kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Family

  • Grateful but aware

    The house is quiet now.  My brother and sister-in-law have taken their kids down the hill to get gas and take a break.  The MoH and the RT have taken Big for a ride — her favorite thing.  Someone made the mistake of saying “ride” and she heard it.  Prancing and hip-hopping ensued.  Bizarre dog. 

    If there’s anything more strange than sitting in my house (which is used to having only three people in it) with five more, and sitting in one room staring at a television with relentless coverage of fires that refuse to stop, I’m not sure what is.  To break the hypnotic focus on the television, small diversions have occurred — most of which have been due to the antics of my four-year-old nephew.  Who knew an ace bandage could be so entertaining, and that Big wouldn’t like being wrapped in one.  Thank goodness for the RT’s old books and three trunks full of Legos.

    We switch from channel to channel looking for something new and on each one, a continuous tape runs across the bottom of the screen with information about specific streets and series of addresses of homes that have been burned.  There are so many.  Currently, 346,000 homes have been ordered evacuated from Fallbrook in the north, to East Lake in the extreme south east. 

    The reporters have begun to respond to emails the stations are receiving about whether homes have been lost, and they’re taking the time to announce what information they have. At least then, people can call their insurance companies to get their recovery process going.  I can’t imagine… 

    The most surreal scene I’ve seen is a massive condominium complex on fire.  Some units on the edges were in flames, and on the opposite side of the development, SDG&E had a crew frantically digging down to shut off the main gas line into the complex.  I’m not sure how it all ended because things change and the coverage shifts.

    When you look at the line of fire in the south east that has traveled at an amazing rate up over San Miguel mountain, I suppose someone not involved would look at it and think, “How could that fire do any harm to anyone?”  It looks so harmless, and it’s only burning brush.  But what makes San Diego so unusual is the number of canyons that characterize the topography.  Very little of it is flat — even near the beach.  Fires are often set by arsonists during Santa Anas.  Four years ago, the massive fire was set accidentally by a man who was out hunting and became lost, so set off a flare.  This time, downed power lines caused by the high winds are to blame.

    Regardless, a fire is a fire, and I think we are all lulled into a sense of security because we’re in our homes, but the recent years have shown that the fires are erratic, and that the firemen cannot possibly prevent them from destroying structures.  As it is, most of the severe injuries currently are to fire fighters.

    Yesterday when we knew this wouldn’t be over anytime soon (the current prediction for 100% containment of one of the fires is November 4…) my sister-in-law and I got in the car to go to the grocery store.  What a zoo.  No parking.  People swirling around in the lot.  Grouchy people honking horns at those waiting for a spot.  Goodness.  I do think it’s a good time to think about others and take a deep breath that in this area because we’re not at risk.  But not too deep a breath.

    The ash from these fires is finer than sand and rusty brown in color.  I can imagine that it isn’t too great to breathe it.  It’s everywhere, dulling everything with a kind of sepia effect. The last time, fat ashes fell from the sky, floating softly to the ground to collect against our house. 

    The winds have died enough to allow helicopters to collect water from the reservoirs and begin dousing flames, but only in some areas.  It’s so dry, but the humidity has climbed into double digits today.  Thankfully.  But the air quality is supposed to worsen as the week proceeds until the Santa Ana breaks up.  My nose feels like it has rocks stuffed in it. 

    But my family is safe.  Wheezing, and parched, but safe.

    If you’re interested, this is a local site that has a live video feed.

  • Paradise is burning.

    Last night as we flew over San Diego county, the pilot said that if we looked out the windows we’d be able to see the fires burning out of control in several places below.  That if we smelled smoke in the cabin, we shouldn’t be worried.  Not too earlier, one of the MoH’s brothers called to say he and his family were leaving their home, and shortly after landing, we discovered their entire area was being evacuated.

    We arrived home after 9PM and began washing bedding and setting up the air mattress for their arrival at our house.  After being on the road stuck in the evacuation traffic for three hours, they arrived after 1AM, smokey-smelling and exhausted, but in surprisingly good spirits.  They’re pros.  This is the third time in about six years they’ve had to leave because of wild fires.

    We think their house if fine, but they’re still here with us while we watch the fires growing and spreading toward the coast, burning home after home.  Leveling one, skipping the next, then crossing the street.  The problem has been the Santa Ana winds, in some places, gusting at 60 mph.  The fire department hasn’t been able to use helicopters or winged support to douse flames.  The news stations have begun to run a tape across the bottom of the screen of the addresses of homes burned.

    Over 250,000 people have been asked to leave their homes around the county.    Thankfully, ours is not threatened.  But several of the MoH’s colleagues homes have been and they’ve been evacuated also.  

    No one is supposed to go out and breathe the air because of the toxicity.

    The Govvahnator just arrived.

    Dub-yah called.

    I’ll catch up later…

  • Just another Friday

    His large feet shush across the carpet toward my bed in the dim rainy day light. I can hear his hesitancy as he approaches and know he must be wondering if I’m awake, or even alive. I’m tangled in and out of covers and sheets after another restless night. It must be time for him to leave for school and he’s come to check on me since I’m not downstairs. For a second I wonder if he thinks I’ve forgotten carpool duty on my one day off.

    “Morning, Doog,” I mumble to him before he turns around to leave, trying to sound more awake than I am.

    “G’ morning, Mom,” he responds in a voice with a Friday lilt. I can sense that he has drawn closer to the edge of the bed and is standing there, most likely trying to decide just how he might give me a hug. But I’m not perched on my usual edge. Instead, I am sprawled across the middle and not quite reachable for a 15-year-old who more and more seems to find the business of hugging awkward. I find myself wanting to erase his discomfort.

    “Are you ready for school? Do you have all your things together?” I ask even though I asked last night before bed, and even earlier after his homework was complete.

    “Yes.  I’m ready.”

    “Do well on your tests today, okay?”

    “‘Kay. And I just wanted to remind you that I won’t be there to pick up after school ’cause I’m going with W,” he tells me, already headed out of the room.

    “It’s not my day, Doog. Don’t forget your book for English so you can read today,” I add unnecessarily, as that, too had been discussed last night.

    “I won’t, Mom.”

    I hear the weight of his still growing body on the stairs as he heads down, and a few muffled words with his father as he clicks the lock on the front door to leave, his backpack banging against its frame. It’s 7am and his car pool is most likely waiting outside. “Bye, Mom,” he calls.

    “Bye, Doog,” I say, never quite loud enough.

    “See-yah-later.”

    “See you later, too,” I finish.

    I wait to hear the car pull away before I drag myself from bed and shuffle down stairs to take care of the animals.

    It only takes a second to notice that he has left the book I reminded him about. It’s on the floor right where he drops his backpack each day.

    I sigh and am glad that I have resisted learning how to text message. What good would it do to remind him of what he’s forgotten unless I plan to drive the book to him? It would just remind him that he just can’t seem to get the details of school right. Besides, when it’s time for him to need his book, he’ll remember that I reminded him, and that yet again, he has forgotten. He hates it. But he also seems fairly incapable of fixing the problem.

    I head into the kitchen and tell the MoH. Annoyed, he tells me it isn’t too late to call the RT to let him know he can’t go to his friend’s after school. I make a mental note to not tattle on the RT unless it’s important, because it doesn’t solve the problem. It just sends the MoH off to work on a Friday morning with a less than buoyant attitude about his son. It all feels a bit Ward and June-ish to me.

    It isn’t that important. What is important is that he takes the time to say good morning to me before he leaves for school on a Friday.

     

    I’m left wondering when the last time was that I told him I loved him. I pick up his forgotten book and place it near his calculator which he has also not taken to school today.

    the RT

  • Salt Lamps and Earthquakes in Paradise

    My oldest son gave me a halite rock salt crystal lamp ionizer last year. I was pleasantly surprised because I had seen the lamps glowing eerily in shops I’d strolled through before, wondering what they were, and thought them beautiful. I knew absolutely nothing about them however, and was fascinated to find sources that report that the lamps can improve the number of negative ions in the air of a room when lit. And that they can also assist in the improvement of respiratory allergies and other conditions such as asthma. That they can increase alertness. Create an atmosphere of calming, balancing, refreshing…clean. Clearly, this young man took one look at his mom, and detecting an impending implosion, got a salt lamp to me as quickly as possible.

    A year later, I’m wondering if my son owns one. He can’t breathe, is allergic to just about everything, and has asthma. He has a job he detests and is trying to go to school. I’m thinking he needs one of these lamps.

    I recently moved the lamp from our family room to my bedside table. I noticed that because I hadn’t kept it lit, it began to sweat as I had read it would — especially in humid conditions. It sweat so much, I had to place a saucer beneath it to keep it from ruining the shelf it was sitting on. Now, it serves as a night light of sorts. The amber colored light it casts is much more pleasant to fall asleep by, and since the weather is still warm enough to require all our windows be open at night, it prevents anyone from looking into our room after dark. They may wonder what the unearthly glow is, however.
    Rock Salt Lamp I know there are sources which will contradict the stated benefits of salt lamps. I also know there are sources that will question just how the salt is mined, and whether the conditions for the workers are safe. I have to admit I wondered about those things as well. I believe many of us are just wired in that fashion. But I also know that the lamp is gorgeous, and does bring a sense of calm just by lighting it — much the same way that lighting a candle brings.

    Skeptics always have and will continue to poo-poo anything that isn’t explainable by cold hard facts. They rely on logic and science for everything. I do when it’s convenient, or I feel the need to win an argument, but once in a while, it’s lovely to wonder and to give in to other possibilities. To feel grateful for a thoughtful gift from someone you love without having to think about logic.

    I’m now wondering about the difference in life span between hard-nosed skeptics, and dreamers. I think that being on a cranky quest to squash everyone else’s beliefs has got to be something that creates quite a few positive ions. And in much the same way those tiny personal fans were created for individuals who wanted to blow away another’s cigarette smoke, I think tiny, portable salt lamps just may be necessary to ward off the evils of chronic naysayers.

    Besides, I’ve discovered yet another benefit of using a rock salt lamp.

    Yesterday, in one of my myriad toss and turn sessions during the night, I heard a distinctive sound. It was a persistent, steady light dinging — one seeming to be very close. I instantly recognized it, and after a second of recognizing, opening my eyes, stopping my breathing to rise on an elbow, knew that it wasn’t The Big scratching a flea. The salt lamp doesn’t fit quite snugly into its saucer, so it was rocking steadily to the movement of the earth. I looked at the MoH, who hadn’t removed the arm he likes to position over his face. Earthquake, I told him, and laid back down to go back to sleep.

    Later in the day we did see on a news commercial that there had been a mild earthquake just off the coast where we live — with a magnitude of only 3.7… “You were right,” the MoH confirmed, granting me credit for my knowledge. The MoH is a skeptic at heart, although would disagree with that, finding it to be a criticism or flaw in his character instead of one of the many idiosyncrasies we all have as less than perfect humans. I had intended to check the US Geological Survey website earlier in the day, but forgot.

    Earthquake Sunday 9-9

    Cal Tech’s So Cal Shake Movie

    After the news commercial, my father-in-law said mentioned he’d read the “big one” was coming. I remembered years ago reading Last Days of the Late, Great State of California by Curt Gentry in which much of the Left Coast breaks off and either separates from the continent, or sinks into the Pacific. My father-in-law continued by saying that the date for the occurrence had been moved up by ten years or so and we had a bit of discussion on the number and intensity of earthquakes in the Pacific Rim over the past couple of months. But the discussion wasn’t enough to distract any of the others visiting my sister-in-law’s home for a nephew’s birthday from the football game they were watching.

    Later last night, I asked my middle son if he had felt the earthquake. There was an earthquake? he answered, and then told me The Big One was coming. I wondered whether he’d been talking to my father-in-law and whether I was the only one who didn’t think this was new information. I did try to find recent information about The Big One, but nothing more recent than last year came up. Somehow, I’m more concerned about getting out of this chair and getting some exercise, or reorganizing my kitchen cupboards. Or something. Put together emergency earthquake kits?

    A family disaster plan? Well, we’ve talked about it.

    But not today. I can breathe more easily dreaming that while my salt rock is improving the air in my bedroom, it will also let me know that The Big One has arrived before my house falls into the one within spitting distance of either next door. And increase the likelihood that I will be more calm. And alert.
    More calm while alert.

    I did not get in line for calm when I was being made.

    It’s on my list for next time.

  • Grinning and Swearing over Syllabi

    It’s a little difficult to write when my iTunes playlist is soothing the crabby writing self I was planning on strutting today to commune with my First Day of Not Going to School hangover. No, not that kind of a hang over. Sheesh! It’s more of a recovery from the smackdown all those papers that came home from school by way of the RT dealt me.

    Such conflicting reactions I had while reading them all, gauging my emotions all the while, and then getting royally pissed off that I was annoyed. Or maybe it was the other way around. You follow? I can imagine not.

    I suppose on some level, I found myself remembering my own class syllabi and the reactions parents must have had reading them. Yes, I was a pain in the ass demanding teacher, but I NEVER wrote things such as:

    Students are expected to: attend class daily, learn daily, take clear, organized notes daily, bring pencils and erasers, ask a question if the material presented is not understood, and do each day’s Class Fun and Home Fun each day, i.e. don’t wait and then try to cram a month’s worth of work into a weekend! No eating, candy, mints, chewing of gum, or drinking is allowed in the classroom. Students are expected not to: sit idle, sleep, sweaar, perform personal grooming, do the work of another class, leave the classroom before the bell rings, or wear clothing which is against the dress code. Students may not be out of their seats without my permission. I may confiscate anything on a studnent’s desk which is unrelated or inappropriate. This includes, and is not limited to : cell phones, iPods, CD players, Blackberries, Treos, other classes’ books or work, food, drink, makeup, makeup work, homework, artwork, and personal lettes or ntes. These inappropriate items may or may not be returned to the student.

    *GASP* Oh, and yes. We have another paper size freak on our hands. It has to be EXACTLY 8-1/2″ x 11″ which means that the 10 packages I purchased for 69 cents a package which measure only 8″ x 10-1/2″ will not be acceptable for this class. Mind you, the actual writing space of the paper I purchased is EXACTLY the same size as the writing space of the larger paper. The area in the margins has been reduced. One just may consider that it is for the purpose of CONSERVATION, mightn’t one?

    And what it hell is “Class Fun” and “Home Fun?” Does she actually think that 10th graders will find this humorous?

    And the paper that I had to sign so that he would be able to use a graphing calculator purchased with private donations — but only while in class, and not until I signed and returned the paper I was reading — but couldn’t take home to use for his homework — most of which required the use of a graphing calculator…

    The subsequent trip to Staples for the graphing calculator set me back about $250. No, not just for the calculator. Art supplies, planner, additional notebooks. I had already been to Staples for the basics. Ugh. What if I had six kids? Condoms, anyone?

    Mothers with young children out there…just wait. Those of you with no children, remember being in high school? It’s just a bit different now. Hell, his crap doesn’t even fit in his backpack. And do you think he got a locker? Nope. He said last year he didn’t use the one he had (he doesn’t like to worry about being late to a class…) so at this rate, I’ll have to steal a shopping cart from the local grocery store.

    Wait. They installed those locking wheel guards that clamp when you try and wheel them over the magnetic line so the road agents wouldn’t take them. Not funny? Whatever.

    It’s just that when I watch the RT hoist the academic megaload over one of his shoulders, I swear I can see him bend and sway a little in the middle like a twig does when a fat bird sits on it, and I wait to see if he’ll snap in two. I don’t dare say anything or I’ll get The Flat Look. The one that suggests I’m verging on being tiresome at best. Downright a pain in the ass at worst. You know. A mother. Okay, so whatever if your mother was June Cleaver. My mother never had to check up on any of us because we just did what we were supposed to do. Why in hell does it just seem like such a bigger pain now days? It makes no sense. I thought we were supposed to be moving away from industrialization for crap sakes. Consider the continued nonsense from the math teacher:

    You are tardy if you are not in your seat when the bell rings. The Paradise High School Tardy Policy is enforced in Ms. Persnickety’s classes, and significantly affects your citizenship grade. I track minutes tardy; these minutes accumulate and count towards “periods absent.”

    Read: if you aren’t at your station ready to squirt the eyes on the candy chick when the bell sounds, I’ll dock your pay, you worthless cretin.

    You know, when the kids read this, they most likely don’t pay any attention. Their eyes glaze over and they stare out the window. They wonder what’s for lunch even though they’re only in their period one class and have three more to go. They think about everything but what matters to that teacher. Well, not all of them. But still. I’m on a roll, here, okay?

    The art teacher sounds great, expecting excellence and organization — WOOT! and I can’t wait to join in on the lessons. Why not? She has all the sketchbook assignments for the year laid out already. How cool is that. I’m gonna get right on it. Maybe that way the RT might consider drawing something other than war machines. And weapons.

    The history teacher (who is a coach) didn’t even give him a syllabus. I guess there are no expectations for that class. But the RT says he’s a nice guy, so all righty then. We’re set.

    It’s all about nice.

    Could we have a happy medium, please?

  • Quiet Mornings and Passing Years

    Fairly apropo being born on Labor Day for reasons other than the obvious. Yes, it’s my birthday, and it has the feeling of peace that it normally does, creeping up amongst the other aspects of life that have always taken more time and attention: the end of summer, getting ready for school, the advent of Fall. And I have always liked it that way. A quiet day for a less than quiet person.

    My oldest son dropped by unexpectedly yesterday while I was here alone. He and a friend came to escape the oppressive heat in East County Paradise (105 degrees. thunderheads, and 70% humidity) and to give me a birthday hug — very, very nice. And my middle son called to send his wishes ahead of time as well, to say that his schedule was a mess, but that he could possibly make it by Thursday if that was okay. And yes, it was more than okay. Really. And I smiled through the phone knowing he was worrying about being late, because he’s like that.

    I’ve always been one who prefers looking after herself, so I’ve never really longed for any particular thing to be wrapped up and presented on my birthday. I love everything. I can remember from one year to the next what someone has taken their time to wish me well, and often remember the setting in which the gift was given, the wrap, and special cards as well. But I’d much rather be on the giving side of things. I always have.Latte from MoH

    The MoH has a bit of a ritual for special days. If I manage to get out of bed before he does, I’m quickly reminded that I should get back into bed to relax. That “good” coffee will be up shortly, the newspaper as well, and that the pets will be taken care of. I’m sore today after a hard 30-minute swim in the pool yesterday evening, and have been laying quite low because of the heat. I know I should consider getting some glucosamine for this achy body nonsense, but haven’t gotten around to it yet. Getting back into bed was not something I had on my agenda, as I very much felt the need to reposition myself in a big chair downstairs to read the paper and finalize my digestion of yet another year gone by. And this particular year was a bit of an unexpected turn of events.

    But not wanting to put the MoH in any position other than to be able to execute his plan, I pulled up the shades on the windows and settled down to stretch out my tight calves, work out the kinks in my lower back, and scoop up a book that could be much less serious than the last three I’ve read. I quickly thought that this might not be so bad after all. No sooner than I’d begun to read that the RT, who had been hovering down the hall, moved his lanky self around the end of the bed with a very large card and a hug to follow. Such a lovely thing to have your 15-year-old willingly give a hug. He stayed as I read the card aloud, settling in on the floor next to my side of the bed where Big was still not sure if it was time to arise. The MoH soon arrived with his coffee specialty and bags bearing gifts. The cats were not far behind. Such a gathering!

    L’Occitane en Provence He knows I love these products.
    The MoH Likes Me     Somehow, he just knows how to choose the perfect card…
    Chuao Chocolates     Oh, my, but these are so very, very good.

    I opened some lovely skin products from a favorite store I haven’t been to for quite some time, all encased in a box that is a present in and of itself…”This is a new line that is supposed to really help your skin,” the MoH tells me, knowing that I worry about dryness, and more now than ever before, getting older. I squeeze a bit of the lotion on the back of my hand and smooth it along my arm, noticing its silkiness, its subtle fragrance. Cure de raisin 30 jours — 30-day grape cure, the products say and I’m anticipating their results as I look at each one. It’s not the number I’m worried about so much as the alteration to my physiology caused by surgery last winter, and the rude removal of parts that still provided much needed hormones. I’ve become hyper aware of any change I notice…and wonder about it. It’s a bit depressing, but only for a moment. At least that’s what I tell myself, knowing full well, that as brutally honest as I’ve been with others throughout my life, I’ve been a calculating liar to myself. But never mind that. There are better things to get on with.

    The chocolates? They’re amazing. I receive a small box a few times a year, and try to make them last, savoring one at a time. The MoH chooses each one himself, before having the chocolatier package them. Before deciding which I’ll sample first, I carefully read the provided information, marveling at the interesting, and exotic combination of flavors I’ve come to expect: Chevere — goat cheese, Pear Williams and crushed black pepper butter cream. Mmm…you have no idea how lovely they are and how perfect it is that there are directions so that a sweet gift isn’t ruined by the reaction one can have from biting into a piece of chocolate without knowing what exactly is hidden inside. Chocolate Directions God forbid that it could ever be a cherry sitting in a sickly sweet center on a bed of mint icing. I am quite safe from that nightmare with these delectable chocolates from Venezuela. And I have offered to share, but rarely does anyone accept the invitation, perhaps noticing the glint of insincerity in my eye as I begin to replace the lid…

    I do think that times like these — quiet mornings at home — have been the most wonderful aspect of my life — with those I most care about hovering around. At times, I’ve wondered if there’s a bit of obligation attached to it all, and wouldn’t care if that was the case, being more concerned that I was causing that sense of “have to.” The RT took my invitation to settle in on the other side of the bed to take in the comics he loves, while I sipped my latte and began my book. Escapist Reading

    I’ll adjust to this business of cruising down the back side of 50 like I’ve adjusted to everything else in life. That’s what one does, right? And I plan to do it with a smile on my face, an ever-increasingly active brain, a sense of welcome to whatever comes my way, and knowledge that I’ve been fortunate.

    Yes, I have.

    This is my Birthday Song….it isn’t very long… But that’s only because I’ve got things to do, people to meet, and places to go. Bring it on!

    The Back Side of 50 Quite a different speed than the one set last year. The MoH, with the help of good friends, organized a catered sunset dinner with 60 of my closest friends *wink* table cloths, waiters carrying appetizers, a buffet that still has my salivary glands working, a variety of desserts to make me want to give up any idea of curbing my appetite, and an unending wave of beverages served on request… Truly lovely.

    But not any more so than today.

    Because so much stretches ahead — yet another half of life to go, and it will certainly be a long one, as my grandparents have lived to be nearly 100.

    And that’s a very long time.

  • Fly Snappin’ + Eau de Espresso = Blog Love (mwah!)

    I’m whipped. If my butt was dragging any more than it is right now, I’d have to have a skid plate installed on my caboose. And it’s Monday. Jeez. But let’s review why I’m suffering from a serious hitch in my giggy-up today:

    Remember those maggots? The ones the RT and I worked so hard to rid our hacienda of — what, about hmmm…nine days ago? Yes, those. And since I’m in a quizzing type of mood, how many days do you suppose it takes for one of those lil’ maggots to hatch? Uh…that would be…yup. Nine. Give or take a day. Are you still with me here?

    So that would mean that when I came home from somewhere last week after only being gone for a couple of hours, what do you think I was greeted by? Do I hear anyone with “flies” for $500? Yes, flies.

    Hundreds of them. No, I’m not practicing hyperbole. It’s true. They were congregating in one corner of a large window that looks out on our patio….and two more windows that are in the dining room, and another window in the living room. Totally and completely gross. But just for the records, no where near as disgusting as the maggots. House Fly

    And do you think that we’d own a flyswatter? Uh, no.

    But damp dish towels and dishrags are swell fly snappers. You can just go crazy flapping the rag and watch those little black winged annoyances hit the floor in any number of gruesome parts. A head here, a thorax there. The only problem is, sometimes they’re just stunned, and then I find one sort of wandering in a dazed, limping fashion and have to snap it again just to practice my aim. The dog totally hates it, and lowers herself from the couch to slink upstairs. No, I do not hit my dog. She’s just a big chicken.

    This swatting ‘stravaganza went on for three days. Three. I think I got the last one this morning. The problem is, they’re ready for sex and babies two days out of the pupa. Little suckers. So that means while I’ve been snapping the 250 progeny of that one fly left in our house not quite two weeks ago (yes, those little obnoxious insects can lay that many eggs in one sitting…) the remaining one was most likely having an orgy somewhere in our house last night with a friend just sitting and waiting out of my range for the occasion.

    And I’ve been persistent about getting rid of all of them because of course, they carry disease. But wait, you say? They were born and raised in our house, so where could disease come from? Well, they were fairly stupid flies, never exactly finding the cat box in the laundry room, but that was a possibility. The real issue is that they could have found the RT’s bathroom. The one I don’t want the health department to find? The one I tried to shoot Lysol POWER Toilet Bowl Cleaner into from about five feet so I wouldn’t have to actually walk in there? Yes, that bathroom.

    Like I was saying, no flies for me.

    Plus, my oldest son, my brother and his family came to dinner last night, so I couldn’t exactly have buzzing insects in the room and on the food. It’s disgusting to even think about. I scrubbed, and wiped, and vacuumed around and under everything. Hell, I even vacuumed the Yack-Star. I’m sure she’s ready to leave home since I gave her a bath last week, and now have resorted to using the upholstery brush to suck the fleas off her hind quarters. I don’t think she could quite decide whether she liked it (she had her rear hiked up in the air) or was flipped out (her eyes looked as if they were ready to pop out of her head). She’s lucky I don’t have a Flowbee… Flowbee

    So I’m completely pooped. But it was worth it, because dinner was relaxing. Very. And to be honest, I could be whipped for more than just snapping flies and cleaning and cooking. Perhaps it was this…
    German Wine
    Have you ever tried German dessert wine? Well, have you? It’s thick. It’s sweet. And this one smells like flowers and tastes like apricots. You have to SIP it. S-L-O-W-L-Y. And of course, there were two more types to sample after this one. “It never gives us a headache,” my sister-in-law told me the last time we sampled the wine. Umm-hmm. Right.

    But today, well, as I mentioned previously, I’m considering that skid plate about now. But it could have been worse…

    Waking up to the fragrant aroma of a rich, dark coffee, my day would have been perfect. Except the smell of coffee was coming from…uh…me. I reeked of it and most likely have the remnants of a fine grind on my sheets. No, I didn’t sprinkle it on myself in an attempt to stave off the anticipated hangover. Last night, I opened a fresh container of coffee I occasionally treat myself and others to on special occasions. Espresso It has a lid with a pull top and must be vacuum sealed. I’m not sure about what went wrong, but when I pulled the tab, there was a very loud pop, a rush of air, and a good portion of the finely ground black gold sprayed me from head to chest. And whatever hit my head, promptly dropped down my shirt. If I had died from an insta-caffiene attack, the police wouldn’t have had to use white tape to mark my body because of the amount of coffee sprayed across the kitchen behind me. I’m sure there was an outline left. Bless the MoH’s heart. I was already trying to wipe it from my eyes and hair and dig it out of my decolletage when he gently offered, “You need to go in the bathroom and check yourself.” Oh, really? I suppose he could have said, “BWAH—–HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. You look hilarious,” and grabbed the camera for a photo op. But no. He’s a very nice man. Check myself, indeed. Considering that it was quite warm, and I am no stranger to a perpetual coating of sweat, hot morsel that I am…I was bound to smell like the filter in my coffee pot.  Oooooo, baby.

    Yes, I showered. No, it didn’t help.

    Clearly, I needed some R & R today. That’s all.  I don’t think it was too much to expect that I could park my sorry coffee-scented butt at the computer and wallow all over my seriously neglected Bloggsville. But no. My computer or service provider, or who the hell knows — did that ridiculous reassigning of our IP address. I think it does this to get even with me. So I had to fiddle around with the router. And the cable modem. And my network settings. But no. So I had to call the service provider and get warm and fuzzy with the level two help who was nice. While I was crawling under the desk, I asked him about whether they considered that people could be 85 and not able to crawl under desks.  He didn’t answer me. I asked him if I was annoying him.  “Oh, absolutely not!” was his quick reply.  Not helpful.  But then I fixed it.

    So here we are. Finally. Together again at last. I do have a little smile on my face after all of that. Because look what I have.

    Love Your Blog Badge

    Yes, it is so. Another badge. WOOT! I LOVE this one. And many, many thanks to Dawn and Ann, the superior creators of TwistedSister and totally Pissed Off. I heart their blog, too! They’re really just softies. I know they are. And they love a number of the same blogs that I do. Meleah, Paisley, Mad Goat Lady, Sam — whom I neglect = ( I’m so sorry, Sam!)– are excellent people. Great minds do think alike. I’m just getting to know Amber. And I can add Freak Parade, Thought Sparks, Radioactive Jam, and last, but certainly never least, The Domestic Minx. Quite the diverse group, don’t you think? That’s what makes it all so worthwhile. You know there are lots more, right? Lots. So if your name isn’t on this list, don’t get your drawers in a wad.

    Thanks you guys for totally making my day and loving my little spot in Bloggsville– even if I still can’t get the coffee smell off of me. Good thing the MoH likes the way good coffee smells, huh?

  • Birthdays Boys and Paradoxical Sunsets

    I could mull over the paradox that is “America’s Finest City,” or what I lovingly refer to as Paradise:

    palm trees and NIMBY pettiness;

    temperate climes and a questionable, tenacious city attorney;

    luxury housing and chronic homelessness; or

    cutting edge schools and an on-going disparity in achievement between African American and Latino students, and Caucasian and Asian students.

    But I’d rather not. Well, not today, anyway.

    It was the MS’s (Middle Son) birthday yesterday, and at his request, we moseyed on over to Joe’s Crab Shack to sit upstairs, squint and sweat in the setting sunlight, eat, drink, and listen to The MS’s good friend talk about techniques for meeting women. It seems he’s purchased quite a number of products on eBay on the subject and is very close to being a poster child of sorts, soon to hit the road and profess his new found wisdom. The MoH was enthralled, but only long enough to ask about the young man’s success rate.  Mmmm….numbers.

    The RT remained mortified throughout the meal, especially since the MS’s friend directed a good bit of his commentary toward the RT, and encouraged him to “take notes,” because if he’d known at 15 what he knows today…well. The RT? A kid who couldn’t bring himself to walk down the “pink aisle” in Toys R Us when he was little? Uh, no. No note taking on the “how to snare women” lecture.  But graciously, the MS’s friend shifted his tutelage to that of something more closely related to the RT’s interests:  war games.

    Before long, the two were discussing a way to profit from purchasing models, painting them, and then selling them.  Of course, with some financial padding from D-A-D to really get things going.  Great.  Headlines on Yahoo read:  “Teen makes fortune in garage.  You, too, can have a home-based business…”

    But the MS was quiet — a rarity. He’s already familiar with his friend’s good-natured schtick, but still. It was his birthday and he’s been making his presence known verbally since he was born, earning him the nickname, “Cryin’ Ryan.” No, he’s never been a whiner.  Quite the opposite. He is much more quiet in his utterances now, but he always has something to say, always. Information, information, information.  So I found myself wondering whether he regretted inviting his friend, whom we all have known since the two were in junior high, and have enjoyed. Who knows.

    Maybe he was mulling over being yet another year older. Uh, what about me, here?  Or rethinking Joe’s. They have been known to circle the table to howl a birthday ditty while urging the guest of honor to gallop around the restaurant, straddling a child’s pony on a stick. Really. Or, he could have been lamenting the lack of a Birthday Check at that point in the evening, which did surface later.

    Perhaps it was the homemade card. Homely Mugs (No, it’s not snowing — that’s art.)

    The MS’s Bday “Cake”

    The birthday “cake?” (I had the peaches, okay? And those are blueberries, not raisins, so unscrew your nose. Besides, it’s not your “cake.”)

    Note And the greeting for his arrival on our front door? (What’d you expect? Balloons? That’s so junior high.)

    Aren’t you glad you’re not one of my offspring? It takes work to keep them humble, but they keep coming back for more.

    We finished our dinner and beverage-ez right at the 7PM tourismo hour, walked across the street to the beach and headed toward Crystal Pier to enjoy the sunset. Various and assorted “night folk” were already gathering, others settling in for the night with blankets, bags full of worldly possessions, and a ragged novel in hand to squint at in the waning light. Welcome to my bedroom…Only one less than cogent fellow verbally accosted us, yelling something none of us could quite understand. But we weren’t special, because he seemed not to discriminate in his quest to let people know he was there. Yelling. And trying to get into the restroom, which was locked. So add that to my list above:

    Blazing sunsets and incoherent drifters.

    Yes, you might be able to see just why Paradise is a veritable paradox — a place where you never actually have to stick your head in the sand to be a card-carrying member of the “not my problem” club.

    You can just allow yourself to be hypnotized by the pretty colors.
    Sun Orange Glow in Paradise
    Oh, and very handsome men. Whattahunkster. Nice guy, too. But he h-a-t-e-s having his photo taken, so this was a serious gift to me.

    Birthday Boy

    I’m surrounded by them.

    Cheers, Dude.

    But you won’t ever find me whining in the men’s room.

  • 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. Small enough? 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? Milk? 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? Bone? 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.   House Fly

  • And another one leaves Paradise.

    My mom has loaded up and is getting into her little white car tomorrow at about 3:00 AM. She’s sold her casita in the hills, and the last few real possessions other than clothes have been gifted, donated, or bartered away. Although she has had to make the difficult decision to leave a dear Tabby with a neighbor, she has Emily, a cat abandoned at birth, and close companion for nearly ten years accompanying her. She also has one of her own three sisters, packed and ready to go along for the ride. The 3,000 mile journey is sure to be Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. And they will take no prisoners.

    Tomorrow morning before the crack of dawn with Willie Nelson blasting on her radio, her neighbors will be treated to “On the Road Again” well before they’re ready to rise. They’ll know that “E” is gone. That she’s left town. She’s outta Dodge. And a Hearty High-Ho Silver — Away! Any person unfortunate enough to stumble out of bed to figure out what all the racket is about could be treated to a couple of flying fingers of fate extended from the car windows– one from each side, barely visible, but recognizable through the dust.

    She’s off to Virgina to start over again. It’s for the last time, she has said, but I’ll believe that when I see it. No, she’ll not likely be back in Paradise anytime soon, although she’s lived here since 1968. A lifetime of wanderlust has finally taken a gentle hold and nudged her to head somewhere else. Anywhere else but here. The expense and the summertime heat has gotten to her. The dust and the grit of living out in the hills. The unwillingness to tolerate for One. More. Day. the motley assortment of individuals who inhabit the community she has called home for more than six years. My sister moved to Virginia in December and that has been another factor. No, she’ll not be back. I know this. Although she has lived in Arizona, California, Florida, South Carolina, and Spain, the decision to move from one place to the next has never been hers. For the very first time, it is.

    Younger Mom Quite a milestone.

    She’ll be 70 this December, so those of us stuck in Paradise will head to the Right Coast, gather ourselves into a little bunch, and launch her into her eighth decade on this planet. She’s always been full of piss and vinegar, of fire and brimstone, of little insecurities and quiet regret, but she’s healthy as a horse.

    For a while, I wasn’t sure she’d go. First she was, and then she wasn’t. Elation, then dejection. Emails flying furiously across the miles, and phone calls that should have been on conference call with everyone involved throwing in their two cents. Angry words, less than pleasant thoughts, and depressing Google searches for “senior services” or “jobs for senior citizens” and “cheap rentals” filled our time.

    Her desire to move to a place away from here and into a small home next to a big tree waned. It all became too large for her. She exhausted herself and us with it all. We ran out of ideas. Out of suggestions. Had no patience left for any of it.

    Time came to the rescue like it always does. It passes more slowly than desired, forcing hard thought about choices. The act of planning is constructive, but at the same time a struggle with emotion always accompanies any decision made. Is this the right thing to do? Will I be okay? Who am I leaving behind? Will I regret this decision, or will it be the best I’ve ever made? I’ve always said I’ve wanted to go and never have. This is my chance…

    I wish I could afford space on a billboard somewhere along a winding road that she might see which says, “Bon Voyage.” Or purchase a message to display across the silver surface of the Goodyear blimp, looming slowly over the horizon one day to encourage her along. Perhaps a plane to script a message in the sky to send love. But I can’t.

    And I don’t quite know how to tell her how proud I am of her and her decision. That I wish the best for her and know that this is the very best thing for herself she has ever done. Ever.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh

    Somewhere ages and ages hence:

    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —

    I took the one less traveled by,

    And that has made all the difference.

    It has guided me for so many, many years and I wish it to carry you along as well.

    You go, Mom! Kick butt and take names the entire freaking way. Find a hundred great places to write, “E Was Here.” Make your mark. Beep and wave at people you don’t know, just because you can. And absolutely make sure that you slam the door as hard as you possibly can on the way out.

    No mooning, though. Kay?

    Mom