, the brother who keeps his distance from the female crazies in the family. It also involved rounding up as many yard tools as possible– either by begging, borrowing, or stealing — to get the whole curb appeal thing done, because all her yard tools moved to VA with the family. And most importantly, it meant checking out what she’d very recently paid $20K for on the inside to get the old homestead securely into someone else’s hands as soon as possible (new counters in the kitchen, new appliances, new light fixtures, new light switch plates — yes, I said light switch plates, and new hardware for the front door). It seems reducing the price $100K wasn’t enough for the fickle and taste-lacking Paradise bargain shoppers, (Example: two women who offered $70K under the asking price, with no money down, wanted $20K out of escrow in cash, and could they please rent it cheap and live there until escrow closed?) Uhhhhhh…..And the turnip truck you just got off of is parked where? So a bit of surface glam was called for, as well. You know, staging the house. You’ve heard about it on TV. But the price tag was so high to have furniture sit in the empty house, that props had to suffice. Tricky.

    Who figured that after she took a red-eye flight out here and hit the ground running — or digging — that it would rain. And not just rain, but black clouds, wind, a perfunctory bolt of lightning and single clap of thunder just to make it official. But this didn’t stop our dusting and polishing, or our trip to The Home Depot for flowers and bark, our furious activity, or our end of the day sleepover in my mom’s absolutely freezing casita up in big, big hilly type mountainettes way east of Paradise. So freezing that we slept unshowered, with lots of clothes on, thinking that the dirt on us helped a bit with insulation, and that her head-light could double as a light to read in our dirt by. Or maybe ambient heat for our hands. Open and say Ahhhhh……

    But we were halted in our fervor to get the place spruced up by the pond that the storm left on the side of the house. So much rain, that the “low spot” pond threatened to become a lake. The low spot that the realtor frets about where the downspout from the gutters sinks into the ground. Where the downspout appears to connect to some unseen drain that will conveniently, and efficiently take away the rain water. But no. The downspout just goes into the ground. There’s no drain. Not the thing an anxious to sell her house person wants. Not the day before the Grand Re-Opening Open House. Not.

    The family mules set to the task of leveling a portion of the side yard, digging around the seemingly non-functional drain, and generally spiffing the place up and hiding the pond. And it worked pretty well until we wanted to walk on it, and it had a gelatinous feel to it — all quivery, and spongy. But we whistled while we worked, anyway, gossiping loudly about the neighbors who were in their yard next door, surrepititiously doing yard work even though my sister said they never went out in their yard. Some of us groused about the ridiculous hairs realtors split in doing their work, while blindly over-looking things that should be focused upon. I’m thinking you’ve got to have a bit of stoopidity in your system if you can say things like, “…and maybe you can put a bit of mulch around the roses while you’re at it…” on a Friday afternoon when a couple of rear ends are in the air , heads bent to their task of weeding, turning soil, and trimming brown plant edges. I just don’t think they get it. They seem not to see all the good things.

    For example, you have to walk through the pool area to even see the roses. Or to wander up to the back part of the property to remember where the trampoline used to be, and where fruit trees are in bloom. And it’s quite the pool area that has hosted some pretty great parties over the years. My mom once broke some bones in her hand swinging on the rope before launching herself into the pool like the boys were doing. Pool floatie water polo battles were fierce. And many a young girl played water princess, exhibiting exotic underwater poses, and featuring gymnastic feats. The jaccuzzi? Well, the banana mudslides went down well as we stewed ourselves to a prune state. It’s a bit strange seeing it so empty and to know that as much as a family once loved it, others don’t seem to notice what made that family happy living here. In the end, it’s just a house, and there seem to be millions on the market in Paradise right now.

    And the neighbors. Oh my gawd, the neighbors. Outside of one person who graciously invited the soaked, muddy, and fairly ugly group of us over to have wine and snacks after it became too cold and rainy to work, the rest were fairly grotesque in their behavior. Two were seen across the street smack-talking the fresh, deep green color of the front door, which couldn’t possibly pass the architectural committee’s approval. So we hopped into the car and took a cruise around McNeighborhood to write down the house numbers of those individuals who also had “painted” doors, instead of natural woodgrain doors — some in dire need of refinishing. Or houses that had beyond ugly screen doors, or fences in need of repair, yards in need of care, or just plain butt-ugly anything in front of the house. Routinely, neighbors drove by, slowed down to gawk like we were performing nude rituals in the yard, and to maybe slink over to the For Sale sign and take a flyer with up-to-date information. By the end of the day, the flyers were all gone. All in the hands of neighbors who anxiously waited with bated breath to see what the house could sell for. Waiting to know if they may continue to have the opportunity to brag to one another what they think their houses are worth — whether they actually are or not.

    But my sister is going for the jugular. The house is going to sell or else. So she’s dug in there today with my mom, camped out in the back yard — mostly to keep the neighbors out, and to make sure the realtor is actually doing something to sell the house. — like answer questions about it that prospective buyers may have. What a concept, huh?

    And when the house does sell within the advertised range this week, the McNeighborhood comps are toast. People will have to get off their high horses and get real about their property values in East Paradise Gated McNeighborhood. Perhaps thinking about the place where they live as being a home with a family and memories thrown in instead of a house that has a market value would be a great start. But the experience was enjoyable because my family did the work together — something that doesn’t happen often now. Being able to help in this little way just sort of cemented in the fact that my sister and her family are really gone from this home, and living on the other side of the country. Snif!

  • My Hair Even Hurts

    Oh my gawd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Wait for it.

  • Teenagers and Circus Hoops

    “Mom…MOM,” the RT rumbled yesterday morning, slinking around the corner to the kitchen in his new size 12 tennies. Do they even call them that anymore? And how can a 14-year-old have feet that big? His feel are suddenly the size of very large bricks.

    “Huh? I responded, fumbling with the coffee grinder and looking at him cautiously, knowing he was going to ask for something that was going to be challenging for me with only three minutes left until carpool time. Something that may require I had to put clothes on to do. And I was already going to have to do that as the day wore on because I had a dentist appointment. Ugh. I am underwhelmed about ever going to the dentist, but they all know it and take very good care of me.

    “When you get a chance today, can you go to Staples and get me a calculator?” he continued.

    “What happened to the three we have? I asked patiently — well, it felt patient. Sort of.

    “You mean this one?” he said, holding up an old Texas Instruments business calculator that the MoH used in college. Yes, it still works. “It doesn’t have tan, sine, or the other functions I need for math.”

    “You have two of those already. Where are they? I saw you using one the other day, adding up stuff for your Warhammer game.”

    “Imperial Guard,” he cut in.

    “Huh? What guard?”

    “You know, my game. Not Warhammer.”

    “Uh…can we get back to the calculator, please? What’d you do with it?” He had that flat look he gets when his patience is being tried — like when I could never get Sun-jay’s name correct and he had to remind me every single time what the correct pronunciation of the former American Idolness‘ name was. “Sanjaya. Not Sun-jay.”

    I could feel the beginnings of steam rising over this nonsense of the calculator, like it was something that really mattered — which it wasn’t. But it was an opportunity to make another point about his lovely bedroom. Dirty play by Mom sticking it to the RT again over one of his biggest challenges. “When do you need it? You don’t have a test today, do you? If your room was clean, you’d be able to find your stuff when you need it — like now. See what I mean?”

    “Mom. I need it by Monday. Okay?” he said quietly before walking to get his backpack. It was time for the carpool and it was our day.

    “You need to spend some time in your room today when you get home and find the calculator. It’s here. Are you going to need it in class today? Do you have a test?” I persisted because maybe it didn’t compute the first time I said it.

    “Mom. No. I. Do. Not. Have. A. Test…Okay?” he said, looking right at me, and with the utmost control, as one might display when communicating with something which had little or no capacity for language. A boiled potato, maybe.

    He’s such a good kid, but The Geometry Teacher’s class has been an up and down challenge all year, and this business of him being loosey-goosey about her drill sergeant tactics is getting old. He has conformed to some extent, and that actually makes me a bit sad because he has given in to someone who, in my opinion, should not be in a classroom with kids. She has sharp teeth and anti-productive hoops she’s installed for students to jump through like circus animals instead of actually teaching something. The fact that he was actually asking me to get something for him for the class was significant. It must be the excellent “B” he got on her last test that has perked him up. Her test, not his. It’s all about Her. In the past, we hadn’t found out he needed something until it was too late, and then we were forced to get out our “DORK PARENTS HERE” sign and stand under it for making it seem too challenging for the RT to ask us a simple question. Lecture avoidance technique strategy armed and ready.

    Yesterday, when I was at the dentist’s office, a woman came in with her own teen-type. I think that’s what it was — a lanky sort of unhappy looking thing who had his attention glued to his cell phone. He must have been playing games on it or something, because at one point, the thing’s mom told him to turn it off, and he completely ignored her. Four times. Four. Then said, “What?” quite loudly in the small room, like she was some obnoxious creature who had slimed in from the swamp and had soiled his air space. I was dying to look at their expressions but was mortified for her and wanted to verbally wring his skinny neck myself with a terse, “Can you step outside for a minute, please?” just to see what he would do. But it was only a fleeting fantasy. To her credit, she persisted, and told him he had to turn off the cell phone because there were signs posted in the office. “Where? What sign?” he barked at her as he slid off his chair to glance over my shoulder at the sign. “That’s for when you’re back there, not here,” he finished, not looking at her. She sighed and picked up a magazine, and I carefully kept my attention on mine, even though I couldn’t see a damn thing because I’d left my glasses at home. All three pair.

    The experience reminded me of just how pleasant our son is. By the time I got home from the dentist, he had found his calculator. He said it took him an hour to find it, wedged behind his bed, against the mattress and the wall. I got to hear all the colorful details of the closet and under the bed, too, where he said he spent ten whole minutes. Yes, I know. I’ve been there myself, far too many times, and for much longer.

    So with the calculator tucked safely where he can find it himself next time (Yes! All children can learn!) we drove off to Friday morning at L-T-DHS, with no chance of sunshine, and a high chance of rain. But the car crew was bubbly this morning, with the princess grousing about an AP Euro exam like it was a badge of honor, and the two boys talking about the cold and a crash involving two semis being announced on the radio and hypothetically discussing what would happen if one was filled with fish and the other with chips. It’s not funny, but the RT is. His brain sees the world in comic strip form. At any moment, he breaks into dialog, or an announcement, or narration of some unseen event, reported in some accent that he’s picked up from Monty Python or somewhere. Half the time, I can’t understand him, but he clearly entertains himself. And he makes me smile every day.

    So I’m off to my mom’s. You guys may have to live without me for a day because she lives in the serious sticks east of Paradise and has……Dial….Up. It should be illegal for anyone to have to suffer from a dial up connection. My sister is visiting from VA, and we have work to do on the house she hasn’t sold here yet. Anyone out there want to move to East Paradise? It has a swell pool, good schools, and a kitchen with a face lift.

    On the home front, tax season is over, so the my husband is a human again. The Momolator or whatever the hell he’s calling our dog this week is happy to have him back, for obvious reasons. The Yack Star Fresh Face Prince Ass Fuzz Bag Flea Incu-Bus hasn’t graced us with a hairball in a week, and I finally completed one food blog obligation last night, with more to come this morning (or perhaps not).

    A million thanks to a techie who, in response to a question I asked, put up a great post about transferring my blogs to my own domain, Thought Sparks. If you remember the laughing baby I linked in a previous post, that is courtesy of him, too. Such a nice guy!

    Have a splendiferous weekend searching for something besides Sanjaya on Google. And then let me know so I can join in!

  • Sadness: Random Senseless Purposeless Pointlessness

    Sadness: Random Senseless Purposeless Pointlessness

     

    *February 15, 2018–Yesterday, a young man walked into a high school in Parkland, Florida and shot 17 people. Since I first wrote the angry piece below, there have been 162 school related shootings in the United States. Incidents from a pellet gun aimed at a passing school bus to  the unthinkable massacre of 20 first-grade children and six educators at Sandy Hook Elementary. I’ve not included the mass shootings which happened outside of schools–and there have been many. Clearly, no one has done anything to prevent these senseless tragedies from happening, nor do they seem to care. 

    It’s not an accident that on days like today, the newspaper is folded in a particular way when I slide it from its clear bag. The “Currents-Health” section is strategically viewed first, along with the latest piece on “Portion Patrol.” But the largest article on the page, “A sense of urgency” seems vague so I’m forced to flip it over to find information that will help me know if my indigestion is bad enough to seek assistance at the ER. This is where the publisher’s strategy of trying to cover up the main page headlines fails, because now I can see them. And even though I knew they’d be there today, they are sobering. How can they not be? And how can I not read what’s written there regardless of how sad and angry it makes me?

    Quite a long time ago, our local paper ran a dramatic and now famous photograph on its front page of a fireman carrying a small child from the rubble of a building destroyed by a monster. So many people complained about the inappropriateness of that photo being the first thing they saw that morning when they opened the paper, that now, sensitive material is always buried behind another section. Or tastefully covered, so that it can be avoided, or perhaps made more palatable after readers have had the opportunity to peruse something far more important about how granola “hangs with bad calories,” or whether that fart stuck crosswise is worth seeing a doctor about. (more…)

  • Tax Day & the Haves and Have Nots

    Since waking at 3am today, I’ve read three days worth of our local paper, April’s edition of O, and done a great job of not reading the book I’m supposed to be reading. As a result, I’ve been preoccupied by something that used to happen frequently when I was part of the working world; things and issues of the day connected. No matter what I read, or what conversation I had, at some point, ideas converged whether they were supposed to or not. You know, the lights are on and someone is finally home. The point is, it happens rarely now. My brain has relaxed and now gets to think about what it wants, so it meanders everywhere, taking in often unrelated pieces of information that could be useful, but will most likely not synthesize into earth shattering points of lucidity.

    You wouldn’t think that reading pieces about the Imus fallout — some better than others — Internet spawned narcissism, “Who pays what on TAX DAY,” or a pathetic letter to the editor of O grousing about “class privilege” regarding the actions of women who will do anything to conceive a child, would have anything to do with one another, but they must. I can feel the telltale signs of defensive belligerence on low burn right now, so after reading the post in Wonderland or Not today, I’ve decided that the only way to sort it out is to write. Not complain, or snark, or whine. Just express myself about something that has been on my mind for a very long time. This would be an excellent place to stop reading if you don’t want to delve into my dark side. (more…)

  • Walking Commentary

    If you’re a peppy and dedicated individual who would truly enjoy being more healthy, or svelte, you have to get off your duffster and move it! You have to join the throngs of others who venture out on a blustery day to get that heart rate up, and sweat glands functioning. (You do understand that I’m attempting to make up for the bitchy grousing I was engaged in earlier today, don’t you?) But it is excellent advice, because you just never know how things will turn out. Besides, you would rather be someone who talks about sedentary Americans than actually be one, right? If you get out and about, it could be possible that…

    • You may get to hear your VBF confirm that you do smell in your laundry basket retrieved walking attire but that it won’t matter because her horse-like doggo is in the car, too, smelling like a dog should and that it’s a toss up on who smells worse.
    • You will get to see signs like this and, well… take a picture of it, then restrain yourself from commenting at this point because your passionate self is on sleep mode temporarily, and that is a completely different set of posts that you don’t want people to have to read on a Sunday.
    • You scratch and wonder about the red stick art thing in this person’s back yard. “Is it really art? Or is it a stick?” And then you notice others, barely discernible through the plants, but equally mystifying. (more…)