kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Gratitude

  • Glucosamine, Progesterone & Bubble Baths

    Somehow, I never made it to Target yesterday. By the time I decided to leave the house, it was after 12. I shook my head at the traitorous clock chiding myself over my lack efficiency. I used to be so organized. Well, maybe I just thought that of myself, languishing in years of self-indulgent praise. After all, I was worth it, wasn’t I? What a load of crap.

    With some degree of resignation, I ventured down the hill to the drug store to peruse the section that might have glucosamine and chondroitin for my less than limber joints. Well, they’re still quite limber, they just hurt like a sonuvvahbitch. It wasn’t tough to find, there was so much of it. And just to keep me occupied, there were combinations of the two — how convenient. From what I’d read, both were necessary for my annoyingly persistent aches, so why not save having to choke down more than one horse-sized pill a couple of times a day.

    It’s just unbelievable how much this stuff costs. Talk about having us by the short hairs. Let’s see — ache until your eyeballs fall out, or shell out the 25 bucks for a month’s supply. How much can it cost to make the damn things, anyway? And what about the side effects? I deplore taking pills or caplets, or anything that is supposed to “fix me” for any reason. I’m highly suspicious of the conflicting reports the media spreads about the benefits or lack thereof that “dietary supplements” can have. In the case of glucosamine, it seems that to alleviate the achiness in my joints, I will only have to tolerate increased intestinal gas. Great.

    If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’m so excited to be able to now understand why the loving endearment Old Fart exists and that I may soon be a card carrying member.

    I tentatively settled on a brand I easily recognized. But after picking up one container, holding on to it while I read a few more labels, then placing it back in its slot to retrieve another, and proceed to repeat the whole indecisive process, I had to wonder whether the druggist who was encased in his shop a few feet away thought I was a loon or not. I finally chose “Triple Flex.” All the ingredients and quantities checked out, and I allowed myself to be coerced by the image of a slick sports like body wrapped in a computer generated grid that appeared on the box. So, that wasn’t too bad.

    I, too, could possibly have a body with a grid wrapped around it. Perhaps be the next 6 Million Dollar Old Fart.

    On the other side of the aisle were products I’d seen before and dismissed back in February when I was of a mind to tough this surgically induced menopause bullshit out. Now that it’s seriously kicking me in the ass throughout every day, like I said yesterday, “I’ve been pinned,” so I better figure it out. But there’s just something bizarre about the whole hormone thing and I wander over to the section that has other “personal” products like condoms, personal lubricant, hot flash cold packs and what I was looking for — Progesterone & Phytoestrogen. It comes in a container that sort of looks like deoderant. I saw this product months ago and have kept it in mind, wondering if it would be better than the heinous HRT cellophane patches I wore on my abdomen for a month before rebelling and abandoning their use. Somehow this “measured dosage pump” of “purified water, aloe vera gel, sunflower seed oil, natural glycerine, shea butter, stearic acid, natural progesterone,” and a litany of other things that don’t exactly sound “natural” seems less threatening. Why not just try it? If I have hair growing on my palms after a month, I’ll rethink my strategy, right?

    Nearly 50 bucks poorer, I then made my way to the kitchen store in the same mall to purchase the juniper berries I knew they’d have for the beef daube I was making for dinner. Yes, juniper berries. And yes, they look just like the berries we’d pick off the junipers in front of our house and fire at one another. Who knew? So, I didn’t get to wander the aisles at Target, but this was better. I love the kitchen store. After staring at depressing supplements for a half hour, fondling brioche pans, salivating over imported balsamic vinegar, and lusting after a new rectangular fluted tart pan, I was more than fine. For a while.

    After catching up with the RT and his daily report on how the new school year is going and what kind of homework he has, I puttered around in the kitchen preparing dinner, expecting to be in better spirits. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. So I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed my book and headed up to the bathtub for a soak. The phone rang on the way with the MoH calling to let me know how late he’d be. “How was your day?” he asked, not expecting my response. After all, how could one have a less than stellar day when nearly zero is required with respect to responsibility. “I’m not feeling all that hot, so I’m headed up to take a bath,” I explained. The few seconds of silence on the phone was expected as taking a bath is yet another thing that I just don’t do. And before dark? Unheard of. In five years, I’ve probably used my bathtub fewer than 10 times. But a cool bath just seemed to be the ticket to breaking the malaise that had been dragging me down all day. I told the MoH that it was no big deal. That I’d be fine by the time he got home.

    What About a Bath?I opened the window to let the wind in, poured in a ridiculous amount of something milky, bubbly and promising rejuvenation, made sure the water was luke warm, then settled in. Waiting until the water was a few inches from the top, I turned off the faucet. Waiting for the water to work its cool, soothing wonders. Feeling the gentle pushing of air against the blinds over the window. Listening to the rustle of the palms. Watching the golden glow of early evening sun against the chimney above the skylight. Melting.

    Maybe I’ve been wrong about baths all these years.

    I could get used to this.

    No problem.

    Maybe I should blow the dust off my Pilates book. That should be much easier on my joints instead of power intervals and walking lunges.

    But I’ll have to work out how to lay on the mat, keep my glasses on my face so I can read the directions, and do the routines.

    Hell, who said any of this ever was easy? Huh?

  • 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.

  • Celebrating with the kellenator

    I know it’s not Wednesday, but still. I couldn’t resist. Well, actually I must have, because there aren’t supposed to be words here, right? Feh. I so don’t know how to not say anything. It’s a genetic problem. But I had to in some way celebrate that I:

    • was not at school on the First Day of School for the first time in over 20 years — give or take one or two;
    • was not sick with worry about whether we’d have enough students to keep all our teachers (i.e., tell one who has prepared very hard to get ready for a school year that he/she would have to leave);
    • did not have to be concerned that we had a vacancy for a position necessary to run the business part of the school — or have to train a new one who has absolutely no idea how to do his/her job;
    • did not have to act like it mattered that NCLB may seem great on paper but will never really work, and that YES! we’re all revved up about those test scores;
    • didn’t have to work the kinks out of a new lunch schedule, or bell schedule, or bus schedule, or duty schedule, or master schedule, or budget, or any of that.
    • I didn’t have to wonder for the 8,000th time why boys think pants that hang off their rear ends are comfortable to walk around in, and adolescent girls think everyone wants to stare at their cleavage and bellies;

    I have many very good friends who do think and wonder and worry about these things — today more than most other days — and they are very good at making sure it’s all taken care of with no discernible sign of angst.

    Instead, I:

    • joked gleefully with my new captive carpool kids, who didn’t laugh, even though I thought I was captivating;
    • drove down the hill past a good friend of mine who was on cross walk duty at her school — I did beep and wave, and I’ll bet she wishes she could have given me a special wave as I cruised past;
    • cheered with glee (well, not really) that the temperature here (77 today! and shhhhh….maybe the humidity?) dropped at least 10-15 degrees, and I can now thaw out my brains by turning off the AC;
    • successfully avoided doing anything I should do on this very special day;
    • obsessively thought about doing something I should be doing while I was doing what I wanted to do;
    • spent a lot of time going through blogs to get them on my netvibes feeder and was dismayed to find that many won’t go…;
    • waited anxiously for the RT to come home and tell me all about his first day back at Paradise High;
    • waited until the last minute to do this truly thoughtful and well-written post;
    • couldn’t resist and instead of writing about how The Govvenator is going to save those of us in SoCal from dying of thirst after that stupid ruling that is designed to protect a fish that most use as bait when they go fishing, I’d don his visage just for hoots;

    Kellenator

    • thought about the last two Halloweens the RT wore this mask and wondered if he had blown his nose….

  • 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?

  • I owe, I owe, so off to work I go.

    Well, it’s happened. I actually have a responsibility that will take up quite a bit of my writing time. And I actually get paid to do it. Yes, it’s writing. No, it isn’t creative — well, not creative writing. The writing is for a project that is very creative, and extremely worthwhile.

    So much for languishing in Bloggsville whenever I want for as long as I wish.

    Now I have to figure out how I’m going to manage writing here, writing for submission, and writing for the project. Okay, reverse the order on that list, and that’s the frame of mind I need to be in.

    I know there are most likely people out there who can manage this — in fact, much more — and I would have been able to as well about this time last year. But I know myself. And when I jump off the treadmill, it’s quite difficult for me to jump back on while it’s running at a good clip.

    So schedule it is. Goodness knows I’m good at that. I scheduled every minute of every day for most of every year for nearly two decades. I still shudder with the horror of it all.

    Regardless, I will recommit to the habit of each night, doing my schedule for the next day. It’s a compromise, considering that my life was scheduled from a yearly, monthly, and weekly perspective before. I’m not breaking out my planner. Yet. But I may have to. Ugh. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.

    But I can’t neglect you. It would keep me awake at night, wondering about how you’re doing, and imagining what you thought about why I’d abandoned you.

    So don’t give up on me. Not just yet.

    It’s all for a good cause. I’ll tell you about it later…

    Time is money.

    Sigh.

    p.s. The woman across the street is speaking very loudly to her gardener about making the hole for her lemon tree deeper so the water can run into it. He has an accent and his English is very intelligible, but broken. She must think that if she yells her directives as if he is deaf, he will understand her better. And the man must be quite patient, tolerating such a client.  He’s already completed the task, and the woman is now praising him with the tone a Kindergarten teacher uses on a 5-year-old who has remembered to wash his hands after exiting the restroom. I’d pay money to know what he’s thinking about her right now. Who the hell came up with the idea of “ignorance is bliss?” Jeez.

    Okay, now I’m behind. Ugh.

  • 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.

  • House Sitters and Sexy Party Gifts

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

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

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

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

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

    How to Steady Your Dog in the Car

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

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

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

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

    We were also left a note:

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

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

    Present from Big Bro

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

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

    My Boys

  • I found a way to post. Yes!

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

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

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

    More later.  Don’t hold your breath.

  • Where in Hell did the day go this time?

    Do you know what’s worse than being a dedicated blogger, don’t you? Being a dedicated cook. A cook with a cooking blog. And what could possibly top that? Having said blogs and having your husband at home for a week. It isn’t that he’s here that causes the problem — it’s the hopping and moving and shaking. You know. Going places and doing things. So blogging in general causes the first round of why the hell my house looks the way it does, and the MoH being on vacation mode (a much deserved one btw) really sends the ol’ hacienda over the edge. Over the edge and into the dump. The good thing about all of this? We’ve done every thing there is to do, so now the RT and I can grow roots for the rest of the summer. Trick.

    So what did I do today with resolve to shower first thing, read the paper to stay abreast of cutting edge news find something blogworthy, exercise, and get some much needed house projects done — which really means make a bigger mess than already exists. What did I do? I’ve been checking out other’s blogs. For TWO HOURS. There is simply not enough time in the day to do what I want to do. I find that to be a problem. I could use an additional six hours to take care of my responsibilities. The list grows as I write:

    1. Revamp my Phoodplan. Let’s face it, I was doomed to failure from the start. But there’s more to it. Does it make sense that for eight weeks I was excellent. On the job — well, okay, four. Four serious weeks, with four more of a dwindling, oozing kind of problem. But still. My VBF did come around again, we did start walking at the crack of freaking dawn again, and after getting within spitting distance (if you’re a weak spitter) of the magical 10 lubs lost mark, I popped up four lubs. So being the human I am, I flipped the flying bird to the Thinner bitch in my bathroom IMG_0963and stopped measuring and writing, and doing everything related to the Phoodplan except walk — a few miles a day at least five days a week. And guess what? I stayed the same. How can that be? So today (after diligently eating branflakes with 1% and blueberries……and later two pieces of raisin cinnamon toast……with butter &@#$***&$@%%%%%…..)I’m going to revise what I said I’d do. And hell no, I’ll not lose 50 lubs by September. But that shouldn’t be the goal. More later. sounds noble, doesn’t it?
    2. Clean my refrigerator. You should see it. Really. We’re at the “shoving it in and slamming the door before everything else falls out” code mold stage of non-Martha-ness with our refrigerator. My middle son dropped by the other day, opened the fridge to get some milk and after lining up a few cartons on the counter asked, “So what kind of a problem are you guys having with milk?” with a smirk on his face. I let him know that it’s not a problem, but simple: whole milk for the ice cream recipe, 1% for my cereal, half ‘n’ half for the MoH’s tea, whipping cream for the creme brulee recipe, 2% for the RT and his addiction to chocolate milk, buttermilk for the sorbet recipe, and heavy cream for the chocolate cake recipe. Okay, so maybe it’s a problem.
    3. Cook and post recipes from less fat laden sources. Not nearly as fun, and often not as tasty — but not always. My body and my refrigerator would be forever thankful. But the dairy council of American will most likely send a hit squad out to get me. Or I’ll have mad cows on my doorstep mooing in protest. On second thought, that may be more conducive to sleep than the army of lawnmowers and hedge cutters outside first thing this morning.
    4. Get a job. Ugh. I don’t want a job. GardenerI’d like to earn some money occasionally, though. Dog WalkerOr even routinely. That might be nice. I do remember it was swell to have a dollar in my wallet once in a while. Bear in mind I didn’t say I didn’t want to work. CookThere’s a big difference between having a job and working. Tutoring I should clarify by saying that I’d like to earn money in a less than typical eight-to-five way. Writers-publish dot comI’m not going to mention too loudly the earn money from home thing, because I could write for an entire week about that racket and its related gimmicks, purple kool-aid drinkers, and downright scum-sucking scammers. I’ll save that story for another day, also. I’ll call it, “How Not to Be the Poster Child for the Work At Home Scam Sucker Born Last Minute.”
    5. Try to get straight all the summer reality TV shows we’re watching. Really. I need a tote board or something. The person who used to scoff at others for wasting their time with such drivel. Me. Sanctimonious moi. “The Next Food Network Star,” “Top Chef,” “Hell’s Kitchen,” and “So You Think You Can Dance” all compete for our time. Thank goodness for our DVR. Otherwise, we’d have to watch….uh…..I dunno? Maybe we could each vanish into separate rooms in the house doing our own thing instead of being together in the family room familying like the good family we are. I haven’t written about any of these shows like I have in the past with American Noodle, but that isn’t because I haven’t wanted to. So much to say, so little time….But I will take the time to say this: I found someone who Giada drives as crazy as me. You know. That woman with the teeth and the cleevage who acts like she can cook. Giada De-Lah-Cookless Check out Jerry’s well executed tirade at Cooking By the Seat of My Pants. I think he’s my hero.
    6. Keep making progress on my pile o’ books. I’m experimenting with sidebar widgets because I less than love writing book reviews. Especially when I haven’t loved the book. It’s like kicking a dead horse. Well, maybe not all the time. But I’ve got to have some credibility, right? Let you know where I am with that pile. What’s shining, and what’s to be avoided — just in case you’re inclined to dash to the bookstore to ready a Pulitzer winner that’s five years old instead of the newest. Right? I just finished this The Reader at Random House and this, and am getting ready to read this The History of Love at Authors on the Web. I just bought it. I know. I said I wouldn’t spend money for books. But I couldn’t resist. It’s a problem. Read, Spot, read. See Spot go.
    7. Catch up and keep up with my food blog posts. They take freaking forever to write. And Typepad loads the photos soooooooo slowly. I have gazillions of photos of food I’ve made and only a fraction of them posted. It’s grueling. Salads, desserts, main dishes, breakfast food. *sigh* I believe I did find in my food blog surfing yesterday, a cool new flickr toy that will make it all so much easier — and eye appealing. I’ll get back to you on that one.
    8. Say thanks to a few people on the internet who have recognized me….
    • Mel at Freak Parade who I miss quite a bit, who has decided that I’m a Rockin’ Blogger. Woot! Rockin’ Blogger I wondered what that rumbling was all about. Does it help burn calories? Mel is an outstanding human whom I enjoy tremendously. Her blog makes me laugh, stirs me to frustrated anger, and makes me cry.
    • Ev, the ever busy and ubiquitous personality behind My Life is Murphy’s Law, has deemed me worthy of an Imaginif award. It was started by Megan at Imaginif, a site dedicated to keeping children safe in all ways. I know my 15 year-old is safe. He’s a house potato like me. Yep, I know what he looks at on line, too. That’s my job! Imaginif Award
    • Steve at Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Blogosphere, 100 Bloggers, and Joyful Jubilant Learning — quite the involved and industrious group of individuals — wrote a great post recognizing my writing which always makes me puffier than I already am from all that food loving I engage in. He found me on the Technorati Billy Collins trail which I have to check out, being the Billy fan that I am. What an interesting way to be found on the Internet. Kind of like a needle in a haystack. But he found me!

    Thanks for the kudos! And apologies that it’s belated. It’s heartfelt just the same. I will begin my thinking on when and how to pass the recognition along….