kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Humor

  • If I want it…

    In the movie Field of Dreams, there is a line that goes something like this: If you build it, they will come. I know the character that mulls over these words is thinking about baseball, but I’m thinking those words apply to life in general. And I’ve been known to bend those words a bit to suit my own purposes saying things like: If you spend it, it will come. But I’m trying not to do that as much as I used to considering the MoH is the one paying the bills. And I have no need for the things I used to. But it’s an interesting concept, don’t you think?

    It implies that if you are someone who is willing to think that there will always be more, then there most likely will be. I know what you’re thinking. There are people who have very little and I’m being glib about something quite serious. Yes, I also know there’s fine line between being a spendthrift and being optimistic. Deciding how you’ll walk that line is another interesting concept. The idea, of course, is to live with an eye to possibilities instead of constantly grousing about what you don’t have.

    So apply this esoteric thinking drivel to my work today. Call it priming my creative pump. Call it learning to love Photoshop. Call it educational: enjoyable, thoughtful, interesting. Time-consuming.

    Call it……Avoidance. Head Soak

    Aren’t most of the tasks we engage in to avoid other, less mesmerizing responsibilities, fun? I truly remember rejoicing in my dust ball collecting when I was writing my Master’s Thesis. Or picking lint off of the carpet while being less than diligent about studying for final exams in college. Grabbing the feather duster to flick away that hard to reach cobweb, or streak of barely discernible dust on the bookshelf. This is no different.

    But it’s worse.

    Purple Glow Header

    I have no real deadline for getting anything done. I’m at my own mercy. I’m armed and dangerous with a real attitude on life about having a frame of mind on possibilities. About knowing that if I think positively about something I want badly, something that matters to me deeply….it happens. It does. Am I charmed? Most likely not. These things don’t fall from the sky.

    What are they? These things, these possibilities? If I peer carefully enough, will I see them now? Are they right in front of me, and I haven’t noticed? What is it I really want?

    Monster keeps bothering me with their less than interesting crumbs. The idea of putting a suit on makes me itchy. Leave the house every single day? It would most likely only take a few days to get used to it again. But giving in to something like that is most likely the real avoidance. Taking a job will keep me from having to pinpoint those possibilities now that I can.

    Now that I have no reason not to.

    But I’d rather play with my Mac. I can’t take credit for the Pig-Big, though. The RT did that. I’ll bet you didn’t know the RT was a farm kid, did you? I told you The Big didn’t really look like a dog.

    I’m thinking a line of greeting cards… See how quickly I can change the subject? Oh, and don’t forget. I cook, too. That’s why I should have a spot in one of these photos for my not-so-sleek self. But you should see my creme brulee….Ooooooo you have no idea how good it was.

    Okay, how about a little cafe of my own?  With pig greeting cards.  And dogs allowed.  You can tell I don’t want a job, right?

    Pig Big Big-Pig

  • Mint Juleps end the BBQ Saga in Paradise

    What a busy weekend — but a great one considering the less than pleasant shopping expedition to The Home Depot last Thursday. Perfect weather — something we were seriously due considering all the very grey days we’ve had since early May. There was good company, time to relax, and of course, our standard lots of good eats and the accompanying perpetual mess in the kitchen.

    The MoH was able to snag the truck at The Home Depot on Friday after work — not bad for a second attempt. I guess all the DIY folks were already partying hearty, leaving the rental for those of us who are challenged in the “Managing to get a BBQ to their House” category.

    “So who put the BBQ on the truck?” I asked the MoH as he jogged up the stairs to change his clothes after pulling the behemoth alongside our curb.

    “Me and a guy at the store.”

    “So then I can help you get it off the truck, right?” I responded like there was some sort of a legitimate comparison between my own strength and a guy’s–any guy’s. “It should be fine,” I mumbled, already wondering. “I’ll just look for something we can lower it down onto.” This had worked in the past when the two of us had to place a large TV into an armoire. Now that was scary, I remembered, picturing one or both of us bent backwards with an enormous TV ready to fall back onto our heads as we fell through the hardwood floor. Or the time that we moved the same armoire up to our bedroom after getting a new TV.

    We lovingly refer to ourselves as The Doopids, because we can get things done most of the time, but it’s somewhat of a 3rd class circus act in the delivery. “All elbows and a-holes,” as my mother would say before pushing one of us away from the task and getting it done herself with a few grunts and a snort. Sadly, my mom wasn’t available to remind us that one buff senior can handily put to shame two younger desk jockeys — or act like she could.

    But the MoH had his own plan in mind, and after locating the trusty toolbox that the RT and I got him for Christmas a few years ago, went to work removing the heavy lid and drawers to make it a bit lighter for yours truly to be able to tackle. “So what if it doesn’t work?” I asked while he was shoving screws and washers into his pockets. You know, one of those motivating questions that only a wife can ask at that perfect moment. Always the planner, I.

    “Well, we’ll just have to go and knock on doors to beg neighbors we never talk to for help,” he replied with just the slightest twinge of sarcasm, head still bent to his task. *On a Friday evening at 6:30?*

    But then the guy next door who plays the piano at a posh restaurant appeared from his garage, calling his usual greeting. He was quickly into his car and backing out of his driveway, all the while asking what we were doing, like it wasn’t plainly obvious. “Hey, you guys need some help?” he continued in reverse, paying more attention to the MoH on the back of the orange truck than his rear view mirror.

    “Sure, if you’ve got the time,” the MoH responded, cracking me up, knowing he wasn’t serious.

    “Well, I’ve got a slipped disk, but I’ll do what I can,” the Piano Man answered before I could interrupt.

    “You’re not going to help if you’ve got a back injury,” I called thinking about not wanting to be law suit bait. The MoH had the BBQ to the edge of the truck by this time, and was getting ready to lower it down to the chest of drawers I had dragged from the garage. I figured if we could lower it to sit a bit on that, we could muster up the energy to lower it the rest of the way to the ground. It wasn’t as heavy as I thought it was going to be, but the Piano Man was out of his car at this point doing what he could to “spot” like we were engaged in some bizarre gymnastics routine.

    No sweat outside of my wondering whether the MoH would slice his throat on the edge of the damn thing because his grip was much lower than mine and the weight of it was leaning heavily on his neck. Done. Well, not the neck slicing — the lowering the thing to the ground. We hoisted it up the outside stairs and around back to its new home in only a few more minutes. Voila. Not bad for a day-and-a-half’s work, two stores, eight employees, a truck, 550 bucks, and two less than mechanically inclined and not very muscled suburbanites. The MoH was back in the orange flatbed and back to The Home Depot, but just over the 70 minute mark that would keep the rental in the 20 buck zone. Just another jab to make it burn.

    Finish things off with two hickory-roasted pork tenderloins, and a top sirloin, served with Henry Bain Sauce and some Chow-chow. I know. I’d never heard of it, either, but my wonderful father-in-law is from Kentucky, so I decided to delve into a Kentucky influenced southern spread for our Father’s Day celebration. Yes, there were Mint Juleps all ’round. I did quickly discover that I’m not quite up to sucking bourbon and mint flavored sugar thorough a straw. My father-in-law told me that it was okay because after all, Mint Juleps were most likely the reason the South lost the Civil War. Sheesh. No doubt. *hick*

    Thank goodness that BBQs last us about eight years. Now to rid ourselves of the beast sitting in the garage. Oh, to live in a neighborhood where you’re allowed to put an old BBQ by the curbside with a sign that says, “Free” like we used to be able to do. Not here. Our trusty monthly newsletter included a pleasant reminder that we will have a more attractive community if we remember not to put our trash cans out until after 6PM on Sunday night, keep our garage doors closed, and park our cars in our garages instead of in our driveways.

    I have noticed that residents park their cars outside the community gate when they’re trying to sell them. Well, until somebody gets pissed off that there is an “inactive” car sitting in the street and they call the police to ticket it. Which the police do. Whatever.

    So maybe I’ll roll the Great Black Grease Beast down the street tomorrow morning when I set out for my 5:30 walk. A bit of WD-40 on the wheels will certainly keep it from making as much noise as the paper lady’s truck, and I’ll park it on the curb with a big sign that says, “STILL WORKS.”

  • My Hair Even Hurts

    Oh my gawd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Wait for it.

  • Walking Commentary

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

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

  • Do I have to go?

    You know when you actually plan to sleep in, and you’ve warned everyone within a five block radius of your house, that if they even try to cut a hedge or mow a lawn, or walk their silly little white yipping dog in front of your house, you will launch things from your bedroom window at them? That kind of planning. And when you go to those great lengths to achieve this lofty goal, what do you think really happens?

    You wake up.

    All night long.

    You try so hard to sleep, to enjoy sleeping, to wallow in slumberland, it just doesn’t work. (more…)

  • Effin’ Tuesday’s Poetic Crapulence

    The Unrelenting Scale

    so much depends

    upon

     

    the callous silver

    scale

     

    lying about my

    virtues

     

    every effing

    Tuesday.

    Everyone…It’s… weigh-in day! And since you’ve all been so pleasant about my hysterical rantings each week, I’ve decided to recognize that another week has bitten the dust and celebrate National Poetry Month all at once! A special thanks to one of my favorite poets, William Carlos Williams, whose fine work has made it easy to express my dissatisfaction with being a member and victim of a numbers fixated society. Er, or something like that. (more…)

  • Comfort Food and Snail Orgies

    He arrived home last night in good spirits after a few days of reciprocity with his cousin, microscopic military figurines in hand, battle rule books, and two bags of stiff, muddy clothes which were casualties of a serious paint ball massacre at the OK Corral.  I got to hear about the whole thing.

    “No blind firing or the ref will nail you, and there were these sissies hiding behind the church.”

    I had to ask him about “the sissies” because I haven’t heard him use this particular word before.

    “Because they were all huddled together acting all Wah. Yah know?” he answered.

    “But how old were they?” I continued, thinking it was probably the first time they were out playing paint ball, and know that it really hurts to get hit by those gelatinous globs, so don’t blame the sissies.

    “Like my age,” he tells me with a look of “old enough to not be afraid of getting hit with paint balls.”

    Well okay. Actually, I’m thinking that nerd-like closet commandos are a force to be reckoned with, and the sissies were expecting G.I. Joe instead.

    To put the finishing touch on his soon to be over Spring Break, the RT cooked dinner for the Master of the House, who dragged himself in from the tax mines at about 9:00 last night. The menu? Kraft macaroni and cheese with sliced weenies served in big plastic bowls. Mmm…

    “What do you call it? You know,” the MoH mumbled between shovel fulls.

    “Comfort food?” I supplied.

    “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, scraping up the last pieces, spoon clacking against the microwave scorched bowl. I thought about the notion of comfort food and pictured that it was more like Baked Ziti with Meatballs, or Cornish Hens stuffed with Wild Rice, but clearly, I am wrong. They went to bed with their bellies full and sappy smiles on their faces.

    Life is good.

    But not for the snails and sadly, it’s their kind of day today. That’s because I finally bought some snail candy. I figured they needed a treat after they murdered all but two of the coleus I planted. Perhaps you remember the ones it took so long for me to plant.

    Going, going…GONE! I busted all of those carry-your-house-on-your-back slime bags yesterday after I found their hiding place. They were down between all the leaves, close to the water having a big party–17 of them!

    Yes, I absolutely know that if I’m going to put defenseless plants in the ground, that I better put some snail food down, too. But it’s so tiresome knowing things and sometimes, you just want to give all the rules the big fat finger. It’s so freeing, don’t you think? But the glee is fleeting, because, well, your plants are gone and you’re left standing in your yard with your big fat finger in the air and an even bigger sign around your neck that states, “LOSER.” Your baby plants are down to the nubbins’ or worse–not even there.

    So today, the Sluggo is gone, and so are the snails. They took their food and left to die in the dark moist cracks of my neighbors’ yards. Hopefully, they went to snail heaven with sappy smiles on their faces, too.

    Wait. Do snails have faces?

    Well if they did, they don’t now. And don’t even go thinking they’re cute, either.

    Are they even on the food chain? I mean, come on.

     

  • Loving but cheap Birthday Present

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Today is my sister’s birthday. You know. The one who was smart enough to leave Paradise and move to VA where the leaves actually turn colors and fall off the trees. On the Right Coast where there’s weather? That one. And in spite of her abandoning me, right when I am actually beginning to have a real life as a stay-at-home mouse potato, and could have influenced her in a variety of tainted ways, I still love her and want to wish her a Very Happy Birthday. Here’s a brief trip down memory lane to celebrate in a very cost effective way (even though you bought me that cool bag packed full of pajamas, unmentionables, and smelly bath items for my last birthday).

    Key West, FL 1962

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Key West, Florida. 1963. You can tell it would be difficult to love someone who had a scowl on her face until she was about 6 years old. I mean look at the little one in this picture of swell kids. What is her problem? Does she just need sunglasses? A bonnet? Who is her mother, anyway? And whose idea was it to have an Easter Egg Hunt in the rocks?

    You probably don’t remember, but this is the place where Mom used to make us wear our tennis shoes in the water because there were so many crabs, they’d pinch our toes — especially your chubby morsels.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Chipiona, Spain. 1964. Maybe it’s because she was abandoned on the beach as a young girl, left with other, non-scowling girls with untangled hair who were bound to be simply gorgeous when they grew up and were destined to live in Paradise, bab-i-fied and married to Prince Charming. Poor urchin. Where is her mother?

    Do you remember that bathing suit? It was red with a little skirt and had white turtles on it, or something, didn’t it? And you loved to roll in the sand until you were covered in it. I think this is the only picture that exists where you weren’t cranky about having your picture taken. No wonder the nuns smacked you around in that Spanish school.

    But clearly she came out of such a painful childhood caused by years of tolerating vinegar rinses after community, mixed gender bathtub shampoos, and monotonous lunches of “only baloney” and peanut butter without the jelly. Developing a passion for modeling poor eating behavior for the children at the dining table by playing with her mashed potatoes has assured all of us, that she is just fine.

    Today, she’s a serious butt-kicking name taker. Don’t even think about approaching her at a gas station while she is on her cell phone and interrupting a serious conversation with her gorgeous older daughter, who, like a good daughter, calls her mother 12 times a day. She will snap you up one side and down another. You will be toast. And be glad that you were not the woman behind the counter at the DMV in VA who made the mistake of asking her far too many questions about her seemingly incomplete paperwork. What was that innocent government employee’s name?

    She’s a fierce mom of a competitive cheerleader and gymnast girls, who, after showing everyone she could graduate summa cum laude with a degree in Accountancy and nail a job from an international firm, turned her back on it all to stay at home and boss her family around while her husband has been off fighting wars and stuff. She’s really good at it.

    She’s also good at remembering all of our birthdays and I never remember theirs — or get them royally mixed up. They tolerate me with flat expressions and murmurs of, “What do they feed her?”

    She’s a tiny thing, but she’s scarier than hell. And I’m thinking that I’d really love to get old with her in VA some day before we can’t walk, talk, or eat salsa on everything anymore.

    This is your Birthday Song…It isn’t very long…

    Cheers my sister!

    Now just for hoots, watch this and have a splendiferous day and indulge yourself somehow. It’s swell.

  • Suburban Posers Get Nailed

    Suburban Posers Get Nailed

    The highpoint of carpool duty today was seeing 10–yes, 10 city motorcycle cops looking buff and spiffy in their black boots and uniforms standing on the side of the road during the morning carpool jam. An Urban Commando Unit* car-pooler most likely cracked one of her NUTs and called the city of Paradise’s Finest to rat on non-rule-following car-poolers.

    If someone had actually planned this particular area of road, you might be able to call it an intersection. Imagine a capital X with the center being offset. Then try to picture two traffic lights so close together that only two cars can actually sit between them. Now for entertainment value, add a bike lane. That would be the real reason the cops were out today and holding a ticket pad instead of a donut. They were giving out citations for Flagrant Display of Egocentric Behavior.

    The morning dance of the carpools is the result of a middle and high school sitting within spitting distance of one another, and a huge number of parents who drive their kids to school. That’s about 3,000 teenagers. Why aren’t students walking to school like their parents — through the snow without shoes, carrying all their books, and a healthy lunch? Because a large number of them live more than five miles away, and those miles are anything but flat. Why not let them take the bus? In Paradise, if you live in the geographical boundaries set for a particular school, there is no transportation provided by our urban school district. Well, that is unless your child lives outside the boundaries, and attends a school classified by No Child Left Behind as “under-performing.” Then transportation is provided so your child can escape the horrors of his own hood and attend L-T-D Middle or High School instead. There’s another group involved in the mix: the uber smart people who live in a McNeighborhood outside of L-T-D Land, and who somehow have found a way to “get in” by joining one of those school boundary laundering houses that create phony utility bills and other documents that will help authenticate that their Prince or Princesa really does belong in the local schools. It is this last class of car-poolers who, after coming quite the distance and are so close to their final destination that they can smell it, make use of the bike lane to whiz past the rule-following, tolerant, resigned to this morning ritual, car-poolers. And today, these suburban posers got nailed.

    The coppers stopped the bike lane hemorrhage by halting the interlopers and spreading down the line like they were taking remote orders for In-and-Out burgers and shakes. And would you like that with grilled onions? Bah-dah-Bing! Oops! Gotcha!

    The second group that were, like, well, so totally caught today were the entitled folk coming down the hill from one of the more the exclusive neighborhoods in Paradise. They like to block the first intersection by swinging their au-tos around the commoners already in line to cruise through the bike lane because, well, their time is more valuable than mine and the 45 cars behind me.

    I’m thinking Paradise took in some serious cash today.

    *Urban Commando Unit (UCU) — A vehicle that seats more than four passengers, more than one of whom be seen putting make-up on, or finishing homework, and usually transporting the family dogs, which has either a car or truck chassis, sits above a normal car’s height, and sports a number of stickers on its posterior, advertising everything the occupants are advocates of or interested in. Driver is predominantly female (about 90%), blonde with hi-lites (about 85%), and usually on a cell phone, blocking traffic with merge turn signal on, but is more engaged in talking and not merging. Car-poolees are spewed out into the street, so as not to lose premium space in traffic by pulling over to curb. Is extremely adept at being focused on not being focused.

  • My NUTs. And Yours?

    It’s chilly here today, making getting out of bed a bit more challenging in the feeble light coming through the windows above the blinds. But I can hear the RT in his bathroom, and after a quick glance at the clock, know that if I don’t get up, I will miss seeing him off for school. As he passes by our bedroom door, I notice that although he is sporting a different green tee than he did yesterday, he is wearing the same brown cargo shorts, and has yet to don socks.  I know, with very little analysis, that he will recycle the socks he wore yesterday, slung over his shoes where he left them yesterday .

    I make it downstairs on this non-carpool day, and am rewarded by the RT’s Mom smile– a warm and honest gesture that is often accompanied by a hug. Nice. Ten more minutes before he goes out for his ride into this grey and wet day. I know before opening the patio door that Ms. Jones is not going to want to pee on a wet patio, and I’m probably going to have to venture out in front of the neighbors so she can pee on the wet grass instead. Dog logic? She surprises me by pushing through the partially opened door and gingerly stepping across the flagstones and around the corner to take care of her duty.

    I call up to the RT who has gone to get in a few minutes on the Internet even though I’ve graced him with my presence, “You’re going to need your sweatshirt today.” I know that he wears it most days because it’s soft and comfy, and probably makes it easier for him not to pay attention to The Geometry Teacher, but I have to remind him. One of our cats is trying to rush for the door about now, paranoid that I’ll close it on his tail like I did last week, and makes it through only to realize that it’s wet outside. He backs up, sits near my feet and looks at me as if to say, “What the hell is this all about?” and consigns himself to the view from the back of a chair. Today he’ll have to settle for looking through the window at the birds in the jasmine and stalk their movements with flattened ears and that low “cackling” sound he reserves for moving targets on his radar.

    The RT is out the door about now, 50 lb. back pack hoisted over one shoulder, and the notebook I’ve asked him twice to organize in the past two days, tucked under an arm, still sporting the signs of complete disaster from its edges. I tell him to have a good day, hoping it will be better than yesterday. The two of us decided then that a 50% on The Geometry Teacher’s test was better than what we thought it would be, but getting an F on a test never feels great. I’ll have to put “Giving Geometry Another Chance” on my mental NUTs list. NUTs, you say?

    Nagging Unfinished Tasks, according to Michael F. Roizen, M.D., are things that we could fix, but don’t, thereby causing you and I “aging stress,” which is far more harmful than breaking a bone, because we learn to deal with that. He says those kinds of events are “important, but manageable.” Okay, so let me get this straight. In other words, I’ll just adapt to the circumstances of hmmm…. I know — having a humongous cast on my leg that sticks straight out, forcing me to be in a wheel chair; I’ll be able to get in my compact car, drive myself to the grocery store, carry my crying toddler around while trying to get dinner on the stove. Bathe. Go to the bathroom. Of course, there is absolutely no stress involved in any of that. My malleable demeanor will simply adjust. Instead, what will really get to me while the cast is on my leg, is the items on my NUTs list — the items I don’t take care of that are silently driving me crazy, creating unhealthy levels of adrenaline, cortisone, and other hormones in my system, and leaving me susceptible to myocardial ischemia, and at greater risk of a heart attack. What might those more pressing, driving me nuts, NUTs be if my leg actually was in a cast? Shaving my legs? Reaching that dust ball under the wall unit? Painting the chipped polish on the big toe protruding from my cast? The author cannot be serious.

    But back to reality here, and my current state of angst. In an attempt to embrace the concept of Roizen’s NUTs (no pun intended whatsoever) to identify my own NUTs (anatomically impossible) and add “Relearning Geometry” to the list, I can combine my smarts with those of the RT, and thereby assist him in improving his understanding of Geometry. Bear in mind that because the RT is almost 15, and should be learning to employ skills which will last a lifetime, I actually believe he would be better served taking advantage of the student-run tutoring center at school. However, I also believe I can’t take him there and make him do it. He has to want to do it himself. But that’s because I’m a relentless, suck-it-up-and-get-it-done, erstwhile educator.

    My NUTs: 1) Get a job; 2) Complete filing papers; 3) Call the local charity to get rid of things in the garage so my husband can park in it, too; 4) Complete unfinished upholstery job on two bedroom chairs; 5) Complete stain and seal of outside furniture; 6) Paint unfinished patch over downstairs bathroom door; 7) Truly clean refrigerator

    What are your NUTs?