kellementology

life according to me

  • I’ve Noticed.

    I’ve Noticed.

     

    Although I’ve not spent much time seeking it out, the consensus on the conclusion of 2011 seems to be more of a collective good riddance than a sigh of regret from others I’ve noticed.  I don’t know that I ever feel that way about a year coming to a close — even those years less stellar than the rest — choosing instead to think about what I enjoyed about it.  Or what I learned and want to remember, so ruminate over it all while I’m taking the last look at the lighted Christmas tree, or sweeping up the bits and pieces of torn wrapping paper and ribbon that escaped the first clean-up.

    Noticing what has been significant in a year is important, but not because a determination of  its positive or negative impact is forthcoming.  It just is what it is, and like anything else that happens in a year’s time, it takes its place on the calendar.  Sometimes it fills days or weeks, and others, a mere instant.  But they all seem to vie for my attention — especially when I’m not occupied with something that has to be taken care of.  I ruminate over them, working for some resolution.

    What did I notice about 2011?

    (more…)

  • Oh Dark Thirty or Something Like That

    I’m not sure how long I’ve been awake, but realize it only when I hear the surf’s low roar in the distance through the window I opened yesterday just to get a bit of cool air in the room, then forgot about.  It’s not quite chilly, but I’d rather it be shut.  The short, quiet whistle just outside has me wondering who the someone is out there, his dog down the street farther than necessary at this time of night.  It’s a bit creepy.

    The clock reads 3:26 am, and I give in to the idea that even though it’s too quiet to run the coffee grinder or too dark to go for a walk, I decide to sit here to pass the time.  And because I’ve already thought about everything there is to think about before I decided to get out of bed, I wonder why I’m making an effort to write any of this, tempted instead to fumble my way down the stairs in the dark, pick up the book I just started last night and read for a while.  The only problem is, no light is strong enough downstairs to read with.  This makes me realize it wouldn’t be a problem if I’d transitioned completely to Kindle which I only recently downloaded to my iPad.  Somehow, the idea bothers me because I still like the look and feel of a book — especially fiction.  But that doesn’t help me much, sitting here in the dark and wanting something to do.

    I watch the stream of Tweets on TweetDeck with little interest, but hesitate to close it since it’s not distracting me — as if that’s possible.  My brain feels empty, which means I really should be sleeping.  Or perhaps I am asleep and just haven’t figured it out yet.  This would be a fairly boring dream if that was the case.  Imagine.

    No, the ache at the base of my skull isn’t something I’d dream about.  Gently, I shift my head from one side to the next, feeling the muscles in my neck stretch.  It feels good, and so I extend the stretch down each of my sides, elbows up, slowly pulling, taking a slow, deep breath.  Much better.

    A lone bird has chirped somewhere outside and the first car headed down the hill.  I wonder who it is and what time work begins, glad I am not that person, but remember briefly having to get up this early to go to work myself for several years.  I remember enjoying the quiet as I readied myself, shutting the front door quietly as I left each morning, all the people I loved still tucked in their beds, some snoring.

    I think about what I’ve decided to do today after the sun has risen, committed to heading down the boardwalk to get some exercise.  When we first moved here, as much as I wanted to sleep in on the weekends, I’d wake, pull on my sweats and drive down to walk on the beach.  It was a novelty then and I enjoyed breathing in the salty, damp air as I walked along not having to dodge the bikes and skateboards normally crowding the boardwalk.  Yes, I’ll enjoy that this morning, and while I’m walking, I’ll decide whether or not to make Christmas cookies this year.  The MoH and I certainly don’t need cookies around the house, but I saw some great new recipes in Bon Appetit’s holiday baking spread this year and am tempted, knowing if I procrastinate long enough, it will be too late, and then I’ll be saved from the task.  We’ll see.

    It’s 5:05 am, and I’ve successfully filled time more than space here, not really focusing on anything. Lizzie’s followed me up here at some point and is curled on the futon behind me.  I get up for a minute to pet her, listening to her purr.  I peer between the blinds, surprised to see a still dark sky, and yawn.

    Should I go back to bed or risk the coffee grinder?  Waste time pinning pretty things to my Pinterest boards?  Paper, scissors, rock.

    I’m chilled to the bone now, my head still hurts, and the stuffy nose I’m just now realizing is the culprit for my being awake is annoying me.

    It’s an admirable 5:31 am.

    Coffee wins.

     

     

  • Waste of a morning in 20 easy steps

    Just a dose of my “business” life so far this morning — a not quite wordless Wednesday.

    An ad agency responded to my recent inquiry regarding use of their ads.  They’ve approved me, but I’ve been delaying taking next steps because it involves sitting at the Erstwhile Resident Teen’s dusty computer, signing in to my email there, printing  the agreement document, signing it, scanning it, and then attaching it to an email to send.  No, it’s not exactly rocket science, so outside of being tedious in a I’d-rather-do-anything-else-but-this kind of way, it’s a task easily accomplished, right?

    Um, no.

    1. Mobile Me says the PDF is too large.  Uh.  I’ve sent larger with no problema? Figures.
    2. I can’t figure out how to reduce the size of the PDF with STOOPID FREAKING LOUSY ROTTEN Microsoft Vista.  Crap. Crap. Crappidy Crap Crapster.  (You’re picturing Colin Firth in King’s Speech here, but without the far more colorful language).
    3.  So, I decide to use my Gmail account instead, thinking I’m pretty smart even though I’ve had to resort to this before out of desperation.  Please know the two computers are separated by a wall, so it’s always strange.  Ahem.
    4. Right smacking in the middle of writing the email, the wireless keyboard stops working.  No warning.  No blinky lights, or warning messages.  Just.  Out.
    5. I try to reconnect.
    6. I check the status of the keyboard and am not happy to see it’s listed as working just fine.
    7.  I load new batteries.
    8.  I reload new batteries because I can’t see and am not sure they’re loaded properly.
    9. I restart the computer.
    10. TWICE.
    11. Shaking the keyboard has no effect on its function.
    12. I try the “Connect” button on the back of the keyboard, but nada.
    13. Please know that smacking the keyboard with the palms of both hands simultaneously also does not work.
    14. To spare the neighbors and my blood pressure, I take a few trips up and down the stairs emptying trash, doing laundry, entertaining our high-maintenance furry teen-aged feline “daughter” with her string, assorted balls, her catnip baby, and also brush her a few times which makes her extremely happy.
    15.  I shine the floors upstairs with a cleaner that makes them look worse than when I began.
    16. I get another cleaner and give the hairy eyeball treatment to the dusty PC which sits staring blankly on the desk.
    17. I notice how hot it is today already (86 degrees!) and think WTH.  Where was Mr. Sunshine this past summer, hmmm?
    18. I finally give in and decide I’ll either steal the Erstwhile Resident Teen’s printer and install it on my Mac or try to reinstall the one I have attached to my Mac (which stopped working smack in the middle of the Erstwhile Resident Teen’s graduation project over a year ago so only a total idiot would do that, right?)
    19. I look in the mirror to confirm that I meet the qualifications at this point.
    20. Sadly, I glance at the clock and realize I’ve been dicking around with this sh*t for an hour and a half and have accomplished NOTHING.  But the cat’s happy.

    You’re laughing, right?

    Right?

    I look at it this way.  Wednesday is the day I have been promising myself to write about something other than food, so I’m thinking this is a swell topic to write about.

    I’ll do that before I install the printer.

    God I can’t stand crawling under desks.

  • Getting the mail


    I realize with a start that it’s been a while since I’ve been out to get the mail.  A while as in days.  Remnants of past mail piles have been disbursed from their less than attractive spot on the dining room table to the trash and a basket that seems to accumulate that sort of thing as if someday, one of us may actually look through its contents.

    I find myself using the floury fingers of hands recently finished kneading pizza dough to count the days before realizing I also have to think about what day of the week it is.  I think it’s Wednesday.  So, it’s been almost a week since I’ve walked across the street to get the mail.  I’ve never counted the steps, but thinking about it now, the distance cannot be more than 20 yards from door to kiosk.  Big yards.  Yards created by huge strides that you imagine are at least three feet long.

    The mailbox problem is beyond one of memory.  Not much comes in the mail these days other than the few bills we’ve still not converted to paperless, newsprint advertisements for local markets’ sales, catalogs I need to email companies to stop sending, and requests for donations to charities I can’t begin to imagine are real.  Why bother to get the mail?  The routine — once something looked forward to — is more about whether I’ve got my hair combed, am dressed for the day, and wearing something that won’t draw attention should anyone see me walking those 20 yards.

    God forbid.

    I might not care if the occasional neighbor or dog walker from around the block was pleasant.  That she smiled or at least nodded without my having to do so first, indicating she was a happy sort, enjoying the day and glad to be out in the sunshine, breathing the fresh air.  But that rarely happens.  The one person in the neighborhood who was friendly and knew everyone, who always stopped to say hello and ask about things has moved, and the quiet cul-de-sac is more quiet than it’s ever been.

    I picture our small box in the kiosk and know it’s a toss up:  it’s either crammed full, or a lone slip is sitting inside.  I give in because it’s been so long, picturing the pinched expression on our mail lady’s face —  not exactly the friendly sort — as she works to push yet another day’s mail contents into the small opening of our mailbox, annoyed and thinking about how difficult must it be to collect mail on a daily basis.  I take pity on her and decide that since Wednesday is also the day I’m supposed to remember to pick up the MoH’s shirts at the cleaner, I get dressed.  Sans shoes and sporting a pony that has to be jutting from the back of my head at a 90 degree angle, I venture out the door.  Ever present readers are perched on my head.  A black tank donned, clean for 15 minutes until I brush my floury hands on it.

    Nice.

    Luckily I make it to the kiosk without being noticed.  No one is around to take stock of my horribly penciled in eyebrows,  toenails with specks of a summery color clinging to each,  and legs in need of a razor. I unlock the box, relieved it contains our mail instead of a slip requiring that I drive to the post office to collect it.  But the box is stuffed.  It’s so full thanks to a ridiculously sized Restoration Hardware catalog, that I have trouble wedging the mass from the box.  It’s caught on the latch. I try to avoid tearing the contents as I release them, my thoughts lost in the effort.  Suddenly, I notice someone passing directly behind me and turn my eyes to see a slight figured woman, older than myself, cap donned, hair fixed, head down and walking at a rapid pace.  She’s been exercising and has clearly fixed herself up to do that, wearing well-fitted black and white sweats.  But there’s no acknowledgement of me.  No interest in turning her head to allow me to make a self-deprecating comment and share a laugh.

    Nothing.

    I look down at my heels after she passes, trying to imagine what I must look like from the rear struggling with a mailbox and noticing that it’s been a while since they’ve seen the callous remover I use on them.  I notice the darkened spot on the leg of my comfortable grey bermuda shorts, remembering with a smile the night the MoH and I made fish and chips.  I walk quickly back to the house, head down in determination to get back inside before the car approaching passes.  I bury myself in mail sorting, determined to avoid the pile that is inevitable.  I’ll feign productivity with this inane task instead of doing something I’d rather do so I can think think about why it’s such a challenge to pry myself from the house.

  • Dawdling

    It’s Wednesday.  Remember Wordless Wednesdays?

    Once upon a time, while many others were busy posting an image or a cartoon to take a bit of a blogging break midweek, I was busy finding excuses about why I wasn’t wordless and thinking how could anyone ever be wordless? I made jokes about my seemingly endless stream of whatever came to mind while others took a deep breath.  Looked around.   And although the words are coming now, they don’t add up to much.  I stop to think, searching for something to put here, to have a bit of meaning other than to say what I’m saying.

    See?  Not much.

    I know I should be wanting to hop on a soapbox about politics, or shake my fist at the injustices in the world.  Complain about the cost of health insurance, or the size of the plastic debris soup “island” growing in the Pacific right now.  I will say we recycle more than we throw away, avoid water in throw away plastic bottles, and reuse as much as we can, but our efforts seem paltry as I observe  effects of others’ unconcerned attitudes.

    No, I don’t feel like writing about those things right now.

    (more…)

  • A Five Year Retrospective

    I think it was this weekend five years ago my husband orchestrated my 50th birthday party with the help of my best friend who graciously held the party at her home.  It seems longer ago than five years, and considering all that has happened in that time, it qualifies as yet another of my lifetimes.

    (more…)

  • College + Life: Year One

    It’s been an interesting year and writing about it on July 6 is odd considering most people think about doing so on January 1 when they’re busy taking stock of their lives, yet again caught up in the idea of promising themselves the moon if only they might eat less, organize more, drink less, exercise more, want less, or earn more than they have in preceding years.

    Go ahead.  Just try and say that three times fast.

    My reason for this reflection is to acknowledge my youngest son’s 19th birthday and with it, the conclusion of his first year of life away from home.  No birthday cake and no wrapped prezzies.  Out of tune renditions of Happy Birthday sung through a shared receiver.  An agreed upon mini fridge for his dorm room being delivered shortly so he won’t have to walk to the corner for a snack or soda after remembering we tell him not forget to eat.

    What strikes me as most significant about this past year is his adaptability.   When others ask how he’s doing, we respond that he’s doing extremely well, loves San Francisco, has made friends, and is happy.  He enjoys his classes, is interested in what he’s learning, and has a level head about how he’s doing performance-wise.

    Those inquiring seem surprised by our assessment, and signs of that surprise lessening has coincided with an equal lessening of inquiries made.  A collective huh if ever there was one.

    Or, in the words of Wally and The Beav, “Go figure.”

    The MoH would say I’m being irrational, but he listens to me as I blather on about it all being so curious.  Not our son’s adaptability — others’ reactions to it.  Perhaps everyone had their doubts.  If a kid doesn’t exude hard charging in-your-face drive while he’s growing up, then the assumption is that he’s unmotivated — or even incapable, I suppose.  If he’s not wielding a bat, or tackling someone on the opposing team, swinging, pedaling, spiking, serving, then maybe, just maybe he lacks muster.  Stick a mirror under his nose to see if he’s breathing, I guess.

    But I know better.  Still waters run deep.

    When I think of my youngest, I’ve come to the conclusion he quietly indulged his father and I all our fussing over him throughout his childhood.  Even my mother has muttered, “Well, he has been somewhat sheltered.”  But bear in mind that much of the fussing was our attempts at not acting like we were fussing instead of actually fussing which had to be comical on most days, exhausting others.  He endured it — and us — with patience, grace, and a quiet but determined focus to carry on with his interests his way.  The occasional flat-browed silence following the semi-terse exchanges one expects between a teenager and his parents notwithstanding, of course.

    He continues to indulge us, tolerating requests to have an online chat at a particular time on a specific day, numerous texts from his father (I lack that function on my cell, lucky kid), and horror of all horrors to many others his age, I’m sure — comments on his facebook wall.

    You gotta love parents who don’t get it — or act like they don’t get it.  That would be us.  But we do get it, which is why we’re omnipresent — well, sort of — in his life from a manageable distance of 600 miles or so.  Not quite helicoptering, but close.  Very, very close.  Telescopic helicoptering?  I wish.

    After getting his driver’s license in the nick of time late last summer and with no practice until returning home this June for a short four weeks, after one reminder session with the MoH, he was on his own, remembering to ask if I had plans to use the car before driving away to meet with friends.  Suppressing the urge to sneak out the front door to snap 10 or 20 photos of him driving off the first time by himself, I had a little talk with God about keeping him safe instead.  And I’m not one who talks to God, but the stars weren’t out, so I couldn’t see talking to a sunlit sky making sense.  I count myself lucky that I didn’t have to deal with the worry of his wanting to drive when he was 16.  The three years’ wait time gave me a chance to mature a bit or find out a few screws were loose.

    I think what I miss about him the most is the conversation we’d have.  A glimpse into what he was interested in (sci fi, video games, modeling…) and what he found funny (LOL cats?) was always an excuse to stop what I was doing to listen, watching his eyes as he talked, the start of a smile thinking about what he was telling me.  Nice kid.

    It’s a challenge to get much out of him on the phone now, and worried he might feel compelled to talk to “Mom,” I usually make it brief and on the not so fuzzy side of things I warned him I’d remind him of periodically, like, “Are you eating enough, and washing your hair?  Taking showers, cleaning your face, putting on your deoderant?” before he cuts me off with an even-toned, “Mom” and patient explanation that he is, in fact, taking care of all of those things.  Good answer.

    You’re wincing, I’m sure, but someone has to remind him.  It might as well be me.  Call it a public service.

    The MoH and I are fairly jealous that he’s getting this opportunity.  That he gets to be in our favorite city every day, and when he leaves his dorm for class, it’s to walk among those who live there, work there, and vacation there.  And then there are those who hang around the streets there, too, but that’s part of life, isn’t it?   Knowing when to be aware, safe.  It feels like we’ve made two steps in one with this experience of sending him out into the world — that he’s getting his education, but he’s getting it in a big city instead of on a traditional college campus.

    We’re happy for him.

    And proud.

    Happy Belated, Doog.  We love you.

    p.s.

    Has your mini-fridge arrived yet?

  • wordless wednesday: on the vine

    on the vine

     

  • Saturation point

    Saturation point

    saturation (sat-u-ra-tion)

    noun

    The state or process that occurs when no more of something can be absorbed, combined with, or added.

    This would be me on food.

    Eating it, looking at it, purchasing it, cooking it, cleaning it up, and most of all — writing about it.  I’m saturated.  In fact, I’m probably super-saturated, but I won’t go into that because I’d have to Google the term to remember what I learned in chemistry a million years ago.

    But I’m there.

    I’m hoping my brain will thank me for easing up on it, because at the rate I’m going, being one-dimensional is right around the corner.  Although I’m sure there are some perks to being one-dimensional — like being able to fit in tight spaces, weighing less, qualifying as a cast member of The Real Housewives of You Fill in the Blank (or all three simultaneously) — but I’d rather not find out.

    I don’t want to have to follow “expert” advice about how to improve Google rankings, or format posts, tag photographs, or use social media to improve traffic.  Focus?  Why do I have to have one?  It makes me weary thinking about it.

    Licking my index finger and holding it up to see which way the wind is blowing is good enough for me.  If anything, it would allow for the unexpected instead of the planned.  Whimsey.  Bird-walking.

    No lists.  Ugh.

    Instead, a promise to myself to enjoy writing  — for me.

    And guess what?  I found a writing group that will start meeting next month — nothing formal — just show up with a notebook.  They supply the prompts.

    I’m thinking this will be a hellavalot easier than losing 50 lbs.

    Wait. Isn’t that sort of where all of this started?

    Go figure.

  • Cats and morning routines on cold days

    Last month when the rest of the country began to complain about the seemingly endless amount of snow they’d been buried beneath this winter, we were basking in sunny days, warm breezes and average temps hovering at 70. I had a suspicion we’d get hammered in February, and although the hammering may not be quite like that of others — say Fargo — it’s all relative.  When it drops below 50 here, it’s cold.

    At just over 18 months, and with outside privileges still reasonably new, Lizzie our fierce kitty hasn’t factored weather into her day, which begins about 6:30.  She waits quietly for the MoH to make it downstairs, exercising even more restraint until I appear to take care of the morning cat meal.  Precious, the old one, waits by the stairs, and I brace myself with a cautionary grip on the handrail knowing Lizzie will launch herself down the stairs, hitting only one of six in her flight to her dish thereby letting everyone know her day is wasting away.  She preens past the old one’s dish as I spoon the wet food over the dry, and has finished licking the juice off the plate before Precious arrives at her dish, casting Lizzie a look that confirms her patience is all an act and that she has no manners.

    Lizzie could care less.

    I can hear her yeowling and know she’s perched on the big chair near the patio door, a wild look in her eyes and ears set in anxious impatience — up and back.  She wants out.  She wants out now.  We ignore her for the most part while making toast and tea or coffee,  mimicking her cries consolingly and reminding her to wait until the MoH leaves for work.  This made complete sense at one point, because I imagined she’d hear him go out the front door, follow him to the car, then risk being in the wrong place at the wrong time when it seems the entire neighborhood is headed to school or work each morning.

    I’ve had to remove a few cats from the road in my life, so the decision to let one go outside comes with much thought, caution, and worry.

    In the past few days, we’ve had rain and are expecting more this weekend.  It’s always welcomed as far as I’m concerned, but Lizzie isn’t thrilled to have puddles to avoid on her way out the door.  Focused on the hummingbird that seems to have been taunting her lately, she inadvertently steps in one and recoils, shaking her paw as if in pain, then darts back to the door which I’ve already closed.  Of course I get up from the cup of coffee cooling too quickly on this chilly morning and let her in, knowing she’ll want out in a few minutes.

    Yesterday, I caught her trying to scale the back wall.  I’ve always been thankful that as feisty as she is, she’s also a bit skittish, startled by loud noises. She, like Precious and sweet  Blackitty before her, had never been curious about that wall, so I was surprised to see her leap nearly to the top.  It borders our patio from a two-lane street which is busy with traffic at a few points during the day.  The one I’ve seen other cats use as a sort of path in the evening when they’re headed for whatever nocturnal mischief our cats are never allowed to find out about.  I yelled at her just as she was ready to pull herself up over  the top and she fell back to the ground, running from me, knowing that I’d put her back in the house while I stayed outside without her.

    She’s been in and out probably 15 times since I’ve been sitting here, or puttering about the kitchen this morning,  Sometimes, she’ll call to me from the door, and when I go to look out at her, motioning to open it, will run to flop on the dusty flagstones, wanting me to come outside with her.  It works, of course, and I’m distracted from this, from the fougasse finally ready for the oven after being forgotten last night, and from other things I said I’d get done today.

    I rub her belly noticing the warmth of the sun on my back, and eye the pile of rocks waiting to be cemented to the planters.  I should be out here, not sitting in the house.  I should bring some more rocks up from the garage.  Should mix another batch of cement.  Get another six feet or so finished.

    Lizzie is distracted  by yet another bird and darts away, leaving me to return to the house, to this, and to the mess in the kitchen left from the fougasse. If I hurry, the mess will be clean and maybe I’ll be able to spend some time out there with Lizzie in the sun before the clouds roll in.

    I can see her out there now, waiting for me.