kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Life

  • Summertime Plate-twirling and Writing

    My weekend started yesterday. We went to the county fair. So what, you say? Well, I haven’t been in probably ten years. Think about it: Universal Studios last weekend; the county fair this weekend. All that food, and all those people. Yet I survived both experiences—in tact and smiling. I actually had fun. Go figure. It had to be the food. I should have paid more attention to the whale on the side of the building, letting me know that I’d be as big as he, once the day was over.

    I am not one to endure crowds. It’s strange when you consider that’s exactly what I did for a living for many, many years. Maybe it’s because I have finally calmed down. I’m alone much of the time, get to choose when I’m around people, and so don’t mind an occasional crush now and then. I guess that being around nearly 1,000 people daily meant that on weekends and vacations, being part of a herd of humans wasn’t something that sounded like fun. So I’m cured. Voila. I am going to have to stop eating the food that accompanies these excursions, however. Have you ever had a deep fried Twinkie? No, neither have I, but the my husband tried one. I only eyed it, sitting in all its greasy splendor while I savored my chocolate-vanilla soft serve cone. Of course, that was only a while after I helped demolish the pile of fresh fried potato chips and onion rings smothered with bacon-cheddar sauce and jalapenos. And that green-chilie burger. With mustard.

    I can’t tell you the last time I saw pigs race for Oreo cookies, or souped up beach cars speed over a small dirt course in an arena. Or monster trucks. Well, I haven’t seen any of that before, now that I think of it. But it was fun. It was also fun watching people whirl and twirl on the rides, wondering whether they’d had food before their ride, and whether they had an inclination to hurl in the course of all that spinning. No, no whirling for me. The ferris wheel was more in order for the beautiful day, and the scene spread out below full of raucous color and brilliant motion on one side, the vast Pacific and cloud speckled sky on the other. Warm breezes. Beauty.

    The rest of the weekend? The Resident Teen’s 15th birthday has finally arrived. Family is coming over to eat. What else? I like to cook, remember? Plus my mother is getting ready to head for VA, so we’re sort of combining the birthday with a launching. We’re going to launch her into her new life. It’s a story that has hovered near saga length that I’ve avoided writing about at this point. I’ll get around to it later, because there’s much to ponder on with respect to the whole process of her thinking about, wanting to, threatening not to, and deciding to go. To leave Paradise where she’s lived since 1968. To leave for good. I’ll get back to you on that one.

    And then my husband is taking some time off. A day here, and a day there. Just enough to break up my routine of sitting in front of the computer all day every day. Just enough to make me wonder where I’m going to find the time to write, and begin to feel a bit of anguish about not writing. But it’s definitely not his fault. He’s just one of those people who has a bit of “get up and go.” Or maybe wanderlust.

    How can I not write? I have to write. It’s a habit now. A great habit. One I’m quite fond of and would like to insist on time for. Don’t get me wrong, because my husband isn’t the type of person who would ever expect that I stop doing something I enjoy. Out of respect for one another, we never would do that. It’s more my problem to solve.

    Writing comes very easily to me. The way I write may not appeal to all, and the topics—if you can call them that—may not be something for everyone, but that isn’t the point. I usually know what I’m going to write well in advance of sitting here and getting it down. Once I sit down and begin, the rest flows. There is little time for organization or planning in a concrete fashion. That usually happens as I mull over the idea once I’ve thought about it the day before. I no longer write in a notebook like I used to. Instead I keep stickies. They’re everywhere. It’s a bit annoying, because I don’t often look at them. It seems that once I’ve committed an idea to a stickie, it stays in my memory until used. Unfortunately, the stickies stay on my desk and in other places in the house. It’s ridiculous.

    In other news, this blog is messed up again. Evidently, much of the difficulty lies for those of you who are still using Internet Explorer. Those who use Firefox have a better view. I know this for certain now, because I downloaded Firefox onto my husband’s computer. The old blog looks the way it’s supposed to. No fat, blob like font squeezed together in the center. No blank middle with the text 20 clicks down the page. Perfect. Thanks again to Phil at Thought Sparks who lends a hand when it’s most needed. He’s truly a kind soul.

    But I’ve been shopping for a new theme again, and it’s fairly tedious and time consuming. Taking care of the blog takes writing time away. I still have difficulty mediating that. I do enjoy the idea of planning what it all may eventually look like, and want to learn to do the designing myself. For those of you who know what this involves—don’t tell me. I usually get where I want to go in life by the seat of my stubbornly tenacious pants. I enjoy learning, but I am not always completely efficient in the process, so as long as you’re willing to stick by my side as I figure this all out, I’ll be pleased. Of course, you do know you’re welcome to complain that you’re sick of the changes, and to stop the audience abuse. There are other aspects of life far more painful.

    And then, there is my food blog,  Sass & Veracity. Although I have the cooking down most of the time, I’m still struggling with my writing voice there. I speak to a completely different kind of community, so that affects the way I write. I’m working on it, though. In fact, I have to complete a huge post today to conclude a food blog event I co-sponsored with a food blogger who’s got more experience than I do. It should be up on Sunday. Make sure you take a peek.

    When you wonder where I am and why things don’t happen daily here like they used to, it’s because I’m plate twirling. It’s free plate twirling, mind you.

    And I’m doing it gleefully, of course. It’s summertime.

    You should be plate twirling, too.

  • Makin’ Like a Tourismo in So Cal

    The weekend was lovely. Completely. Go figure. I don’t especially like driving — or riding in a car. LA Traffic I’d like that twitching nose thingy so I could just pop in and out of places. And it is summer, so the potential for a hot day anywhere in Southern California is quite high. But the wind was blowing, and we were up high on a ridge with a lovely view. Crowds? Oh my…we don’t mix. All those bodies, that mass of humanity. But it was fine. Miraculously fine. Really. Even though the parking lot attendant said they were expecting 25 thousand people Saturday. The MoH and I looked at each other. Was that a lot?

    IMG_2293 I know my mother was doubting my confirmation that all was well on my call home to her. She would have a hard time believing me because she completely knows that I usually don’t enjoy this sort of thing. For years, I’ve completely avoided it, or just gone along with it in the spirit of familial companionship. Or something like that. So now I’m wondering what was up? Perhaps again, I less than enjoyed anything that took time and energy because I needed to savor my down time — store up my energy — get ready for Monday. Can you imagine doing that for nearly 20 years? What a complete loser I’ve been. A lesson in moderation would have been nice along the way to learn a bit of tolerance.

    So off to Universal Studios we went a la family road trip style. Now, I did have something up my sleeve. The Hotel. I love nice hotels. Swanky lobbies, eight million percale count sheets, and lovely bathrooms. It’s a problem. I could totally be one of those traveling people who just stay in hotels. I’m thinking it’s the clean factor. There’s no clutter, the bed is made when you return from a difficult afternoon touristing, car parking is valet only, and they hand you an ice cold bottle of water as you head out for your day of adventure. And if you’re feeling special — room service. *sigh* Not on this trip, though. The Graciela Lounge But you do remember The Stagecoach Inn in Monterey, right? You decide.  The Graciela… The Graciela Coffee Bar Or the Stagecoach Inn?  Hot Towel?  I rest my case.

    What was nice about this trip was knowing that there was only so much we could do and see. There was no hurry to fit in a zillion things, no itinerary, no waking up to the blare of an alarm clock. And surprisingly, no serious traffic. What? And we drove through LA? Go figure. Okay, so the picture above is the only snag we hit and it was only a 15 minute one at that.

    High points? The back lot tour. Yes, I’ve been on it several times over the years, but this time was the longest and the most seen. Maybe we just had a tour guide who was into it, wannabe actor that he stated he was. I had to stop and wonder about what kind of life that would be. But he looked like he was enjoying himself talking to a tram full of blase tourists — most of whom probably do not know or care about all those old glorious black and white movies. All those gorgeous and perpetually glam shot ready stars like Hedy Lamarr, or Carole Lombard. And there’s no way they could possibly get a thrill looking at those old deco style dressing rooms of the stars and famous costume designers. Or knowing that those soundstages have housed a very unique brand of history. Somehow, Terminator 2 doesn’t cut the mustard as something to get nostalgic over. Astro Studs

    The brand spankin’ new Mummy roller coaster ride is way fun. You have to totally love a ride that whirls, spins, and shoots you through the darkness. Yes, I scream. A lot. Of course, I yell on the simulated Back to the Future ride also, and it’s more than 10 years old. Does anyone but me scream on a fake ride? I’m hopeless.

    A semi high/low point was the Jurassic Park ride. Yes, you get wet. I knew that. But the advertised “new and improved” was a bit too much improved. As the ride concluded, I wondered what the Japanese man sitting in the row in front of us was looking at, but I smiled at him none the less. After I asked the MoH whether my eyes were black or not, he said, “You’re going to have to go to the ladies room” quite graciously, and with not the slightest hint of controlled laughter. Not, what he could have said, like, “Oh My Gawd Your Eyes Are Completely Black and You Have Streaks of Mascara Running Everywhere!” No, he didn’t say that, kind man that he is. But he could have.

    I spent about 15 minutes in the bathroom trying to rub the black streaks of mascara from my cheeks and around my eyes. And no sunglasses to hide behind because they were in a locker. By the time I was done rubbing, I was left with some freaky black eye liner and no sun screen. So should I have thought about waterproof mascara when I was in the drug store purchasing my “Buy One–Get One Free” Maybelline that I haven’t worn for years? I wasn’t planning on crying, no weddings were booked, and most days, putting on mascara isn’t high on my list of priorities. So I got soaked. Completely drenched. It took my shirt several hours to completely dry. It was a blast.

    The nicest surprise was the original Bob’s Big Boy around the corner from the hotel. It was in the cutest little neighborhood called Toluca Lake, “Established 1923,” or that’s what all the signs said anyway. It was cool. And the whole area had remnants of that old LA look when things weren’t so slick and smoggy. When neighborhoods were quaint, and you could walk down the sidewalk to a store close by. It made me wonder for five seconds about living in LA. Well, maybe 10.

    IMG_2365  Where was I? Oh yes, breakfast. It was completely saturated with calories, but my goodness, was it delicious. I didn’t lick the plate, but I wanted to. Have you ever had deep fried French toast? With cinnamon? And syrup. And butter? Coffee refilled every time I got it doctored up just right. Hot coffee. Not warm you better be careful or our lawyers will sue your lawyers coffee. *sigh* I didn’t even need a crane to get off the vinyl bench. But I also haven’t eaten much the past two days. I just wanted to see if my arteries still worked to be safe.

    The “mall” next to the theme park is pretty interesting as well. Musicians, food, strange tee shirt shops and stores that sell chocolate covered Twinkies. Really. No, we didn’t buy one. Chocolate Covered Twinkies  But the RT and I are thinking we can come up with something better. Plus, we’re headed to the County Fair on Friday where I hear they have deep fried Twinkies. I couldn’t spoil my appetite, right? Ewww….How do you spell C-A-R-C-I-N-O-G-E-N-I-C, class?

    Completely low point? The theme park food. I can’t believe I got sucked into it. Again. They just have you by the short hairs so know they can charge a chunk of change for warm cardboard. IMG_2342  School cafeteria food is better. Real warm cardboard is better for that matter. Really. Put a little bernaise on it….The giant Corona helped wash it down, though. And the giant Heinekin the next day was even better.

    On that note, I’ve survived the assault on my taste buds and have been cooking. If you’re in the mood for a salad or hunk o’ beef (sorry to my vegetarian friends) then check it out. We’re giving our Barby the workout. I’m still not back to my usual blog self, however, and the MoH has more days off scheduled next week, so I’m going to have to figure out how to keep things running smoothly in Bloggsville. Stay up all night? Schedule particular days for visiting my favorite people? The word “schedule” makes me quake in my flops.

    Anyway, thanks for bearing with me while I figure it all out. And know, that when I’m not sitting here, you are sorely missed. *sniff*

  • Solstice Love in Paradise

    Solstice is Over

    We did not carry drums. Black cloaks may have been an excellent idea considering the damp, salty chill. And antlers may have been in order had we thought of the idea. There always seem to be those who are just more creative than we are. Regardless, we did take the time to pack a quick dinner, throw a few sand chairs in the trunk, grab sweatshirts, and roll down the hill to celebrate the Summer Solstice.

    A bonfire might have been nice, but there’s probably a rule about that. A maypole would have drawn too much attention from those whose view we could have blocked, solstice celebrators’ silhouettes frolicking back and forth as the ribbon wrapped its way around the pole. Besides, we’re mechanically disinclined. Waving bundled sheaths of grain did cross my mind, however. Of course, there’s always another time.

    We sat on the rocks, so did share a remote kinship with those who head to Stonehenge on this day each year. Does that make us pagans? Unlikely, considering that “hick,” or “rustic” may be a bit harsh as far as descriptors go.

    Is the experience spiritual? Being with those you most love often is, isn’t it? With a massive ocean stretched as far as you can see, and the anticipation of that amazing orb growing as it sinks slowly into its watery end for the night, what more could a person want?  Sandwiches, of course. Eating is always spiritual event for me.

    For some reason that I can’t exactly remember, we started taking the two older boys up to a hill near by to watch the sunset on the longest day of the year. It was free, and we did many free things in those days. But the real reason was just to introduce them to something that doesn’t take much effort, and allows you to pause to consider the passing of time and seasons. Whether we have much of a seasonal change here in Paradise or not is beside the point. They loved it.

    When the June gloom was so heavy that even in East County Paradise where we were living, no glimmer of golden orange light could be seen, we were always disappointed. The pleasant aspect of this disappointment, however, was that we were able to do the very same thing on the Autumnal Equinox. It is extremely rare for there to be cloud cover here at that time of the year, so we were able to promise them a make-up day not too far in the future. It is usually unbearably hot just about anywhere inland, and the build up of pollutants in the air thanks to Tijuana and Los Angeles guarantee that there will be a spectacular sunset. Unfortunately, by that date, school has begun again, and the day is a reminder that soon, darkness will come earlier and earlier — a poignant end to a carefree time of the year.

    Ahh…the ebb and flow of time and seasons.

    The rituals we hang on to for life and love.

    Solstice Sun

  • 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.

  • Hoop Jumping and Birch Swinging

    Hoop Jumping and Birch Swinging

     

    My head and heart are full.

    It isn’t that on most days they aren’t, but the sense of fullness is different today. The difference is the result of something I’ve grappled with for many years — a by product of raising my sons. The result of years of observation, interaction, angst, and tribulation coming to a conclusion milestone by sometimes painful milestone.

    My youngest finished his first year of high school today, and in a few weeks, will be 15. But he did not beat The Geometry Teacher. He received a “D” for his hoop-jumping efforts in her class. In this newly completed step toward the rest of his education, I’m left wondering so many things about what I have strongly held on to about learning and raising humans:

     Some humans are better at being trained to jump through hoops than others. In fact, some are so good at it—it’s the point of their existence. Their day revolves around how many hoops are lined up, how far apart they are, and whether each successive hoop is positioned higher than the last. Whether the person jumping next to them is quicker, or more graceful in their quest to finish first. It isn’t about what is at the end of the hoops they crave. It’s the hoops.

    Some humans are more easily missed than others. Or skipped over—like one skips a step when jogging up a flight of stairs to get to the next floor more quickly. Their non-hoop jumping idiosyncrasies are not easily understood by others, and often difficult to tolerate. They are more than capable of jumping through the hoops than many others. Many. But they don’t seem interested. What they see in the world and think about from one day to the next is difficult to know. They are quiet about much that matters, and talk about things that don’t. Hoops are not one of the things they think or talk about.

    They even bruise differently than most. They haven’t figured out how caught up in the hoop game most people are. So when a zealot moves a hoop at the last minute to trick them, it takes them a while to start the game again. They are only just beginning to understand, or,  if they do understand, have a tendency to forget that there are people on this earth who live to have power any way they can get it. It’s probably another reason that hoops don’t interest them. It’s all so petty.

    I am not a mother of hoop jumpers. And I am routinely reminded of this fact.

    I have diligently tried to raise my offspring to understand the construct of the world. But they are very content to think about, getting around to, considering, being involved, possibly participating, in life’s basic rules of engagement at their own pace. They construct their own hoops. Unfortunately, when you’re their mother, the hoops resemble hurdles. Large ones.

    It’s not supposed to matter to me that so-and-so’s daughter is in “advanced this” or AP that. Or that this person’s son was recommended for such and such. That this acquaintance has a daughter that crosses all her T’s and dots all her I’s all the time. Sometimes those same people don’t understand how hard it is has been to let my children be who they are instead of what I want them to be. What I believe they can become. It’s not supposed to matter. But it does. It always has.

    I’ve tried many years to act like not having a hoop circus at home doesn’t matter. I believe strongly that many have been duped about the educational system so many of us willingly send our children to each year. “All children can learn,” is what that system blithely professes. We have so willingly trusted that it will meet their every need beyond what we have worked to meet ourselves at home. But not every child fits into that system. It’s not supposed to matter. But it does. It always has.

    I cringe every time I realize that my nobly held philosophy could be a sham by wanting more for my boys than they seem to want for themselves. I argue with myself that I don’t really want them to care. I swear I’m not interested in wanting them to want what society expects them to want. The way society expects it. The way the system acts like it’s structured to prepare them for.

    How sad to have to admit that I want for my sons something I say I don’t believe in. I would never tell them because I have acted like a hoop jumper most of my life. And they probably figured that out a very long time ago.

    One could do worse than be a mother of non-hoop jumpers. Perhaps my boys were born knowing that life is a birch and that their job on this earth is to teach me so that I will know, too.

  • Mint Juleps end the BBQ Saga in Paradise

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

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

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

    “Me and a guy at the store.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • BBQs & Choosing Happiness at The Home Depot

    Virgo I forgot to look at my horoscope yesterday morning, and therein lies the rub.

    You see, I never have been very good at running errands. I’m especially poor at it now that I rarely have to leave the house if I choose not to. The whole idea of putting on make-up, shading in my sad excuse for eyebrows, and tying back my unruly hair just to take care of the odds and ends of our life is tiresome. All that starting and stopping — getting in and out of cars. So gauche. So we tolerate things that don’t quite work, or need adjustments, or go without something that needs replacing. Shabby chic?

    I spent years semi-silently grousing about not being able to take care of such things because I was teaching and couldn’t call for appointments, let alone actually go to an appointment. If I could only find the time…It seemed that everyone else in the world had closed up shop before I could get there. Poor, sad creature. Mistreated and maligned soul.

    I shouldn’t be complaining because my exercise in futility yesterday couldn’t have been for a greater cause. Last Sunday, the MoH and I went on a BBQ finding expedition. Our beast has seen better days, and although still functional, it’s only a matter of time that the cooked-on grease holding it all together finally gives way and it collapses right in the middle of a swanky get together with just a few of our very dearest friends. Okay, well it sounds good, right? The swanky part. Not the crashing thing.

    We looked at BBQs with stainless steel exteriors, ceramic grates, steel grates, drawers, and cabinets. We looked at rotisseries, burners, split lids, and sliding propane holders. Did we purchase one? No. Because we don’t have a truck. So I called a few days later to graciously inquire as to whether there is a cost associated with putting a BBQ together. I imagined that I might tackle it, but my dremel would most likely not get the job done. And the image of a crazed woman, hair on ends, a hammer and wrench clutched in a vise-like grip, and crouched in a corner of the garage waiting like a fiend for the MoH to arrive home did cross my mind. No, I would not be putting the BBQ together, so purchasing the big box wasn’t going to happen. Besides, I could also picture the big box falling out of the trunk of my car while driving up the hill, rolling backward for some distance, and picking up speed until it crashed into the brand-spanking new Mercedes CL550 coupe following me up the hill. Oops.

    Perhaps I could have the BBQ delivered? “Can’t you borrow a friend’s truck?” the man on the phone from customer service inquired. I wondered whether his ingenuity had allowed this question to come forth, or if he’s coached to ask this of customers. I quickly searched my mental Rolodex of friends, woefully knowing before I became too engrossed in the task that we knew of only one person who owned an SUV. No one who owned a truck. Well, my brother owns a truck, but he’s an hour away, and all that hullabaloo just to get a BBQ to our house?

    So I doctored up my face, made sure my arm pits were smelling fresh, and just for good measure, spritzed on one of at least ten flavors of body sprays I’ve collected from the RT’s gift giving, before backing out of the garage smelling like a cross between a cucumber and a melon. You know. Fresh. Salad-like? Ready to take on the day. The sunroof was open, and the new CD I burned yesterday was playing on the Bose. Good attitude, right? Making the best of a situation I don’t prefer. Going to buy my sweetie a BBQ for Father’s Day. He’s worth it — fab Dad that he is.

    Do I have to tell you that they didn’t have any of the BBQs we picked out Sunday?

    • There was no one to answer questions once I arrived. Even after I stood near the BBQs, waiting, patiently.

    • No one came after I asked the customer service lady about getting assistance. Nicely.

    • The second time I went to customer service, the young man followed me to the BBQs but couldn’t answer my questions, so had to call someone else for help. I looked at the new Weber’s grilling recipe book. Patiently.

    • The next guy confirmed they had 5 of the model we liked in stock, but couldn’t find one anywhere — in or out of a box. I followed him on an in-store field trip looking for BBQs. But would I like him to call another store?

    • Yes, he called another store, who said they also had 5, already put together, and would I like one reserved, and 25 bucks off for my trouble? An officer and a gentleman, that guy. Things were certainly looking up!

    • I couldn’t find the other store — 20 minutes away. Even after driving down the rather lengthy road. It wasn’t where I thought it was. There was not a single gigantic orange Home Depot sign in sight.

    • I wondered what my horoscope had been for the day.

    • 411 knew of no Home Depot on that street.

    • I called 411 for the first store to confirm that there IS a Home Depot on that street. They insisted it was.

    • I pulled into the Bank of American ATM to get cash because I never have money in my wallet.

    • I then pulled into the Mc Donald’s to order a Big Mac meal (non-super sized, thank you — at least I hadn’t completely gone berserk) and stuffed my face while driving back down the very lengthy road, getting secret sauce on my face all the while, and guzzled diet Coke which I really don’t like.

    After finding The Home Depot, which actually did have a sign, around the corner on the other street, my stomach quite full considering I haven’t slummed at Mickey D’s for months and months, my guilt about eating Muck Phood just beginning to bloom, the 9 million calories… I cheerfully shopped and gathered hickory chips, a light for the BBQ, and raided the plant section to spruce up my patio. I approached the customer service desk, my basket a raucously colorful display of flowers, and myself, cheerful just by association. “Hello,” I said, knowing that I’d soon be done and home.  The such and such store called about reserving a BBQ for me? It has my name on it and should be here.”

    • They sent me to the contractor’s counter.

    • The contractor people didn’t know what I was talking about so sent me back to the customer service counter.

    • The lady at customer service greeted me with an, “Oh. You’re back,” and smiled sweetly with no discernible hints of sarcasm. I asked her again about the reserved BBQ, and she said I needed to go outside to the “Summer Sale” jumble of BBQs, lawn sets, and other seasonal stuff.

    • I did. There was no BBQ with my name on it, but there were three that might be kind of like the one I’d been trying to valiantly less than half-heartedly purchase for my MoH. The employee was squeezing through the rows of BBQs raising covers and looking at tags. She wasn’t sure. I asked her about delivery or truck rental while she was looking, but she had little information. She told me I had to go back inside to take care of that. “But we only have one truck,” she adds, “and it’s on a first come first serve basis. We don’t call you to let you know it’s back. You have to wait for it.” I pictured myself, sucking on the warm Diet Coke left in the car, waiting for the rent-by-the-hour Home Depot truck to get the BBQ home. I pictured myself driving the truck.

    • I called the MoH and told him he would to have to rent the truck after work.

    • I went back inside. “Oh, you’re back,” the perky person I had spoken to earlier said again. “Do you have a SKU?”

    • I wondered again what my horror-scope must have been.

    • I didn’t have an SKU. I turned to go back outside, but she stopped me, and said she’d go instead. You think it may have been because my face was five shades of purple by this time, and I was totally over this shopping experience? After she returned, she wanted me to go back out and choose the one I wanted. I followed her. Smiling.

    • We got out to the sale jumble area again, and the employee I spoke with earlier avoided making eye contact with me. She was now very helpful, suddenly more alert, informative. My BBQ was tagged. It said S-O-L-D in very large letters on a piece of paper stuck to the tags that showed it had been marked down 60 bucks since Sunday.

    • I paid for my things, was handed a direct number to the customer service desk to ask about the truck rental just in case I had any more difficulty.

    The MoH went to the store last night after work and saw the truck sitting there, but someone else had already called and was coming to get it. First come first serve? So he came home without the BBQ after waiting an hour for the truck. Taco Bell on the way home seemed to make it all right. No, I absolutely did not have Taco Bell.

    But this morning, I did read yesterday’s horror-scope:

    Invite as many people as you can to the party because it’s truly a the-more-the-merrier type of day. The power of your personality is what influences people. Keep smiling. Happiness is a choice.

    I should really go rent that big damn truck today and bring that BBQ home myself. I just don’t know how I’d get it off the flatbed after I got it here. So the MoH will have to try again to get his BBQ home tonight. And I’ll be happy to go with him, because happiness is a choice.

    And if we’re lucky, The Home Depot will not have sold our already paid for BBQ.

    I wonder how we’re going to get the old beast out of here after the new one arrives? Anyone want a free BBQ? It still works.

  • 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.

  • Genetically Meandering and Goal-Free, or Something

    Funny how a subtle change in a suffix or hyphenation can significantly change the connotation of something. As in goal-less or goal-free. One clearly implies not only lack — but a negative one at that, and the other, a sort of liberating, non-shackled state of being. Sort of the difference between:

    • the sad sack who hits the alarm button in the morning with a mental list of, “get up, take a shower, feed the animals, take the car in, pay the bills, defrost the Thanksgiving leftovers for dinner, label my linen closet…” and

    • the ebullient chap who bounds out of bed each day exclaiming, “Yes! The whole day is ahead of me and I can’t wait to find out what amazing things will come my way!”

    Okay, well, maybe the contrast is a bit strong, but I came across this site not too long ago, and am probably one of the few who didn’t learn about it on Oprah, because I sort of forget to actually watch Oprah. Yes, I’m home. No, I just don’t think about it. The television doesn’t usually go on until about 7 or 7:30 so we can trash our brains family style watching things like Jeopardy, So You Think You Can Dance, Hell’s Kitchen, and — well, you get the idea. We are sort of in the “goal-free” category of television viewers. We “meander with purpose” to borrow Stephen Shapiro’s phrase.

    My mom often tells me she hasn’t had a goal in her life. This admission often comes after we’ve been discussing “stuff.” The stuff can be any number of “things.”

    Things like life.

    Not so small a thing, or even closely related to stuff. But if I listen carefully, the goal issue usually connects to the idea of planning on, organizing for, going through, and/or getting a career. Not a job or work. A career. Why other things don’t seem to be considered that took her determination and perseverance is beyond me.

    IMG_0892 I’ve noticed that people have a tendency to lord it over those who haven’t jumped through life’s hoops. Like there are a set of rules somewhere that we have to follow so that we can be recognized at the end of The Road. Kind of like a graduation. You get there, someone reads your name, and then there’s a list of what you’ve “done” with your life. Career seems to be at the top of the list. Especially a career that is connected to education. A formal education. One that was obtained at an easily recognized and even prestigious institution.

    But what if you haven’t done those things? What happens if you have a completely different set of rules that you live your life by? What if your life is goal-free instead of goal-less? More importantly, what if your goals have always been things like:

    • keep your children clean, fed, and well clothed;

    • be relentlessly productive because it is an end in itself;

    • teach your children to be practical;

    • make sure your children do their homework, and clean their rooms;

    • be extremely organized and tidy;

    • make sure your children understand that manners are important, and that they are a reflection of the entire family while in public;

    • focus on functionality;

    • teach your children how to cook, sew, garden, and take care of the house;

    • take time to grow, appreciate, and smell flowers;

    • pay your children an allowance even though you shouldn’t afford it, and teach them how to save that allowance;

    • buy musical instruments and pay for lessons when you know you can’t afford it;

    • tolerate inane jobs to earn a paycheck to feed your children;

    • make sure your children understand that nothing in life is free, so working very hard is how you get ahead;

    • have a day job and a night job;

    • make sure your children understand that education is important;

    • try different jobs when you no longer have to worry about feeding your children;

    • keep reaching because you know there’s something out there for you, just waiting, if you could only see it more clearly, and so many other things didn’t get in the way, distracting you, making you wonder if you should be afraid of reaching.

     

    Yes, what if your life has been filled with those kinds of things?

    Are you goal-less, or goal-free? The whole concept fascinates me because it is easy to line up a few people we can all identify as being successful without too much analysis. We default to the “who’s productive and wealthy” criteria that is so often the crux of  our society. But then, after assembling these iconic individuals, we have to examine whether they’ve all jumped through those hoops I mentioned earlier. Often, they have not. What we learn is they had their own set of hoops, and that the hoops were of varying sizes, movable, and sometimes intentionally avoided, or dismissed as being a waste of time.

    Hoop-less, or hoop-free? Maybe you think it’s all just Hoop-lah.

    What do you want to do? What matters to you? What is important? What will sustain you — and not just your bank account? Because I think that’s the key. If this whole business of making lists and setting goals is never going to be more than crossing off the things on your list, or checking off those boxes, then all you’ll end up with is a list of things you crossed off. Or maybe not.

    What if that list says things like:

    Travel around the world?

    • You have to want to do this, of course…

    • You have to at least think about how to begin or where to begin

    • You will need to consider how much or little to take with you

    Read untranslated works of Gabriel Garcia Marquez?

    • You might want to consider learning Spanish…and practicing a lot

    Be famous?

    • This is relative considering the guy who just got caught for spamming up our emails. Okay, so infamous. But still…

    • You can’t just sit and wait around for it to happen.

    • You have to at least learn what spam is and how to make everyone else miserable with it.

    • Or lose a lot of weight eating Subway Sandwiches instead of home-baked chocolate cookies with macadamia nuts.

    Winged Victory

    People who want to do things just do them. That’s why Nike tells us to “Just Do It.” What they really mean is, “Shut the funk up and get off your arse. Go brush your teeth and quit stinking up the air space with your monotonous jabbering about what you’re going to do or want to do or wish you could do if only you could do it.” Nike knows us. Well, they really just want us to pay a fortune for their products made for a fraction of a penny on the dollar in third world countries, but that’s another topic. So their marketers know us. Or get paid to act like they do. A lot.

    The problem is, when your head feels like it’s going to pop off every minute of every day because you’re just trying to make ends meet (whatever ends are pertinent to an individual’s life) heading in a semi-focused direction beyond survival can feel a tad bit overwhelming. Making that list may seem easier than doing something unfamiliar. Articulating those goals make seem like organizing for action. Being industrious and productive can look great on the surface because you’re “getting things done,” but that just takes up time. The rest of it is horribly messy and doesn’t really fit in any kind of a list, so you never really have to do it. Right?

    And when you run out of time at the end of the day, you can get into bed and dream about what you’d really like to do, if only you had the chance.

    I am a meanderer. I waver toward whatever I am interested in. Detour here, wrong turn there. Learning and taking notes along the way, but rarely with the journey being described as the shortest distance between two points. The plan would be to get there in the shortest amount of time, but there are just too many shiny things I have to wonder about and understand along the way.

    So probably more goal-free than goal-less. But always purposeful.

    Unflaggingly. Thanks for the genes, Mom.

  • Dooce to the Rescue

    I’m holding the baby. I’m holding the baby and there’s a rather large spider — a hairy tarantula ambling clumsily over the uneven terrain of the blanket I seem to be tangled in. Trying not to show my alarm with any recognizable display of emotion, I tell my mom to take the baby, my eyes not quite leaving the arachnid, wondering whether it will reach me before I can ease away from its path.

    Wait. Baby? What baby? Mom? What the hell is she doing here?

    The spider — where did it go? There. I can feel it inching over my hair…my heart is pounding, and I know I won’t be able to contain my scream, already imagining my flight from bed and into the center of the room where I’ll have to thrash and flap, slap and wave to get the ugly thing from my head…

    But there’s no spider either. There’s only the chill of the night air on my face and the film of moisture covering it. My scalp tingles, and my breathing settles as I orient myself to the now familiar surroundings. No spider, no baby, no mom. Just another hot flash. It’s only 3 am, so I lay very still, listening to the night sounds from outside, thinking about going back to sleep. Thinking about disconnected aspects of yesterday. Thinking about today. Thinking about closing my eyes.

    But no. I think instead about my banner. About photoshop. About why the hell I can’t figure out how to do what I am trying to do. And then an hour into my thinking and wondering, and never quite cooling down after what feels like an eternity, I remember. Dooce has a tutorial I read some time ago on how she does her mastheads.

    Eureka! I can’t lay around in bed now, waiting for sleep that will never come. It’s too hot, I’m drenched, and it’s only a matter of minutes before I begin to freeze. I don’t have to drive to my VBF’s house until 5:30 to walk, so I sneak out of bed, careful not to step on the Big who is snoring on her sad and stinky excuse for a pad, head downstairs to make coffee, and back up to the office to check out her — Dooce, not the Big — archives.  It’s 4:35.

    In less than a minute, I’m there. It’s in the Friday, March 2nd post of this year. Her tutorial. Yes! But before I reread what I know will help me through my photoshop agony, I catch up on her latest posts while slugging down my first cup of coffee — which isn’t doing anything to cool the raging inferno that used to be my body.

    So much for the crappy theory that exercise and alcohol deprivation helps reduce the intensity of hot flashes. Oh. I forgot. I’m supposed to give up coffee, too.

    Uh…when pigs fly.