kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Indulgence

  • My Soundtrack of What Matters. And Yours?

    Oh look everyone.  Another Saturday.  I continue to be amazed that the days on the calendar just whip by with such complete disregard for the fact that I’m on the back side of a half century and it’d be nice if things could slow down a bit.  Not permanently, of course.  But long enough to allow for the extended time I require to think about things that really don’t matter in the grander scheme of the universe and the survival of the species.  I don’t know which particular species, but still.

    But there are some things that matter so much, I can’t imagine what I’d do without them.  The loss so many have experienced this past week in San Diego in the wildfires has prompted me to wonder about choosing if I had to.  But my choices aren’t necessitated by a fire.  They’re the result of simply taking stock, and acknowledging what keeps me anchored.  Understood is that family and friends are not something to be considered here.  Period.

    Solitude.  I can be around many, many people.  But I prefer not to.  I love the busy roar of a large city, but not as much as a winding road and low grass covered hills.  And music?  It can bring me to tears, cause me to dance, or force me to sing along whether there are words or not.  But even music can’t compete with my need for solitude.  The quiet I enjoy for part of every day when the only sound I can hear is the rustle of trees outside my window, or the creak of wood somewhere in the house matters.  Plain, simple quiet.

    My stove.  I could say cooking, but not being one of those Top Chef type people, I wouldn’t want to have to cook on a hot plate, or a sterno flame.  No.  I’d need my stove.  The one with the nine cheery red knobs.  I’ve heard people say they love their cars — the purr of the engine, the handling, the acceleration.  That’s how I feel about my stove.  Ah…the sound it makes when those convection fans switch on.  Vroom…vroom….It isn’t in my kitchen because its design is sleek, although it is.  Or because its technology is a wonder.  But it is pretty amazing. It’s in my kitchen because I use it.  Seriously use it and have fun the entire time.  It connects me to food and family and friends.  Creativity and learning.  Tradition and new cuisine.  It provides the peace of mind that diligently proceeding through a set of steps can provide, and at the end of them all, have my taste buds sing.  Could I have all of this without my particular stove?  Certainly.  But it just wouldn’t be the same.  It weighs a bit more than my Mac at about 1,000 lbs. so it isn’t exactly something I can ever take with me if I go.  But I’d find a way to get another.  Trust me.

    My Mac.  It has one little plug that connects it to my house.  One.  But it connects me to so much more than I can possibly be connected to otherwise.  Ironically, I’m writing this on the MoH’s laptop, and it’s fine, but it’s not my Mac.  I could make due with a different computer if I didn’t have a Mac.  I can buy just about anything I want, read (which would be another thing I wouldn’t do without because it’s like breathing), travel, learn, listen, create…But it wouldn’t be the same.  Iwouldn’t have my lovely screen, or sleek white lines, or easily swiveleing-thingy-ness.  I wouldn’t be able to waste copious amounts of time with iPhoto, or click open my Finder services for the Oxford dictionary (the Webster widget doesn’t come close…).  And photobooth, and iChat (which I’ve just learned to use).  Pathetic, isn’t it?  Don’t even argue with me about this.  I’m a goner.  And iTunes?  Well.

    Rod wants to know what’s on my playlist.  I don’t have an iPod (solitude, remember?) but I do happen to have three whole playlists on in my iTunes library which are organized very specifically.  And when I check the list of songs I’ve played most, the following come up.  They’re supposed to say much about who and what I am, or what I’ve been thinking.  But I’ve developed an odd habit at this point in my life.  I don’t listen to the words of songs.  I listen for the melody.  I listen to whether it’s written in a major or minor key, whether it’s sung by an uncomplicated voice and a single instrument, or an energetic voice and a band.  And it’s all connected to mood.  I listen when I have to write.  When I have to sit at the computer and am easily distracted.  I play it loudly, singing along — whether there are words or not.  So I’m not sure what these particular songs say about me.  I’ll have to think about it.  But I’ll have to figure out what the words are first.

    She Is     The Fray     (40)

    Snow     Red Hot Chili Peppers (37)

    Betty     Kate Walsh  (26)

    Savin’ Me     Nickelback (25)

    If it Makes You Happy  Sheryl Crow  (25)

    In Need  Sheryl Crow  (24)

    What About Now  Daughtry  (23)

    When the Lights go Down  Faith Hill  (23)

    Photograph  Nickelback  (23)

    Over You  Daughtry  (22)

    Squeeze Me  Diana Krall  (22)

    You’re Still Here  Faith Hill  (22)

    Slow Like Honey  Fiona Apple  (22)

    Tonight  Kate Walsh  (22)

    Nearness of You  Norah Jones  (22)

    This post was sponsored by Robert of Miscellaneous Ramblings who inquired about “Three Things I Wouldn’t Let Go,” and Rod of Inside Rod’s Head who insisted that “Our Players Don’t Lie.”  The links provide the directions which are blissfully uncomplicated.  Yes!  There is a meme god in the sky.

    What do you think chick, vanessa, paisley, meleah, mel, jenny, phil, rj, scott, and micki (whom I know has a “meme-free” zone, but am asking the question anyway)?  It’s an interesting exercise combining the two…I’ll have to do some analysis on it after I figure out the words of the songs I’ve listed.

    Have a splendiferous weekend.

  • Ahhh…moisture.

    Yes, another Nearly Wordless Wednesday has arrived. Where does time go? I can tell you it seriously left while I was “working” yesterday because I achieved very little and have now successfully blamed it on Bach and Brahms who were more for meditating and gardening, not grind-stoning. They contributed to my delinquency.

    Not today. It’s 8:42 am and I’m raring to go by celebrating something I’ve been waiting for. IMG_3870.JPG See it? You aren’t sure what it is? IMG_3871.JPG  Oh come on. How many clues do you need? Or is it just glasses? It’s condensation! IMG_3875.JPG

    Yes, that bit of atmospheric wonder that lets me know officially that the weather has changed. The plumeria that took so long to bloom will soon drop its last flowers, its leaves, and return to what the MoH refers to as “The Stick.”
    IMG_3876.JPG  Our windows will soon need to be closed during the night. The precious moisture in the air will help us breathe more easily, and keep me from feeling like a prune.

    Okay, so I’ll be a juicy prune. Plump and juicy.

    9:09

    Gotta go. But with no Bach or Brahms.

  • You, too, can own brown hair.

    You, too, can own brown hair.

    I’ve never been able to understand people’s fears about their hair. Truly. In some cases, it seems the individual believes she is her hair — that without it, she wouldn’t be the same person. That she wouldn’t look attractive, or worse, that others wouldn’t find her so. In particular, their husbands. It’s interesting. And to be the ever present fair individual that is the bane of my existence, I’ll admit that it would concern me if the MoH showed up with purple hair and his head shaved on one side and sporting curls on the other. It isn’t that I would no longer find him to be the crazy intelligent and enticing person he is. It’d be more that I’d expect him to be fired, and then I’d have to get a real job. Okay?

    I can remember being very anxious when I was young if my hair wasn’t symmetrically curled. It’s a wonder my mother didn’t whack me upside the head with the hair brush while admonishing me to get a grip. (Perhaps she did, and because I sustained brain damage, I lack the memory to recall the event…) God forbid that someone notice that things weren’t perfectly aligned. You know.  Things.  I can remember being being obsessed about my clothes then as well, hating a particular skirt because the pleats wouldn’t lie straight, or a collar was flat on one side.  Everything had to be just right. This affliction wasn’t about hoping to gain attention from anyone. Absolutely not. The absolute horror of someone noticing me was something I never wanted. If I saw someone looking at me, I just knew that something had to be wrong. That things were not as they should be. My immediate reaction was one of intense embarrassment. The horror of it all. It was semi- debilitating for a very long time. Well, not quite.  But I just don’t care anymore. Yes, I care about my appearance, I just choose to be free of the stifling restrictions I put on myself to appease everyone else (as if they actually had anything to do with it to begin with). Okay, I actually got a grip and deal with these less than earth-shattering issues in a realistic fashion.

    So what does this all have to do with brown hair?  Well…

    Recently, my sister in law asked whether I’d be interested in being a model for a hair stylist class for a particular product line. I’d get free hair color out of it, and maybe a trim. Since it had already been a few months since I had my color done, I was sans gift certificate, and I’d thrashed my hair this summer in the sun and water, I told her I was game. Somehow, it slipped my mind. So I was surprised when she called to remind me that I said I was interested, and that two days would be involved: Sunday morning to do the hair color; and Monday to do the show. Two days. Two. And both in L.A.  No hotel.  Driving two days in a row.

    Now, if you’ve been taking notes on my on-going blatherings (a redundancy, as the concept of blathering has evolved into a pastime denoting incessant verbosity…) you are completely aware that I not only less than love driving, but driving to L.A.? Well. But it was for free hair. And not only free hair, but free brown hair. Brown. Not blonde like everyone else in Paradise. B-R-O-W-N. Woot! I was sooooooo there.

    But I had forgotten, so her reminder caused a bit of anxiety last week as the days approached. Anxiety about my hair? Are you kidding? Hell, no. I just don’t like having things on my calendar (I so do not own a calendar anymore…). Having items on my calendar disrupts the chaotic ebb and flow of life around here because I have to think about something concrete. I’m sort of out of practice, so then I have to apply myself in a more than unfocused way. Quite the challenge.

    So, yes. Free brown hair.

    You might be wondering why I bother? Well, I’ve wondered that a bit myself. The main reason is that growing out one’s hair is a less than attractive activity. One wanders around looking a bit like she’s sat in water up to here eyeballs for a while with one color emerging slowly on top as the other, older color fades and changes. Yes, one might schedule regular trims to speed the process. Or, one might even cut one’s hair very short, mightn’t one? One?

    Okay, I have thought of cutting my hair very short to get to the root of things…Bwhahahahahaha...but have you ever seen a guinea pig’s hair? The type of guinea pig that has all the cowlicks with its hair going every which way? That would be me. Yes, I could get some Dep or something and swish things around a bit, then it would look intentional, but I doubt it. I will think on this, however. One never knows with me.

    So until I figure all that out, I’m going for the free brown hair.

    Besides, I got quite the education while on this little adventure:

    1. I really can drive to L.A. by myself and be sane when I get there. I cannot, however, drive 65 or 70 m.p.h. because everyone else is driving 85-90 m.p.h. even on a Sunday morning at 7am. Who knew? What is the big freaking hurry?

    2. People who work in the “hair business” are in a completely different world than I have ever been. I suspected this and have had hairdressers I love tell me. So now I believe them. It’s fascinating to observe. They talk. A lot. They’re sort of bubbly, are completely unabashed about anything having to do with their bodies — starting with their hair, and eat, think, speak, and wax prolifically about hair. Okay? Hair. (It’s a bit like me and food…) And they love tattoos in interesting places… High-heeled shoes and platforms in zebra stripes and leopard patterns that cost $7 a pair, and do I want to know where the shop is so I, too, can stop before returning home.

    3. It is possible to have hair that was maybe brown once upon a time, and then black, then white, then with rainbow colors all at the same time. And, it is possible to “lift” those colors if you use the correct sequence of products. Lift as in make them more intense. “Like, insanely intense.” And shiny. Like, you know?

    4. It is possible to do all of that to your hair and still have it feel like hair. Not synthetic. Or have it stretch when it’s wet in the bowl. Stretch? Oh. My. Goodness.

    5. A hairdresser’s scissors — a good pair — cost $750. Really. I was amazed. They are sharp enough to cut off a finger.

    6. The owner of the company whose products were being featured clearly enjoys what he is doing (what a concept, huh?) really wants people in the business to understand the science behind the products they use every day (you know — actually think instead of just following directions), and was fascinating to listen to. Very.

    7. There’s a conspiracy going on out there. The big skin and hair companies are buying up all the smaller brands (this is new information?) and the result is that most products are now all the same. Plus, they’re being marketed in the grocery stores now, so people can actually purchase them while buying groceries instead of having to purchase products at a salon. Okay, so maybe not a conspiracy, but clearly a problem for those in the industry who are told that selling products they use in their salons can pay for their overhead. Very interesting.

    8. I have retained more than I thought I had about chemistry. High fives, anyone? Who knew that the reason you hair turns orange when you try to bleach it (remember Sun-In?) is because of iron oxide. And that the reason you have to use products in a particular order (facial care and hair care) is because of the size of the molecules (small first, working to large.) I could keep going, but I detect snoring in the room, so I’ll stop.

    9. Being a hairdresser is a hard job. Hard. I’d have difficulty standing in one place all day (Wait. I forgot. That’s how I put myself through college.) and then having to do what they tell you to do instead of being able to create. It might be interesting, though. But without the tattoos and shoes. I don’t understand how they can work in those heels.

    10. I still have big hair. You know, like in the ’80’s? Yes, that big. I thought I’d never see it again, but no. It’s still possible. Big. With curls.

    When I got home Sunday, the MoH said he liked my brown hair several times throughout the evening. I’m thinking he was making some visual adjustments and the commentary was just processing exhaust. The RT reaction was more succinct. Interesting, was his only evaluation. Kind of like what I think about his hair, so that makes us even.

    Monday, was a bit different, however. We had our hair styled (do you know how long it’s been since I had hairspray in my hair?) and make-up done for the show. Lots of make up — like as in, I had eyebrows. I had to get on the stage with all the other “models” and allow ourselves to be talked about under the bright lights and examined. Now, it was mentioned that we weren’t exactly the type of models they’d have on the runway. (Oh really?) No, we were the “you’d see these types of real people with real problems in your shops” set of models. We had our formulas pinned to our chests while sporting logo-bearing Tees that were quite a bit tighter than anything I’ve worn since birth. At least mine wasn’t a tube top, see-through, or one that said, “Enjoy your blow.” Ahem. We had to carry a “before” photo around, allowing professionals in the audience to touch our hair and take notes on our color. Very interesting.

    As much as I can say that it’s easy to be in the spirit of things while at the show, at some point, I had to go out in the sunlight. My hair is a lovely color with barely a blonde streak in sight. But I had to see my made up face in my own bathroom mirror. I had to see the RT look at me and then look elsewhere just to be polite. At least he didn’t call me Groucho.

    But I did take a photo. Of course. I had to.

    Last Week’s Drudgery

    Before Photo

    Sunday’s Work

    After Photo — Well, sort of…

    Monday’s Effects

    Like, Totally Done.

    Sadly, the fairy dust only lasts so long (my big hair deflated a bit on the way home…) But at least I now am the proud owner of brown hair.

  • 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?

  • Almost Wordless, but Not Quite?

     See updates below…

    I have to work today. All day. Yes. A-L-L. As in all.

    There’s no blogging. Warning Well, this doesn’t really count, right?

    Because I have a lot to do. Gentle Reminder

    Seriously. A. Lot. You know…tons.
    I have several iTunes playlists at my disposal…mac Screen so that should help. *Okay, who in hell purchased Chumbawamba?*

    But I’m going to wonder about that spider outside — right in front of the door at face level — whom I’ve named Clyde.

    Okay. So maybe not? Fat Head

    Update #1: Okay, so, like…I lasted until 11:54 (3.5 hours – not too bad, huh?) when a Liz Story piece came up on my iTunes play list and I decided to Google for sheet music — which I’ve never done. And whoa. There’s not only sheet music on line, but I can get it immediately with plastic money. And print it out. And play it. Do you have any idea HOW long it’s been since I purchased music? YEARS. Then I could park my caboose on that ol’ piano bench and actually play. OMG. There are distractions EVERYWHERE. And no, the time in my post above not correct, so don’t even think you can check up on me, Slick.

    Update #2:  It’s nearly 4pm and my eyeballs have fallen out and are rolling across the desk.  Edu-speak is pouring out of my fingers and making absolutely no sense…wait.  That sounds normal, doesn’t it?  Have….to….finish…

  • 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.

  • Minx interview reveals no pink ruffles for Kellypea

    I love Thursday. It’s always been my favorite day of the week. The whole idea of a weekend and its promise stretching out before me has has always confirmed that looking forward to something is one of the finest pleasures in life. Mind you, nothing spectacular has to be planned that causes this feeling of anticipation. It’s simply the possibility. The opportunity. The choices that can be made. I love to wallow through them one by simple one. They’re rarely something that would catch another’s attention, and you’d most likely laugh if I took the time now to say what they are, but I’ll save that for another time. Don’t hold your breath, though.

    So to celebrate Thursday, and that I most diligently worked for the better part of the day yesterday, today, I’m here. First thing. Completely and utterly committed to responding to five questions put forth to yours truly by The Domestic Minx, that clever, purring, femme fatale of Bloggsville who has quite the alluring way with words, and proclivity for risque art.

    I vaguely remember volunteering for this interview some time ago, fascinated and curious about what she might want to know — clever Minx that she is…

    1. Like you, Kellypea, I love to get lost in a good book. Your blog is like that; fascinating, funny and filled with your incorrigible wit! If the whole shebang was to be made into a book, what would the teaser be? Tell me the blurb!!

    Hmmm…get out your Wellies for this one, folks:

    We’ve often been told that the sum of the parts are greater than the whole. That would not be the case with a small, but colorful place of Bloggsville that has an exceptionally large presence, leaving the reader with a sense of, “What the hell was that all about?” three whole minutes after they’ve left kellementology. Kellypea, the author of kellementology draws in the unsuspecting surfer in Bloggsville with a Warholesque visage of a female in the header that one may be not quite prepared for. But she claims to know something about “grasping life by the short hairs,” so perhaps a brief visit may uncover tips which can be capitalized upon.

    Perusing entries of Kellypea’s weblog such as “Lub Notes and Swollen Body Parts,” and “Math and Sunshine in Dark Places,” may give readers the idea that she is just another woman with great feet and a relentlessly persistent pretense of wanting a body like Kate Moss. But then you stumble upon pieces like “Complexity + Change = Simplicity,” and “Teenagers and Circus Hoops” and you begin to understand that she’s a bit more complex than you may have thought — even if you are really only searching for “ricky lake + diet + book.”

    Kellypea is kellementology, and without her convoluted nature and shameless self indulgence, this blog would certainly be just another blip on the Technorati link train.

    Now if it was all to become a film, of course that’s another matter entirely…

     

    Movie Poster

    2. I know how challenging it can be living in a house full of men, darling. How and when do you use your femininity to your advantage?

    Okay, so what would “feminity” be, exactly? I have conflicting images creating havoc in my mind of Marilyn Monroe singing “I Want to be Loved by You” in Some Like it Hot,

    Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot

    June Cleaver in a negligee, and Phyllis Diller greeting her husband at the door after work wrapped in Saran Wrap.

    I’m wondering if it means crying when I don’t get my way, or laying in bed all day with a head ache and expecting room service.

    I’m more comfortable just being me. No ruffles, no pink things, no girly stuff. In fact, I really don’t get the whole “girly girl” thing. It actually makes me uncomfortable. And using it to an advantage? You’re kidding, right?

    When I’m fed up with something, I get mad, I don’t cry.

    When I want something, I get it myself. I don’t hint around about it. I take care of it. Well, most of the time.

    The whole pampering thing escapes me. I don’t like people doing things for me. It makes me grossly uncomfortable. I’m sure there’s some kind of bizarre psychological explanation for that one somewhere out there, and goodness, chime right in with your comments.

    Nope. No feminine wiles. I am what I am.

    3. Although your recent sojourn by Lake Tahoe must seem an age away, I was horridly jealous reading about it. Describe in infuriating detail your perfect holiday escape.

    Warm, crystal clear water the color of a softly worn piece of sea glass. Sand so white, it can’t be real. A sky dotted with clouds here and there, floating slowly through a balmy breeze. A hooded lounge chair perfectly positioned on a deck just outside a beach house with an unobstructed view of the ocean, not 50 yards away. Palm fronds rustling against one another high above, casting occasional shadows across my legs. An excellent book about nothing that matters. The possibility of an afternoon sail. A fabulous dinner of fresh, fresh food and someone to cook it perfectly. The MoH snoring softly next to me…

    And a guy in khaki shorts and a white linen shirt who never lets my glass empty of Yellow Birds.

    Atlantis was spectacular…and about as close as I have gotten to what I’ve described here.
    But a small beach house with no one else around? Now that would be truly heaven on Earth.

    Yes, that would just about do it.

    4. Promises of “Extra Sizing your man unit with Extra Size Plus” may not have your heart pounding, but do tell, what would be the very best thing that could be delivered to your Inbox?

    Ahhh…the patience I have for SPAM. With absolutely no hesitation, I would swoon for legitimate and free monthly surprise packages from places like Dean & Deluca, The French Gourmet Store, Tabula Tua, Bittersweet Pastries, and A Cook’s Wares. And an opportunity to try them out, sample their wonderfulness, and then write about them. For pay, of course. I know it’s not as exciting to some as perhaps getting free shoes such as this in the mail,

     

    but it would be wasted on me. Really. But red shoes? Now that’s a completely different issue all together. So call me Dorothy? Uh, minus Kansas.

    5. Being a busy wife and mother means there never seems to be enough time to orchestrate the pampering one needs on a regular basis…What are the delicious treats you can’t do without, Kellypea, what are the indulgences you wish you had more time for and what things get left by the wayside?

    Busy? Uh, no. For the very first time in my life, I’m not busy at all, so I can’t put myself alongside all those who are working, or raising children — or both. Oh, and going to school as well. Yes, I’ve done those things and although it was exhausting, it was worth it. Should I be busy? Well I’d have to define “busy.”

    If you’ve read even one or two of my posts, you know by now that I might be considered one of the fortunate few. I don’t go to a “job” or necessarily work for someone else. At least right now, I don’t. That could change. It has been quite the luxury and I could stop there and consider it the ultimate extended pampering session. But a funny thing happened along this path to taking time off to consider myself in this life. I did what I normally do. I learn something and end up occupying my time with everything but what I thought I would have. It figures. So I’m never bored, but most likely am not indulging myself in the pampering sessions others might prefer.

    The ultimate indulgence would be to have someone come to my home, take a look around, finish all the projects I’ve left undone, fix what my eye hasn’t quite seen the right way, clean and scrub and buff to a sparkling state, and organize what needs to be organized. Closets, garage (which really isn’t so bad if you can believe that), drawers, and cupboards…family photos…all of it. And I’d love to join in on the effort, of course, because I’d find it interesting. Plus, I’d get to make those labels I’ve spoken of. I’d LOVE those labels. Now, I could probably devote a week to the effort by myself and not have the Magic Martha show up at my front door, but I’d be distracted and never finish. That’s why I’d salivate over this indulgence. Everything would be organized, lined up, fluffed up. No fleas, no hairballs, no stinky teenage bathroom. Just clean, sleek surfaces and fresh, lightly scented air…

    Okay. You get the idea.

    Not exactly burning up the pages, here, am I? Predictable? Most likely not. Screaming out about a cause? Hmmm…I’m more private about those kinds of things for some reason. But I enjoy blathering on about whatever strikes my fancy, and responding to questions from Minx has certainly helped to make my Thursday the best day I’ve had this week.

    And I haven’t been distracted the entire time I’ve been writing.

    Fancy that.

    I know. Shut up and go back to work.