kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Learning

  • The anticipated day arrives…

    The Crack o’ Dawn It’s the end of yet another long month. And while many could be looking forward to a pay check, my head is in another place all together. Although I’ve never been one to turn away from what I’m due after a job well done, my payment takes a different form now.

    As the end of each month nears, my anticipation builds until the day arrives. Not just any day. The designated day. I have whiled away my time and have analyzed and questioned. I’ve mulled and had a bit of angst. I have done my duty by following the protocol. And after it all, I am still left to wait. Time is the one thing I don’t seem to be able to twist to my submission.

    At times, the days drag. The end of the month feels as if it couldn’t stretch any farther into the distance. But when the day arrives, like a child awaiting her birthday, I stay up until the wee hours of the night, or rise at the first light of dawn, creeping downstairs to quietly make my coffee, and then upstairs again to settle in.

    To finally check on the post that has already been written and saved — saved and designated to publish at the appropriate time just in case I happen to be asleep.

    I’ve waited to reveal the photos that have been planned and scrutinized, but kept under wraps.

    I’ve tested my patience to find that I would either bask in the glory of success, or plummet in flames of having tried and failed.

    And the day is finally here. The day that all 97 members of an uber secret virtual society can unveil the results of their latest challenge. Sounds scintillating, doesn’t it? Now you know where Dan Brown got the idea for The Da Vinci Code.
    At the end of each month in an amazing number of blogs around the Bloggosphere, the same recipe appears over and over again. You notice these blogs sport odd badges in their sidebars you never really paid attention to before, and you begin to wonder…who are these people? And was this planned? How….? They hail from France, from the Southern U.S., from Ireland, Canada, Sweden, and the UK. From SoCal and San Francisco, from Ohio and from South America. They’re everywhere, and they’re quite the amazing group of kitchen zealots.

    They’re the Daring Bakers. Daring Bakers Strike Again And I am one of them. Hoo-Zah!

    You do know that I have currently raised my arms to exhibit my biceps, don’t you? And I’m looking for someone with whom to bump chests in solidarity…or something like that.

    Okay, maybe just a high five?

    A wink?

    I love the anticipation of events. Anticipation is the best of everything as far as I’m concerned. And when this day arrives, with coffee in hand, I begin my visit to each of the Daring Bakers’ sites to read their posts, wallow in their despair, or cheer in celebration of a success. It’s rather amazing this business of belonging — this getting to know people you may never meet face to face. And to participate in an event each and every month with them as well.

    It’s amazing. Period.

    Yes, I’ve always loved to cook. And if you’ve been reading my blathering for the past five months, you’ve most likely learned that I’ve been at it since about the age of eight. As have many of the Daring Bakers. No, I haven’t been to culinary school. But some of the Daring Bakers have. And I’ve never worked in a restaurant. But some of those in the Daring Bakers have — in fact, their family has owned one. I’m most certainly not a professional pastry chef. But yes, there are professionals amongst the members of the Daring Bakers. How. Cool. Is. That?

    Some are just beyond talented, creative, persistent, and inquisitive. They’re all awesome.

    My days are often filled with thoughts of food instead of my makeup. I stare at glossy photos in magazines or cookbooks of marinara and walnut tarts instead of whether my abdomen is as concave as it once was. I wonder what a particular recipe might taste like instead of whether others are checking out my new jeans — or my glutes in my jeans. I spend my time questioning whether I’ve got quite enough cardamom for that apple cake, deciding whether to purchase green onions because the grocery store is out of leeks, and risking the purchase of those interesting looking little eggplants to try a recipe for something I’ve never liked. I can’t imagine doing without exceptional flavor, of not wanting a meal to be more than just eating. Of not being interested in any of it at all. What a loss for those who aren’t interested. I weep for them. And I’d offer to light one of those little candles in church to help them out of their misery, but consider it just a thought.

    I’m a hopeless foodie. A gonner plain and simple. I swoon over perfectly sauteed chantrelles with just the right amount of marsala in the cream sauce, and a boca negra with a hint of cayenne and a sweetened tomatillo sauce on the side. When I die and walk through the proverbial pearly gates, there better be a 60″ duel fuel 8-burner Wolf range at my disposal, or someone is going to pay.

    When I do my perpetual laps around the Bloggosphere, please know that as much as I love this particular piece of virtual heaven and all of you who so graciously help to make my days go by, only half of me is here. My heart lies in the land of plenty. Food Land. The land of the Daring Bakers. The land where you don’t have to think about Technorati ranking, or Google Page Rank. None of that matters. All that matters is that I belong. Well, if I constructively participate I belong. Otherwise, I might be gently invited to leave. And why not? Why would anyone belong to something they weren’t involved in….Hmmm?

    Take a walk through my challenges from past to present…and if you’ve never checked out my other blog, well…

    Unofficial First Challenge: Red Velvet Cake (If you eat it, will your mouth turn red?)

    Red Velvet Cake

    First Official Challenge: Gateau St. Honore (This complete disaster looks interesting, but don’t let the brick fool you. Have you ever made puff pastry by hand? You have? Whatever.)

    Gateau St. Honore

    Second Challenge: Honest to Goodness Real Bagels (Yes, they’re hand made. Completely. Not a Kitchen Aid dough hook in sight. Just my mom who is very good at telling me how to think.

    Real Homemade Bagels

    Third Challenge: Strawberry Mirror Cake (Have you ever even heard of this or seen one anywhere?)

    Strawberry Mirror Cake

    Current Challenge: Milk Chocolate & Caramel Tart (Go ahead and melt that sugar with nothing else in the pan and resist touching it until it melts. I dare you…)

    Milk Chocolate & Caramel Tart

    Yes, I prepare savory dishes as well nearly always on a nightly basis. And rarely does a month pass that we have the same meal more than once. Am I swaggering? No, merely confessing my very odd culinary proclivities. Life in my kitchen is just a grand experiment. It always has been and always will be. Realistically, what is the risk? Someone might not like something? Goodness. Life is too short to be worried about not liking something you’ve eaten. Excepting those individuals who have serious food allergies, I’m sad for those who are afraid of trying something new.

    What could happen?

    And consider the incredible sense of satisfaction that can be had by simply trying. Not just the tasting, but the cooking as well. And who cares if others don’t like it. It’s all an experiment. An amazing way to widen the boundaries you’ve set for yourself in life.

    Go ahead. Try the escargot.

    I have. But would Andy Beard…? Hmmm… I wonder… Just an experiment.

    And so have these wonderful people: the Daring Bakers. Not all of them may have posted their challenges today, but I’ve checked nearly all of them, so know that most have. Give ’em a round of applause. Keeping a food blog can be ass-kicking difficult work.

  • Sunday Mornings and Floors that Move

    The RT is quite the gamer. I’ve mentioned before that he’s got a passion for tiny figurines and war machines that he spends hours painting. Small enough? So yesterday, the MoH and I drove him and a friend to Games Day up in L.A. Yes, another road trip in less than a week. Thankfully, there was no hotel involved, and we’d decided to leave early to miss any traffic we might have run into, so the prep work for this excursion was nil. The MoH and I would just cruise around the enormous mall near the convention center until it was time to collect the boys, and then race home before the dog released her bladder on our rug. Not that it would matter considering the damage she has done in the past.

    I fell into bed early Friday night, and neglected to straighten up the kitchen. We hadn’t had a big dinner, so it wasn’t that bad and for some reason, I was beat. Since we were planning on being on the road by 7am, I just didn’t want to think about anything. I’d straighten up after we got back home.

    Saturday morning, I quickly made my coffee, ate the RT’s left over Pop Tart (how can anyone not want BOTH Pop Tarts?) and glanced around a bit annoyed that I hadn’t emptied and then refilled the dishwasher the night before. The trash wasn’t full, but did smell a bit, well, like trash. Or maybe it was that sponge. Whatever. It could wait, because I was sure I was just being picky. We really needed to run.

    After grabbing my purse and heading for the garage, I noticed with some irritation that the same fly I hadn’t been able to swat the day before was still lazily buzzing around. Flies are a reminder around here that: 1) the RT didn’t take care of his patio duties cleaning up after the dog; or 2) hot weather is coming…

    We made record time to L.A., dropped the boys off at the convention center, enjoyed way too many carbs at breakfast, and headed to the mall. The day was relaxed and easy, and I scored at the Borders outlet. Yes, I know I made a commitment to not purchasing books until I’ve read all the others I have, but I couldn’t resist. Besides, the MoH was sleepy and took the opportunity to snooze in a comfy chair while I spent a ridiculous amount of time choosing my books. Five for 20 bucks. Not bad. Not bad at all.

    The boys had fun, we only hit a bit of traffic on the way home, and miracle of all miracles, the dog hadn’t peed on the floor. The Guinness Book of World Records needs to know about this dog’s bladder. Seriously. So all was well.

    Or so we thought.

    The ringing of the phone woke me up at about 8:30. My mom was calling from Virginia, and everything was fine. We blabbed about nothing in particular — just an update of switching over the basic things one has to when one moves across the country. The record heat is cooling down, she loves the deer, her cat Emily is adjusting — sort of — and she’s applied for a job. All’s well.

    With a smile on my face, and an attempted glance through my nasty looking puffy eyes in the bathroom mirror, I headed downstairs to say good morning to the guys whom I could hear blabbing in a relaxed manner.

    Ah….Sunday morning. The sun was already out and a soft breeze was ruffling the trees on our patio. The paper was just waiting to be perused. A rich, dark cuppa Joe had my name written all over it. An entire day stretched out before me, waiting to be claimed. What did I feel like doing?

    While meandering over to make my coffee, still ignoring the few dishes (uh, like 10?) on the counter I hadn’t taken care of from two nights ago (no, there was no disgusting food encrusted on them) and a couple of dishtowels I had casually thrown to a corner on the floor to be taken to the laundry room, I grabbed my broom (an obsessive compulsive morning ritual) and began to sweep while listening to the MoH talk about nothing in particular. The brewing coffee began to fill the air with its rich aroma, but there was a twinge of something else coming from…somewhere. What was that?

    And what were those…things on the floor that I couldn’t quite sweep up? They were kind of…sticky…rolling a bit, but getting stuck on the floor instead of being swept up into the dust pan. Where were my glasses? By this time, I’d already created a messy “dust” pile on the kitchen floor and had moved onto the floor in the family room. “Can you see this stuff?” I asked the MoH while peering down at my feet then over at the “dust” I’d swept up in the kitchen which wasn’t quite as neat as I’d left it a few minutes ago. Huh? He’d already figured out something was not quite right. The floor was moving. Or to be exact, what was on the floor was moving. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Especially in the kitchen.

    I had already walked in there and across the floor. Twice. So had the RT to make his morning toast. I didn’t want to think of looking at the bottom of my feet.

    It looked like someone had spilled orzo on the floor. Lots of it.

    And suddenly it all came together. The funny smell. The not quite full garbage.

    And that fly.

    Hundreds and hundreds of maggots were crawling across our floor. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to see maggots on a floor that looks like this? Milk? Or on a wood floor that has bevels where the ugly little undulating larvae can race to where ever the hell they are trying to get to? Bone? YUCK. They had even begun to burrow into the fibers on the edge of the rug. Funny how our Ani-Mules wouldn’t go anywhere near the area. They totally knew what was up, looking at us, and waiting to have their breakfast without having to worry about those disgusting slimy little crawling things.

    It took an hour to scoop them up, trying to keep them in the dust pans while we scooped, and then washing them down the sink with the garbage disposal running and the faucet spraying scalding water into the sink. I didn’t want to think about any of them getting onto the counter, because we’d seriously not be able to see them then. G-R-O-S-S.

    We couldn’t quite figure out where they were coming from because they were EVERYWHERE, crawling in every direction. Even up a wall. Was I going to need to get out the vacuum? And if I did, how exactly would I get them out of that? This was getting uglier by the minute.

    Finally, I did look in the trash, and the smell was a dead give away once I pulled the door open to peer into the bin. I’m not sure what was in there, but I didn’t want to find out. Out it went to the garage, and out our dumpster went to the curb, whether it’s allowed in our CCRs or not.

    Ah…I just love Sunday mornings. Don’t you?

    So much for leaving a lone fly and a half filled bag of trash in my house for 12 hours. Go figure.

    Now you seriously know I’m not Martha. Am I completely distraught over it all. Nah. I’m fairly tough. I just deal with it. Besides, we’d already had a run-in with maggots years ago when the kids left four Easter eggs under the RT’s bed and we couldn’t figure what all the tiny flies we had to swat every day when we came home from work were coming from. For TWO WEEKS. And the smell? Now, that was gross.
    When I see tiny flies tomorrow, I’ll know I didn’t quite get them all.   House Fly

  • SPAM: Earning Money From Home & Man Units

    Smothered in SpamCan someone please tell me what in hell is going on with all the spam already? It’s completely out of control. Wasn’t the Spam King thrown in the slammer? Well, at least one was, but wait, isn’t this guy a spammer, too? And, uh, this one? Okay, so maybe all the spam spawn have hatched, or closet spammers have come out to infect the rest of us with their completely ridiculous crap. Who are these crack dwellers?

    I’ve thought about this. I picture a seedy room with an unkempt individual who hasn’t seen the light of day in weeks, (no, not me — my office is pleasant looking) and is maniacally hacking into others’ computers, networks, and lives. I know. Pretty naive, huh? Okay so my revision of this diabolical scenario would be that the sleezy creature is wearing Gap cargo pants, flip-flops, and a Grateful Dean tee (a Beatle shirt?) cracking its whip at a bank of orgasmic spam bots. (You, Too Can Have A Home-Based Business). The whole concept is just bizarre. And I just don’t see how they can actually make money.

    Seriously.

    Well, so maybe they do make money. And the source quotes that “spam will overtake human-sent email sometime in 2007.” So, I guess that time is close to being now. And AOL will change their little email voice to greet people with, “Damn. You’ve got Spam!” At least I haven’t had to deal with the fake greeting cards. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
    I’m sure I’m not alone. Yes, of course this site gets spam, but Askimet catches 99.9% of it and all I have to do is open my spam window and flush the toilet. Right now, it’s a toss up between the guys who are rabid car sales freaks and the seriously pathetic cockroaches who all want us to sport enormous penises and engage in unmentionable activities with various and assorted females, males, and sheep. Honestly.

    Sheep? Ahem.

    And then there is the email spam group. Unfortunately, that’s primarily my fault. You’re all dying to know why, right? It’s Friday. You have time.

    Well.

    Last October when I was beginning to feel as if my entire life was ready to cave in, (tune in to channel 11 on Telemundo…) I began to think about Working From Home. Big. Mistake. All you have to do is have an inkling of a glimmer of a seed of a thought, and your phone rings all day. Your snail mail box begins to fill with offers of wonderous wealth, and spectacular imaginings of shiny, sleek cars, McMansions, and yachts the size of battleships. And the email. My goodness. You get to learn about what affiliates are. You get to find out who The Rich Jerk is. Sorry, no link. I don’t want to encourage him. And don’t Google him, either, unless you love being verbally abused. Okay, so if you like Dr. Laura, you might enjoy The Rich Jerk.

    At one point, I physically couldn’t keep up with the amount of pure manure I was receiving. It took a good amount of time each day to filter through it to find real emails. Nearly 2,000 of them. Yes, I know. Why didn’t I get another account? Uh, I’m stubborn? I shouldn’t have to? I didn’t ask for the spam mail? I know. I should have gotten another account. You’re correct. Print this and frame it, because I never concede. Never.

    Anyway, the most annoying of the emails must come from some pyramid scheme having to do with home mortgages. They have continued for more than 10 months now. Long enough for me to wonder what the hell is going on when I don’t get one. The poor saps have been sold a list of names (mine must be on 10,000 of these lists) and told that whomever is on the list is a “lead.” You know. I’m going to be a sucker, respond to their email, and then they’re in. Someone, somewhere told them they could make a zillion dollars doing this, Working From Home. They’d be able to get hold of me and sell me something. Anything. Because I was desperate. Uh…not. Delete, delete, delete. And I completely love that there isn’t a link to “unsubscribe,” like I actually subscribed to something in the first place, allowing them to send inane emails. I don’t want a free laptop, a Gucci purse, fake Rolex, or any of that Adobe software that is discounted 75% with a poem thrown in for good measure. Huh?

    And I definitely, absolutely am not interested in “Extra Size your man unit with Extra Size Plus.” Man Unit? Uh…No. Do people actually answer those emails? They can’t. Really? If you’ve actually gotten something worthwhile from one of those stoopid emails, I’d love to hear about it. Well, not if it’s about the man unit.

    Speaking of subscribing. Don’t tell me I’m the only one on this earth who has clicked on a link to see what is “free” and then before you blink, you’re getting items in the mail that you are automatically billed for. And it’s a recurring bill. A big one. Hoodia? Did I order that? “Ma’am, it was in the small print. And I actually lost 10 pounds on Hoodia. It is pretty expensive to grow,” the phone person confided.

    Whatever. Just don’t ever answer your phone when the area code is 866. Ever.

    Or open the grant writing disk that comes in the mail.

    Or the foreign language instruction cd.

    Coffee beans from Florida (huh?)

    Secret shoppers offers.

    Travel club teasers.

    Graduate degrees.

    Affiliate this, affiliate that.

    Employment typing at home.

    And no, I don’t want a free Kaboom thingy to scrub my toilet with unless you’re going to send someone to scrub it for me as well, thankyouverymuch.

    OR, an exclusive membership to a secret, ancient organization of people who have been wildly successful and are eye-poppingly wealthy. Totally creepy. Didn’t they make a movie about this starring Tom Hanks? Jeez.

    I was able to break most of the connections I had with all of the crazies who seem to be Pod people from the planet Twylo people like you or myself, and who were stuck with a name to contact. They’re just trying to make us all want to reach through our monitors and rip their eyeballs out of their sockets Earn Money From Home.

    Although most of the emailing nightmare was months ago, a new wave has come, and I think it’s because instead of just deleting the emails, I’ve been clicking the unsubscribe link. So call me Pollyanna for truly believing that since they legally have to post that link, I should be able to click it to be removed from their list. Excuse the hell outta me.

    BBC News

    Whatever. So I’m gullible.

    And since everyone now knows this, if you’re going to send me spam, could you just spell correctly, please? Would that be too much to ask? And use English at least semi-properly.

    Or teach the bots how to spell since the mud suckers haven’t a clue. Shit. They must have skipped Kindergarten. And I thought there was No Child Left Behind.

    p.s. Don’t ever believe anyone on the phone who says they will build you a web site with guaranteed traffic to a site like Amazon or E-Bay.  A “website” that is something I now know enough to put together myself.  A website that will somehow make you money.  In your sleep.

    It was an expensive lesson.

    Yes, my mother did teach me not to talk to strangers.

    And yes, I do know about that statistic on suckers.

     

  • The Sunshine Vacation Chronicles

    I have been knighted, or princessed, or smacked upside the head with yet another honor. Phil at Thought Sparks, the extraordinary guy who helped save me from ripping out my eyeballs when I switched over to my own domain, has dubbed me “Inspirational,” and that is a very cool honor. It means that Phil is willing to weed through my writer’s moods, confusing musings, and contradictory thought trajectories enough to find glimmers of purpose. It’s kind of like a roller coaster ride from one post to the next, dipping and spinning. Then rolling along smoothly until a sudden drop you didn’t anticipate sends your stomach up into your throat. Like Phil said, Inspirational. Woot! Thanks, Phil. And thanks to Christy at Writer’s Reviews whose ingenuity gave birth to a variety of positive recognitions for those in Bloggsville. I will dub those I believe are inspirational, but plan to do so over a period of time as I get back into the saddle again after being on vacation. I’m evidence that one can actually not blog for more than five days…

    And to celebrate my new accolade, I will launch into the first of “The Sunshine Vacation Chronicles.” Actually, they began last night in the wee hours, as I needed to flush my attitude a bit. And having dragged my rear end out of bed somewhere around 10am today to the scent of something….ahhh….smelling not quite right, and the steady roar of the exhaust fan over our stove, I am quite rested, and ready to roll — although I’m glad I missed breakfast. The MoH saved the evidence. Sunday Toast

    Now, this is the part where you may want to take a seat in the back row and catch some zzz’s. You know. Like when you’re forced to watch a slide show of someone else’s vacation shots? Like that. Kay? For those of you inclined to stay, gird your loins and prepare for a glimpse of the more easily overlooked, but very best gems on our way to Tahoe.

    High Points on the Trip Up.

    We didn’t hit the road until 1:30. On a Friday. If that doesn’t sound the alarm, then you might as well give up, lay down and close your eyes. So Cal. Mid Day. The last week of July. Friday. So we’ll donate our brains to science, okay? Because no one in his or her right mind would actually PLAN to do this. But we’re the adventuresome sort. Right. So HP #1 is having ridiculously optimistic attitudes.

    Downright giddy, actually.

    We covered 70 miles before we had to stop on the parking lot that was supposed to be the I-15 North. We’d been driving 1 hour and 7 minutes. I could probably tell you how many gallons of gas we’d burned, the average speed, and miles per gallon our car was getting, but I’ll spare you. Yes, the MoH knows all of this and will report immediately upon request. You don’t even have to insert a quarter. Font of Information Oh. I forgot. The temperature was also being tracked: it was hovering at about 100 degrees. Swell, huh? Well, my ankles and wrists did, loving excessive heat the way they do. So HP #2 is managing to get out of San Diego county before parking on the freeway in scorching afternoon heat. This traffic jam was sponsored by a minivan that didn’t quite stop when the fast lane traffic must have, so veered off the road and flipped a few hundred times. There were no ambulances, so there must have been a flock of angels hovering in the vicinity. It caused just enough commotion to stop both sides of the freeway with rubberneckers gawking at the wreckage. Eyes not on road + heavy traffic = crash.

    HP #3 is creatively busying ourselves with mindless activity and pithy games to keep from paying attention to the less than interesting, scrub-covered landscape that stretches to the horizon. We keep track of license plates. I know. It’s so ’50’s, but it passes the time. Kind of like when I was a kid on road trips, my brother, sister, and I would whack each other when we saw one of those pseudo wood paneled station cars and scream, “BEAVER CAR.” Uh, no, I don’t know why they were called that particular term. Then my dad would launch a low flying whack to the side of one of our heads in retaliation. We’d resort to stealth pinching or poking from that point on until my sister whined about it and we’d get whacked again. A father’s arm reaches pretty far in a VW Beetle. Far. If you try to escape the whack, you bonk your head into the side window, then you get whacked for moving away from the oncoming whack. I guess that means we were double whacked. This is true and today, I think it’s called child abuse. So the MoH, the RT and I count license plates. We aren’t quite June and Ward, but we garnered 20 of the 50 states with Massachusetts being the one from farthest away. Poor saps. They won’t even find Dorothy or Toto in this place.

    Old 395 I also take note of strange things like small fenced areas in the middle of nowhere with nothing different inside the fence than what can be seen outside the fence. Areas with hand-painted signs that say, “Stop the FTAA dot org.” Hmmm… What could have been inside that crude fence at one time? And whose land was it? Only cars speeding anxiously toward the next passing lane and a series of enormous power lines were visible for miles. Whose attention could the organizers be wanting here? And why? I had to wonder about this for seven whole days until Google put me out of my misery. But I would have forgotten about it if I hadn’t seen it on the other side of the road on the way back, or been enthralled with our mindless activity. Of course, now I have to wonder about those folks and their campaign.
    HP #4 was seeing all those solar collectors out in the high desert while we were racing up and over the ribbon-like road and thinking that someone had a freaking clue. According to Wikipedia,

    Boron [near Four Corners] is also the home of the worlds largest solar power production facility. Florida Power and Light operates five thermal trough technology Solar Electric Generating Stations (SEGS) plants. These units generate enough electricity to provide the electrical needs of 30,000 to 40,000 homes without the use of fossil fuels.

    Four Corners Collectors There must have been a million of them shining in the searing heat and sending power back to a sort of conversion station at Four Corners (which had the most unbelievably long traffic light and endless number of semis mixed with racing cars waiting to pass through.) Sorry. I missed the photo of the Ferrari. But seeing the collectors just stirs up my attitude about why, why, why there can’t be more. About why it’s so difficult to push those who keep steering us toward the use of non-renewable energy. Four Corners Traffic

    Oh, how foolish of me. It’s money — just not ours. Their Money

    Well, it was ours, and now it’s theirs. Funny how that works, don’t you think?
    HP #5 was staying overnight at Mammoth. We juiced up at Starbucks in Bishop (no, there wasn’t a mom & pop coffee place open…) at about 9PM in the still sweltering heat before ending our day at a condo kindly offered by an acquaintance at the last minute. So no motels in lonely places for us. It made for a restful night, and a seriously cool trip up Mammoth Mountain on the gondolas the next day to gawk at the view and gasp in the thin air. Literally breathtaking up there on that humongous chunk of volcanic rock more than 11,ooo feet in the air.

    Mammoth Mountain

    HP #6 was thanking our lucky stars that my car managed the dirt road to Bodie, CA, a bonafide ghost town left over from the gold rush. What a stark, but beautiful place. I’m still wondering why that particular area was where Bodie decided to dig for gold at an altitude of 8400 ft., with daytime temperatures peaking in the 80’s and plummeting into the 30’s even at this time of the year. Desolate. A bit creepy even with visitors walking among the decaying buildings on a sunny day. I suppose I should read the guide we bought, huh? I was too busy taking photos.

    Bodie Ghost Town

    HP #7 is that we actually made it to Lake Tahoe without a map. This was by design since it was one very long road all the way there. How hard could that be? A total of five turns were made. The bummer is that maps often can explain strange things you see on the side of the road. Like odd black rocks that rise up from the earth and gather into a formidable ridge that just ends after reaching a height of hundreds of feet. What the hell were those things, and how old were they? If it was an ancient lava flow, where the hell was the volcano? I somewhat recognized the basalt structure thanks to that geology professor at SDSU, I think. Maybe. And that very odd looking red hill jutting from the earth. Was that a fissure, or something. What was the redness about? Iron? Simply stimulating, don’t you think? Rocks completely fascinate me. Of course, so does Google, because thanks to this intelligent source, I now “get it.” Simply spectacular. Truly. You can tell I’m a nerd, right?

    HP #8 is that my VBF was already at the rental in Tahoe when we arrived at 5PM and was getting chicken and sausage kabobs ready for the grill. The wine was cold, and a hammock was waiting between two pines just behind the house.  And in less than another day, my VGF was due to arrive.

    Gentle folk….start your engines…Hammock upon Arrival

  • And another one leaves Paradise.

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

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

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

    Younger Mom Quite a milestone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I shall be telling this with a sigh

    Somewhere ages and ages hence:

    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —

    I took the one less traveled by,

    And that has made all the difference.

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

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

    No mooning, though. Kay?

    Mom

  • 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

  • Summer Trough in Paradise

    There’s a significance about this summer: it’s the first one in about 10 years that the RT hasn’t had to attend a camp. Hasn’t “had” to. “Had.” He has attended camp because like many others, we worked, and he would have been alone at home for a good portion of the day if we hadn’t found something for him to do. No siblings his age to stay home with like we were able to when I was growing up. No endless days of doing absolutely nothing — although I do remember being completely entertained. Hours of black and white television reruns. Dressing up in my mom’s clothes. Mixing every ingredient in the spice cupboard and daring each other to taste it. Watching my brother take the dare. Tying my sister up and chaining her to the street sign in front of our house. Like I said — fun.

    So the RT’s been packed off to a variety of YMCA camps to endure popsicle stick craft projects, “special” weekly outings, and a tough kid or two who have tried to poke him in the nose. He’s been to camps that focused on mask making and rocketry. San Diego Zoo camp, and Sea World camp. He’s had plenty of time at Camp Gramma as well, to fill in the spots between the other camps. The last two years, he’s been dropped off at UCSD, a host site for iD Tech Camps. It’s a bit pricey, but he has shown some interest in various aspects of computer technology like every other boy his age — read video games — so this was an opportunity to provide some depth learning in a couple of areas. He seemed to enjoy it, but all in all, it was still camp. No buddies to hang with. No war mongering soul mates to hunker down with and talk shop. Just camp.

    This year? I guess it’s all about me. Call it Camp Mom. Apple pie, baked bread…well, not exactly. More like frozen microwavable burritos and and an IV with Black Cherry Vanilla Coke flowing from its bag. Endless trips up and down the stairs from the computer in his room, to the TV, to the PS2, to his models. Oh, and there is the daily chore of walking the dog I neglected to mention. Some movement will be involved.

    What’s my role then? Balancing the inertia I’ve described above with semi-constructive “other things to do that involve learning and moving your body.”  Unfortunately, I’m not very good at this but I have been thinking about it for a couple of months now.

    The first things that come to mind are museums. You know — special exhibits. Things we could talk about. I picture the RT sort of slogging after his mom through these places, wishing he was in front of his computer, or tinkering with one of his tanks. That image doesn’t particularly sit well with me. Or art galleries. Take our sketch pads, do our own renditions of what we’re looking at. That could be interesting. Abstract nudes? He’d shoot those flat eyebrow darts at me for that.

    And the beach is five minutes away. We could rent bikes  because we don’t own them. And when the RT did own a bike, he chose not to ride it. Ever. It ended up in a parent raffle at my old elementary school, scoring me many bonus points. We could ride on the boardwalk or around the bay. I think he’d like that. We could see how many rollerbladers we could crash into, or tourists we could knock down because it’s been a while since I’ve been on a bike as well.

    Or we could rent kayaks. He enjoyed it when we went to Cape Cod a couple of summers ago. Besides, Mission Bay doesn’t have the currents that Nantucket Sound does, so he wouldn’t have to worry about exerting himself, or spraining his mouse finger. Just kidding. And what about one of those boards you run, jump on, and skim across the water with before falling on your posterior? Yes, I can see myself doing that, all right. It does look fun, though. I’m thinking he’d most likely not be interested in being close enough on the beach to me that people would connect the two of us as belonging together. So maybe the better purchase is a board for him, and an umbrella for me. An umbrella, beverage, and a really juicy beach read. Except there isn’t one in that stack of books I’m wallowing through. On second thought, I do have The Bride Stripped Bare somewhere just waiting to be read…

    The library is definitely in order. Once a week should do it. Yes, he always gets to choose his books. What do you think I am? I’m only a wannabe control freak. He’s always enjoyed his books, and although I’m sure he’d like to purchase them so he can savor them over and over again, we’re on a semi “what can we save if we don’t really need to spent it” kind of quest here.

    I’ve heard our local branch has quite the collection and some great events scheduled, so I’ve wanted to investigate. Has he? He’s 14. He’d most likely rather rent time at Office Games over at the mall while I shop. Or hang out with the seals at Casa Beach.

    I’d like to nudge him to set up his own website. He is a walking storehouse of knowledge about WWII, tanks, military vehicles, aircraft in particular, weapons, and history in general. It’s truly incredible. So in an attempt to get him to consider bringing together his knowledge, tech interests, and to sneak in some much needed writing practice–along with some graphics for good measure–I think he’d enjoy that. However, I’m only the camp director. Time will tell whether my influence leads to success.

    There’s always photography and Photoshop–something he learned to use this past year at school. He can show me how to use it so I won’t have to learn. Trick. But he does click those buttons faster than I seem to be able to.

    We’ll see how that goes. Camp Mom. I’m not great at it, but I’m willing to try.
    You can lead a horse to water, but… if you have to, you can push its nose in the trough.

    Troughs are not quite the same as hoops. It’s easier because all you have to do is fall in — or be pushed. And if it’s big enough, you can either sink or swim.

    Or get a floatie and then splash water at the person who pushed you in.

  • Just Words

    Learning By Heart Words can bring me to a screeching halt. Yes, of course, spoken words — especially when I’m not expecting them, take issue with their purpose, or with the person who delivers them. But that isn’t what I’m talking about. At least not today.

    When I’m reading, a phrase molded in just the right way, or a thought expressed at a particular point in the text begs to be captured and saved for another time — to be marked, or jotted down and saved much like a penny found on a sidewalk. Found coins add up over time.

    My frame of mind guides me to these bits of someone else’s thinking — bits buried in much larger and sometimes very forgettable text. The weightiness of the words and their message, not quite in focus, sit on the edges of my life, pushing at me to notice them and to think about what is important. Or better yet, force me to wonder why I haven’t committed myself to pin point their significance. It’s odd to think that words written hastily on a two-inch square note can hover in and around an office, and then a house without becoming lost. Car keys are misplaced, sunglasses left behind, and important papers tossed carelessly aside — but a red sticky note manages to appear here and there over the course of a couple of years, moving from desk, to organizer, to counter and patiently waiting for interpretation, and application

    Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. This is the interrelated structure of reality.

    I don’t remember where I found the words, or what text they were buried in, or who made reference to them. I read so many different eye-crossing publications then:

    Leading in a Culture of Change by Michael Fullan;

    The Magic of Dialogue: Transforming Conflict into Cooperation by Daniel Yankelovich;

    Leadership Without Easy Answers by Ronald A. Heifetz;

    Big Brother and the National Reading Curriculum: How Ideology Trumped Evidence by Richard Allington;

    Paradoxes of Group Life: Understanding Conflict, Paralysis, and Movement in Group Dynamics by K. Smith & D. Berg;

    Execution: The Discipline of Getting Things Done by L. Bossidy & R Charan; and

    Learning by Heart by Roland Barth.

    Only a fraction of the list. I won’t bore you with the countless publications read on methodology, content, and practice that also filled my brain. But you do have an idea, about why I may not exactly remember where I first saw the words, right? And why I choose not to read such meaty books right now? I’ll understand if you suggest my head is buried in the sand.

    What does matter — or at least it used to — is what was happening at the time that I found the words.

    I was serving in my first assignment as an administrator at a large elementary school located in an impoverished area just south of our city center. The school was nearly a hundred years old, surviving rebuilding, renaming, and a shift from its original population of immigrant students from Eastern Europe, to that of African American, and then in the past decade, to immigrants from Mexico. The poverty rate was 99%. Over 95% of the children spoke English as a second language. The literacy rate was dismal in both Spanish and English for a majority of them. A unique aspect of the school was that a good portion of the staff had worked there for a long time — many for ten, even more than 20 years. Unusual for an inner-city school. Approximately one-third of the staff was male — also unusual for an elementary school, many of which are completely staffed by females.

    For more years than I know, the school had been struggling academically, regardless of its population. At one point, it was designated as one of a group of schools court-mandated by the state to improve and monitor student reading, language, and mathematics progress. For twenty years this went on until it was decided that the initiative largely failed. Nothing had really changed — except the shift of ethnicity of the students.

    The school is closed now, but before that happened, emotions amongst staff and local community members ran high. People were angry. Teachers were tired of the expectations thrust upon them with regard to improving their practice. Staff was split between: 1) those who felt they couldn’t possibly work harder than they already were for little or no “measurable” gain in student learning; and 2) those who were viewed as dead weight, and professed to care about the students, but never quite walked the talk. Teachers vacillated between being angry with parents for not providing for their children, and contributing what they could to support family members who often had not been in school themselves.

    Fuzzy Martin Luther King Jr.’s words — found and written on that small piece of paper — were apropos, but never quite tacked to the bulletin board over my desk. Instead, they began their drift in and out of presence, catching my eye on just the right day, conjuring a flare of vindication when I most needed it. But upon hesitation, they forced me to think about my role in the tension the school was wrapped in. When you’re the leader, everything is your responsibility, regardless of when you arrived. Regardless of what you know. Regardless of what you believe everyone can join together in doing for the school.

    I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be…

    I couldn’t say the words aloud. If I said them in reference to the seething undercurrent that was our “professional” community, then I believed I would appear to be casting blame. I would be perceived as pointing my finger at the naysayers, exhibiting weakness, behaving as one of our very young students upset to be accused of something he or she didn’t do. I kept the words to myself.

    I don’t know that I believe the words at this point, five years later. They suggest that I’m incapacitated unless others pull themselves together. Is that always true?

    Isn’t it more true that with each example we set, another follows? Isn’t the effort I make to live my life in the best way I know, something others may emulate?

    Am I incapable of being the best that I know how to be if I point fingers at those who I deem as obstacles to my success?

    The red square of paper will continue to hover in and around my life prodding me to occasionally wonder about the decisions that could have been made with my staff at the elementary school, but the context is so different now.

    Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly…

    My small experience seems so inconsequential considering King’s intent, rallying individuals to consider their involvement, or lack thereof, in making a difference, in speaking out and doing something — anything — about what is not just.

  • Looking for Light in All the Wrong Places

    WQED: Pittsburg Magazine  A round of applause for at least getting closer to the raging All Warholled Up me in the header, please?

    Yes, I know you all still have a strange box at the top (even though it doesn’t show on my computer screen).  It’s for advertising.  That’s my next quest.  To rid my blog of the space.   For you.  All for you.

    But you should be able to read the font better now, right?  Except for those of you who really need to put on your glasses, realizing that that’s what glasses are for.  I suck it up and wear mine.  All twenty dollars of them.  So if you’re not wearing your glasses, don’t complain about not being able to read the screen.  But you do know how to magnify your screen, right?  Well, figure it out, already, or get a cork.

    And for those of you who say the middle section isn’t loading right away, I think that’s fixed, too, right?  Or are you just tolerating it?  Is it your crappy Internet connection, your PC (you shouldagotaMac) iMac  or my stoopid Blob?  Come on.  Fess up.  How the hell can I cater to your every freaking need if you only whine and complain in the dark?  Step up to the plate for godssakes.  Sheesh.  Next?

    I don’t especially want you thinking I have my head where the sun doesn’t shine, even though much of the time, my snail’s pace of digging through the code of my site, and the codex at WordPress leaves me somewhat pale, and in need of some color.  And needing a shower.  Recycled Self

    Today, the RT saw me come from my room after changing from my pjs and asked,”Are you going somewhere, Mom?” because it was only 11am, and on many days, real clothes just aren’t something I get around to.  Bear in mind that I have on a tee shirt and a pair of yoga pants.

    Not exactly going out clothes…

  • That Simple Green Scent

    Okay, so I know this is ugly right now.  But at least notice the effects I learned how to create with Photoshop on the palm tree up there. Yes, I also know there are two boxes above that are supposed to be for ads.  I’m not game on the ads above my header, so I have to figure out how to get them off.  The serious bummer is that I spent a lot of time working on the “kellementology” piece and it doesn’t show up on this stoopid laptop.  I know.  I’m not supposed to have fun with the fonts, but jeez.  I get tired of the boring verdana, helvitica crap.  Life’s seriously more interesting with swirls. 

    I know this (blob transition) is wearing me out (yah, right) because I actually cleaned my house today instead of writing first thing like I always do.  Trying to write when my blog is a mess is like trying to relax when the house is a mess.  Wait.  Blogging usually is relaxing, which is why my house stays messy.

    Does it count as being messy when I have to use Simple Green straight up to get the catfood off the laundry room floor?  Or the catfood out of the laundry sink that has stuck to the sides after I’ve rinsed out the can in the morning?  Messy vs. dirty?  Hmmm…I know.  Gross.  But it’s clean now.  And laundry is swirling around in the dryer, the fresh scent of the RT’s whites wafting up the stairs near the garage — a marked improvement from the odor that was emanating from his bedroom yesterday morning.

    And I’m noticing our motley crew of pets is very content because they got their first dose of warm weather “flea medicine.”  No more Presh-Ass Yack Star Flea in-cu-bus lounging over the cable box and creating more tiny flea eggs than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime of owning cats.  Totally gross.  Biggity, our dog, is snoozing in the family room on the clean couch.  The one that the MoH stripped of its cover last weekend because it was sour smelling and covered with lick stains — a by product of the Big’s obsessive compulsivness.  We haven’t caught her licking it again — yet — but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.  It’s a drag sitting on the wet spot…

    And I could bore you even more than I already have to explain the condition of our carpet, beyond cleaning or repair because of the animals.  Yes.  The animals.  I don’t know what’s worse — the stains from the nocturnal hairball launchings, or the cleaning that happens afterwards.  Either way, I’m sick of the whole mess.  I know you’re sick of me ranting about it, but you have no idea how hard I’ve worked to avoid writing about the record size of some of the hairballs I’ve seen lately.  Guiness should have been contacted.  Somehow, taking a picture of a hairball seems a tad bit whacked.  Don’t you think?  Think about the poor RT. 

    “What does your mother do for a living? 

    “Takes pictures of cat hairballs to post them on her blog.”

    Uhhh…nope.  You’ll just have to wonder.  Or not. 

     I’m more convinced than ever that, even though I couldn’t live without them at times, that I have been thinking about how it might be “without them.”  The deal with kids is that they grow up.  Whatever “messes” they make sort of follow in line with their developmental progress.  But even if they’re completely slovenly as my gorgeous and loving sons have been, they grow up, go to college and/or gain relationships with others, and move out of your house.  The animals, the darlins — they stay.  And our house has definitely accomodated our animals.  Cat litter tracked up the stairs, dog “gifts” left on the patio, and rinsed down the drain outside.  Jeez.  It’s more work sometimes than I remember taking care of my two older boys who are only 17 months apart.  Way more work.

    Wait.  I am remembering that ugly sculptured and multi-colored brown carpeting we had when the boys were very little.  It was a complete disguise for myriad raisins, flattened beyond all recognition, and requiring scissors to be removed from their attachment.  Okay.  And I also remember the oatmeal I had to chip off the high chair and the wall next to the high chair.  Oh.  And those cookies — the biscuits that babies eat when they’re teething and disolve (the cookies, not the baby) into a disgusting mess on their cherubic faces.  Well, not so cherubic once it dried.

     But you know?  Blathering about our lovelies has really allowed me to avoid looking at the condition of my newest “pet” that seems to take up as much time as the other darlings I’ve had in my life.  So there you go.  It’s all good.  Except for the carpet.

    So I’ve wasted a perfectly good 20 minutes or so saying absolutely nothing.  Yes, my Warholled self will return as soon as I freaking figure out how the H-E-L-L  to modify it, save it, and paste it in the header.  Well, I can’t paste anything with this skin, so whatever.  Just hold your shorts.  I’ll get there. 

    Thanks for your patience while I’m learning about how to adjust fonts styles, colors, and sizes as well.  Like how all that work I did that looks gorgeous on my Mac looks like crap or non-existent on the MoH’s laptop which is what I’m using right now.  How stoopid is that?  Sheesh.  Thanks again to Thought Sparks who always keeps an eye on what’s up and offers assistant.  Very.  Nice.  Person.

    Okay.  Enough boredom.  Off to the store for coq au vin ingredients.  Yum.  Crusty bread.  Salad.  Wine… No party.  Just us.  I love good food.  So a great meal tonight AND tomorrow night will just allow me to avoid the blob for a bit longer.  Right?

    Toots.