kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Life

  • Is it Christmas yet?

    As I think of the weeks that lie ahead, many things cross my mind.  Yes, Christmas is upon us again, but it hasn’t quite descended upon our home life yet. I know it will in a week or so, and have spent much of today feeling the beginnings of worry I’ve grown accustomed to over the years related to “getting ready.”  But I’m thinking I need to get rid of the worries, and know that everything always works out.

    I head outside for my nightly visit with the sky and am surprised by the wind.  The palm fronds are tapping insistently against one another, and I inhale, expecting the slightest scent of the ocean, but instead, it’s someone’s late night dryer load filling the air, making me think of the laundry I didn’t do today.  The sky is a ceiling of clouds tonight, so there will be no gazing or counting of lucky stars.  The air is lovely, and not what you might expect on an early December night — even here.

    That means the windows will be open again tonight, and at some point, one of us will get up to silence the clacking the blinds make against the window sill.

    It probably won’t be me.

    .

  • My Non-Fickle Car Life in Hondas

    This morning, someone on CNBC made a comment about American car customers being fickle.  I didn’t recognize him, and that doesn’t really matter.  Sometimes, I think the talking heads that flash on and off the television don’t know what comes out of their mouths most of the time, running a bit like someone who is in the throes of intestinal distress and searching for a bathroom.

    I immediately disagreed, knowing I would fail to qualify for fickleness.  I’ve had a love affair with Hondas since 1975 when I purchased a brand spanking new Civic hatchback with a “Hondamatic” transmission.  I was 19 years old.  I loved that car and the responsibility of making my $84.75 monthly payment.  I think it was the first time I actually began to feel like an adult with something that belonged specifically to me.

    There was a period where I was Honda-less, though.  I had a Jeep CJ-5 before Chrysler or whomever bought the company turned them into something that only looked like a Jeep.  It was fun for a while.  I learned how to drive a stick, let some air out of the over-sized tires and blast up the side of a giant sand dune — my hair bandana flapping in the hot breeze, my bikini clad skin darkening by the minute.

    I never quite fit the role of desert rat I was introduced to by my first husband, but it was what lured me away from Hondas for a few years.  I could talk about things like leaf springs, and 4-wheel drive traction.  I slept in a tiny tent in desolate areas, and drove around without doors attached to the side of my Jeep on warm days.  I visited shops that smelled of grease and sparkled with chrome rims and exhaust pipes.  I also spent time stuck in the middle of nowhere with flat tires, cracked radiators, and broken u-joints.  That’s what happens when a vehicle purchased for everyday use is thrashed about on days off and vacations.  The two don’t exactly mix.

    It was interesting while it lasted, but I sadly divorced the Jeep.  The radiator fan finally spinning off its track, I left it in a parking lot where a customer asked if he could buy it for his son.  I said yes, and watched as one of the more interesting parts of my life was towed away, its new teen-aged owner grinning ear to ear, leaving me with mixed memories.

    And then I bought another Honda.

    At that point, my two older boys were about five and six, and because the four-door gently used Civic made a strange noise when it was in high gear and reaching a particular speed, we named it the ST, for “Silver Tornado.”  It served quite a few important years getting me to and from work,  to SDSU to finish my abandoned degree, and my boys to and from school, and visits with their dad.  I have warm memories of our very own type of “car talk” revolving around the world they viewed from their backseat positions:  trees, hills, clouds…and water towers.  When I think of the topics now, they’re all that can be seen when you’re a small human seatbelted deep into a car.  Such very cute little boys.

    I miss them now that they’re grown.

    After I finished my credentialing program and the MoH and I married, we were able to leave behind our string of cheap apartments and purchase a condominium, creating a new home for our composite family.  Having a good monthly salary instead of the once a week check I squeezed while in school soon allowed me to donate the old ST to the local high school auto shop, and purchase a shiny new teal Honda Accord with a luxurious creamy interior and automatic windows.  Automatic transmission.  A moon roof.

    I thought I’d arrived.

    Although my two older boys had many years in that Honda, too, it quickly became the RT’s car.  His place to drip milk from his car seat, and then drop French fries from Happy Meals in cracks where I’d find them petrified weeks later.  His car to sit in more quietly since his brothers were so much older and often not in the car with him.  His space to have books and cars, rocks, and odd seeds he’d collect at school, calling them army men.  The creamy upholstery slowly began to age, the relentless sun in Paradise scorching it to the point where it would soon tear.

    So with a mere 11,500 miles on its not quite 10 year old engine, I sold it to one of my son’s friends and bought another Honda:  an Acura 3.2 TL which still sits in my driveway today.

    The plan was to give it to the RT when he was old enough to drive, and although that time is rapidly approaching, I’m not quite ready to give up my car.  Yes, there are dings in the sides of it from careless people in parking lots and students slinging backpacks over their shoulders in a hurry to get home.  The carpet is beginning to wear in spots as well.  I tire of the dust showing more quickly than it would on a lighter color, but I like it.  I like the idea that its reliability and comfort holds the remaining couple of years of driving my youngest here and there — he with his iPod earbuds in, me forgetting that when I want him to notice something out the window, forcing him to politely pull them out of his ears to listen to his mother.

    No, I think I’ll hold on to this the last of my Hondas.  It has a few more memories left in it.

    And then I’ll talk the MoH into one.

    April 10, 2012 — I am now the owner of a light blue MINI Cooper with a white top and the Acura I enjoyed for so many years now resides with the MoH’s parents who I hope are enjoying its comfortable ride.  I have to say driving the MINI does remind me a bit of tooling around in my first little Honda Civic — the small one with the hatchback.  I suppose this makes me fickle, but I’d say that considering 34 of the 38 years I’ve been driving I’ve owned a Honda, I can’t be too fickle.

  • Carly Simon and Memories about Choices

    Carly Simon and Memories about Choices

     

    Yesterday was a marathon of driving from one end of the county to the opposite and in weather more conducive to July than November.  To be more accurate, it’s cooler in July here than it has been the last many days.  I’ve given up wishing and hoping for weather that smells and feels like Fall, let alone the winter that is barely four weeks away.

    But when I’ve got a task to do that should have been completed weeks ago, I set my route and try not to think about it.  I just go, like I’m on auto pilot.  First one store, then the next.  Speak with one salesperson, then another — all the while taking mental notes and feeling my brain ready to explode with so many others’ opinions.

    I’d say that it’s because I’m thorough, but it’s closer to being an approval problem.

    Carly Simon helped.  Helped with the searching — not the approval problem.  I rarely listen to music while I’m in the car preferring quiet more, but felt I needed something to get me in and out of the car with each stop I made.  So Carly it was — and only because I sadly do not carry CDs in my car, let alone an iPod.

    My afternoon of driving was saturated with memories of the who and what I used to be when “Anticipation” and “You’re So Vain” could be heard on the radio when people actually listened to music on radios.  But my favorite was  “That’s the Way I Always Heard it Should Be,” the haunting melody something I loved even though at that point in my life, I wouldn’t have been able to relate to the words — a giving up of one’s self to something others did just because that’s what was done.

    I was too naive to see things that way.  I was too busy looking for fairy tales of my own and thinking they were something that existed instead of something created.  It takes a few mistakes to arrive at that conclusion.

    “But you say it’s time we moved in together/Raised a family of our own you and me/Well that’s the way I’ve always heard it should be/You want to marry me/We’ll marry…’

    I had no remorse about the eventuality of marriage because all of the other strings attached to the decision  were far more interesting, like having an engagement ring, choosing fabric for a dress I would make myself, selecting perfect invitations, a just right location.  You’re thinking there’s a minor problem with that line of thinking, yes?  The matter of “choosing to spend my life with someone who would never have understood me” type of a problem.

    “The couples cling and claw/And drown in love’s debris./You say we’ll soar like two birds through the clouds,/ But soon you’ll cage me on your shelf — I’ll never learn to be just me first,/By myself…”

    No, we didn’t get married.  The invitations were never ordered and the ring was given back.

    Funny what a song can make you remember, isn’t it?

    But I did end up finding what I was looking for on my marathon search yesterday.  It’s a vanity of sorts for part of our home renovation work.  I know you may not quite “see” it the way I do, and that it’s different than what you might put in your home.  I’m used to that.

    It’s because somehow along the way, I’ve learned to be just me first, by myself.

    Or — that I’ve already polled a zillion people on the choice since gawd forbid someone besides myself will have to look at it while they’re sitting on the toilet and think, “What in hell was that woman thinking?”

    But I’m used to people not seeing what I see in life and understand.

    You can still throw in your two cents worth on the vanity if you want.

    Yes, it's for the bathroom.

    Still not convinced?

    After all, it’s just a bathroom vanity, right?

    But when I look at it from now on, I will most likely hear Carly Simon’s melody reminding me that I have made some amazingly good choices in life.

  • I should make a list.

    It’s official.  I’ve finally gotten to the point in my life sans former profession where I feel like I need an additional six hours a day added to my clock.  I’m happy to say that in contrast to my former need for six hours extra *delete rant that was to have been inserted here…*, I’m happily feeling that I not only need to get all that I have to get done…done…I want to.

    It does not mean, nor will it ever, that I am perky, however.

    It does mean that I just may have to blow the dust off my calendar, or more realistically, use my cyber calendar more effectively.  The way I feel right now, I could become a compulsive list maker with the very first order of the day being, make a list, which has never made much sense to me.

    My very non-perky giddiness is being fueled by so many different aspects of life right now — and it’s an interesting one to me, if no one else.

    With the election just around the corner, I’m successfully undistracted by everything the media has to say about Palin, or Ayers, or the Dewey effect, or just about anything that’s coming out of their mouths right now.  They’re on overdrive and have me wondering what in Hell they’ll talk about after it’s all over.  I feel like I need to organize a party for election night.  When Obama crosses that goal line, we should be able to jump out of our seats and scream just like we do when any of our sports teams win.  Yes, I said when — not if.

    I.  Can’t.  Wait.

    In other news, my mother has a boyfriend.  She’s 70, you know.  But there’s something wrong with calling a man who’s well into his sixties a boy, and man friend sounds strange.  Man cake?  She says they giggle about silly things, email back and forth, and go to the kareoke sessions at their complex together.  Sounds like camp doesn’t it?  She also just garnered one of the coveted garden spots, inheriting some established rose bushes and will no doubt have it transformed into a veritable botanical nirvana before spring.  What does this translate to?  The guilt I’ve been carrying around not spending more time with her has eased up a bit, and I’m right in line to have her tell me she’s too busy the next time I ask her if she wants to go shopping or something — which happens once every blue moon or so.

    You go Mom.  What does he call you?  Blue Eyes?  Oh, my.

    And then, of course, there’s the remodel the economy tried to squash, but couldn’t.  In fact we started the process yesterday and now I’m feeling like I need to pinch myself over it all and then snap out of it.  There’s so much to do.  Do you have any idea just how many bathroom vanities, pedistal sinks, vessel sinks, over mount, under mount, wall mount, porcelain, stone, hammered copper, wooden, antique, modern possibilities there are?  It’s sort of Heaven and Hell all at once.

    Like hot flashes.  Raging heat, then freezing cold.  Okay, so maybe not. *looks at watch wondering just how long menopause actually lasts when one has no equipment left*

    Then there’s my food blog which has begun to feel like a business.  That’s a good thing, but I’m a bit slow on the uptake and need to sit down and think about it all while I’m not in front of my Mac which is beyond distracting.  I know I’m the only person on the planet who feels that way, of course.  Or better said, the only person who has no resolve, no will power, no stick-to-itiveness.  Actually, I’m great at all those things as long as they’re connected to my Mac.  I finally decided to take on my own domain with my food blog and having my memory refreshed about the process is less than thrilling.  But I’m relentlessly persistent and will figure it out…

    …after I’ve sucked it up and decided I can no longer put off creating a weekly baking schedule and menu plan.  Gina is a pro at this and posts it like clockwork. Impressive.

    But what about world peace you say?  Well, there has never been a time that I haven’t realized my freedom to have the quality of life I enjoy isn’t something to be taken for granted.  I know this.  I know there are people who haven’t had the opportunites I’ve had, or the health and food we enjoy.  I know there are people who have to deal with war every single day.  No, I can’t imagine.  The peace I enjoy is not something they understand…What did Cat Stevens sing about all those years ago?  Something about a Peace Train…

    **start copy**

    Join The Revolution
    Here are the rules and the story.
    (1) Copy this into a post (2) ADD YOUR NAME to the bottom of the tag list
    (3) Tag at as many people as you’d like.


    The Peace Globe project began in the fall of 2006 with a simple post from one blog, Mimi Writes. The post ignited a flame in the blogosphere. The flame became a passion. The passion became a movement. It amazingly traveled from blog to blog to blog across the globe. Bloggers wrote passionate articles on what peace means to them, along with the promise of three Latin words scribbled on a globe – Dona Nobis Pacem (Grant Us Peace) – branded with the integrity of their names or blog names. It was positively inspiring to watch. And it began to happen all over the world – from Singapore to China to Afghanistan to Brooklyn.

    It was simple. And powerful.
    In less than three weeks bloggers from all across the globe will blog for peace.
    We will speak with one voice. One subject. One day.
    Won’t you join us?
    November 6, 2008

    How To Get Your Peace Globe In 4 easy steps!

    1. Right CLICK and SAVE the peace globe below or choose from other designs here.
    2. Sign the globe using Paint, Photoshop or a similar graphics tool. Decorate the globe anyway you wish. You can even include the name of your blog. Click     here for hundreds of inspiring examples from previous BlogBlasts.
    3. Return the peace globe to me via email ~ mimiwrites2005 at yahoo.com – Let me know your blog’s name and url by leaving a comment     here and signing the Mr. Linky. Your submission will be numbered and dated in the official gallery . Your globe and post will be listed on the Official BlogBlast For Peace website and The Peace Globe Posts page.

    Here’s the most important part.
    4. On November 6, 2008 DISPLAY YOUR GLOBE IN A POST. Title your post “Dona Nobis Pacem”. This is important. The goal is for all blog post titles to say the same thing on the same day. Write about peace or simply fly your globe.

    Go HERE for the other 3 globe template choices!)


    If you’d like to help spread the word, take this button to your site. The code is in my sidebar.


    I, Mimi Queen of Memes, hereby royally tag the following…….

    (Before you copy this list on your blogs, ADD YOUR OWN NAME to the bottom of the list. )

    ………………………………………………………………………………………………YOUR NAME HERE.

    YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE TAGGED TO PLAY.

    Please passing this meme through the blogosphere. Peace + Power
    This is Mimi Pencil Skirt reporting from the lovely land of the Peace Globes.
    Memeing the Movement.

    **End Copy**

    I’m officially tagging (and I NEVER do this…) Scott, Gina, Jerry, Ben, Meleah, Ritzy, Francis, paisley, ladybanana, Phil, Mike who are all lovely people and will probably think, OMG, what is she doing?  By all means, consider yourself tagged if you’re in the mood.  Maybe even try to write a better post that I have about world peace…

  • I don’t think my neighbor wants cake

    I pour cold creamer into my second cup of coffee and set it in the microwave to heat, pushing in my usual 45 seconds. The beeps seem loud in the early morning quiet and I wonder if my neighbor can hear them through the windows that will stay open well into the fall. Next Door

    I’m a respectable neighbor, but I won’t drink luke warm coffee for anyone.  And at this time of year, I’m not closing my windows to keep our sounds of life from annoying a crank next door.  I will try to muffle the sharp clacking my extra bold Italian Roast coffee beans make in the grinder, though.  That’s not a pleasant sound at any time of the day, but at 6:30am, it’s something I wouldn’t appreciate — especially if I worked late each night.

    If you were to walk down our street, you would notice that, like many other neighborhoods today, the houses look exactly like one another.  Some are attached, others aren’t, and although they are reasonably sized, they’re lined up right next to one another.  It’s quiet except for when the morning and evening commute begins, and other than an occasional dog walker, or nanny strolling a baby, it can seem as if no one lives here.  Rarely do children play outside, or neighbors stand to talk between the perfectly manicured strips of lawn.  Windows are shuttered in most homes.  When a car passes to enter a driveway, the garage door glides open, allowing the car to pull in, and then closes behind it like it was never there.

    Blinds In the six years we’ve lived here, the monotony of who does what and when is only rarely interrupted.  We’ve learned most of our cul-de-sac neighbors’ names, and may hold up a hand in a salute of, “Hey,” and a single nod before heading for the mailbox, or pulling in the trash cans.  But that isn’t the case with everyone. 

    There’s the older man who walks intently from one end of the community to the other, back and forth, quickly, one foot slightly scraping the surface of the asphalt, never acknowledging anyone.  There’s the woman at the end of the cul-de-sac with the dark grey Mercedes who drives too fast, and doesn’t brake at the speed bumps, her small body comically bouncing upward each time she hits one.  And the tiny woman who walks with her much larger friend, eyes darting from one open garage, or window to the next, watching, and listening.  Always aware.

    A year after we bought our home, a couple moved into the unit directly across the street and began renovations.   Although they were never friendly to begin with, we were doomed after the woman knocked on our door one day to ask whether we’d sign a petition to prevent our homes from being painted.  The MoH and I had taken the time to preview the proposed color scheme and liked the new rich tones which were quite an improvement over the pink we then tolerated.  Yes, I said pink. Picture a flamingo, and you’d have the correct image. So, no, we wouldn’t be signing the petition.  Since others in our area of the complex were against the new color scheme, evidently, there must have been quite a bit of gossip about those of us who wouldn’t help stall the work.

    I can begrudgingly admit it’s impressive that after working each day, the man has come home for four years to work on that house.  It must be beautiful inside.  But considering that a kitchen and bath contractor took care of that aspect of his renovations, I wonder exactly what took four years.  They seem to be very precise, so perhaps there has been a lot of detail work. Bird's Eye View

    Each Sunday morning after I drag my ugly self out of bed, I can hear the couple already outside for their weekly car washing session.  Same time.  Same day.  Every week.  I don’t have to worry about going out to scrounge for our newspaper in my hag state, because after all these years, I know they won’t look at me. I could don my son’s Arnold Schwartzenegger mask and they wouldn’t acknowledge my existence.  Instead, they remain bent over their task, rubbing intently at some microscopic mark on a window.  I’ve been tempted to yell a chipper, “Good Morning,” to their backsides, and flippantly inquire about whether they’d be interested in wiping the week-old seagull crap off my windshield while they have the Windex out, but know the humor would be lost on them.

    It’s funny what you learn about people you see regularly but never talk to.  My dog barks when she hears the UPS man stop outside their house almost daily.  That they spray the lids of their trashcans with Windex and wipe them more frequently than I clean my fridge.  That in the five years they’ve lived here, only once have I ever seen anyone visit them.  Or that the one time the woman actually spoke to me, it was to question why the gardeners had killed the grass in front of our house, and when I explained it to her, then ask what bermuda was, anyway?  That she doesn’t like the color of the house next door to her because when the sun hits it, the reflection distorts the color of the inside of her house.  That she stays up late at night to read our community by-laws. That you can, on more than one occasion, look directly at the man and say, “Hello,” and he does not respond.

    Close I’ve thought more than once that somehow, this must be my fault, and that I might share a cake or some bread with them.  That I’ve done something wrong or that I’m not friendly enough.  That my dog leaves yellow spots on the grass where she pees even though I try to rinse it with water.  That our cars aren’t as shiny as theirs.  But at some point, I know that some people are just not capable of being friendly to those who don’t share their opinions — even if it’s about something as inane as paint.

  • Books, Brioche, and…Boredom

    Finally, finally, all things Italy are done.  The planning, the packing, the photos, the writing.  And when you’ve spent the time that I have getting ready for a trip like this, there’s a kind of void after it’s over.  A huge void.  Kind of like the Grand Canyon.

    I just might be…

    …and I’m not quite certain…

    …but thinking perhaps that…

    I’m bored.

    Wait.

    I’m never bored.

    Ever.

    I’m not quite sure what to do about this feeling.

    And even more strange?

    Because I’ve been up to my ears with all things flickr, Photoshop, iPhoto, and Blurb,  I’m not in the mood to sit here, either.  It’s Friday and the whole weekend is yawning ahead.  It is Friday, isn’t it?

    I thought so.

    I’ve got three cookbooks opened to some very nice brioche recipes all requiring overnight refrigeration, (I can’t decide if I want plain or chocolate…) and I’m wondering whether the MoH would like to go down to the water tonight to sit and stare at the horizon with a bit of food and something nice to drink.  Or maybe go see Mama Mia…

    But there are other things to consider as well:

    • Like how to get my doggo to stop her incessant scratching and my cat’s interminable yeowling. The fleas are beyond nasty this year, and although I’ve sprayed, and vacuumed, and washed, brushed, combed and yes, finally broke down and bought some Frontline (disgusting poison…), it doesn’t seem to have put a dent in them.  I.  Hate.  Fleas.  Which is why I hate carpeting.  And whomever conducted that study that reported simple vacuuming daily will eliminate up to 99% of the fleas because it destroys their shells?  What-ever, dood.  Sounds good, but no cigar.  Well, not around here, anyway.  My cat is the world’s greatest fleabus.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  We have almost NO dirt anywhere.  There are flagstones, and concrete, a few flowerbeds that are predominantly damp, a patch of damp grass…WHAT GIVES?
    • I need a new book. I loved Such a Pretty Fat by Jen Lancaster (laughed my ass off…well…not quite since my scale still insists upon telling me the gawd awful truth).  It lambastes Jenny Craig and the whole concept of a weight-loss plan that includes packaged food AND has the greatest kiss-off line I’ve heard in a long time.  Click the link and watch the video.   I also just finished The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Pachett, one of my favorite authors.  It was her first novel, and I’m letting it stew a bit before I say what I need to say about it.  But her books have that effect on me.  And since I’m on a “thinking about writing seriously” kick (again) and still have 8 gazillion books here I haven’t read that can inspire me from one perspective or another and keep me from actually doing my own writing, Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is next up.  It looks to prove that when you want to write a book, you can write whatever you want, and sometimes, people notice.  Yes, even people like myself, who notice, then let it sit on their bookshelf for, oh, about five or six years.
    • I need to sign up for a photography class and a writing class (you know, because sometimes, homework is a good thing…) through one of the university extensions here.  I seem to have recovered from my post traumatic distress syndrome over all things “school,” and both of these classes will occupy my time, feed my creativity, and give me yet another excuse to not actually start my own real writing. Okay, so writing somewhere other than this blog.
    • I have to make a fix-it list for this house. I know I used to joke quite a bit about it, but jeez.  I’m tired of putting money into having the carpet cleaned and want to rip it out of the house and heave it out the windows.  I need a painter to even out the walls where boys incapable of standing up without hanging onto the walls have left smudges that can no longer be wiped.  And the fence on the patio needs replacing (along with the neighbor it shields us from), along with the drip sprayers and lights.  Then there are the screens the cats wrecked (and the one I totaled while we were trying to break into our house last night after swimming because we were locked out….) because the extra key wasn’t in it’s normal place… and…yes, things need to be fixed.  I checked.  There is a Handyman section in the Yellow Pages.  My fingers will be walking.  Soon.  They will be walking miles.
    • And last but not least, try not to feel so wistful about this blog. It’s sort of crawling along while my food blog is roaring.  Okay, so, not like the Internet Market type roar, but everything’s relative, yes?  As much as I enjoy both of them, this one is special because it’s just about whatever comes to mind.  It’s me.  And sure, so is the other one, but it’s about my food, which isn’t necessarily me, even though they say, “You are what you eat.”  Um, thank-you.  Next?  But the crickets have been chirping loudly here lately, and I’m trying to adjust to the idea that it’s okay and that I didn’t set out to write here to do anything other than expend energy and get back into the habit of writing.  From that perspective, it’s all been worth it.  One step leads to another, right?

    Right.

    So shut up and write.

    On to the brioche…

  • You’re so over the Italy stuff, right?

    Trenitalia Alta Velocita

    The train ride to Florence was easy.  There were no delays, the air conditioning was refreshing, and it actually seemed as if we were really skimming along at 300 km/hr, leaving cars on the autostrade in the dust, which is saying quite a bit.  We were able to look out the windows the entire time, unlike our first trip, when a man sitting across from the boys yanked the shade down without the slightest acknowledgment that three others were sitting at the same table. Okay.

    Small towns appeared along the way, their terra cotta roofs clustered on hill tops in the distance.  Fields of sunflowers stretched away from us one after the other, but their heads pointed down and away, revealing only a yellow fringe in the midday sun.  I wondered if I’d have the chance to drive through that countryside some day to explore those towns.

    From the moment we arrived at Stazione Santa Maria Novella, it was different.  The area inside the walls of Florence is traffic controlled, allowing only those with a special permit the opportunity to enter.  Yes, there was traffic, but far less.  And absolutely, we had to be wary crossing streets, but not as if we were taking our lives in our hands each time we did.  The streets seemed more organized, neater.  Less frenetic.  And… not quite as intriguing as Rome, nor as quaint as Sorrento.

    (more…)

  • Nobody likes orange.

    Finally.  A new, peaceful theme.

    IMG_1047.JPG

    I wasn’t truly loving the orange in my last digs, but something odd has happened as a result of that recent having to live with it for as long as I did and survive.  When I’m out and about, all things orange catch my eye.  And I have been doing a bit of shopping since our vacation is looming…

    …in twelve days.

    So why am I messing around with my blog theme, you ask?

    (more…)

  • Teenagers, school, and grey hair.

    Teenagers, school, and grey hair.

    How do we get to Friday so quickly now when it used to seem as if it was forever hovering in the distance of my pseudo nine-to-five work week? It’s amazing, and I’m left feeling yet again that I need some kind of a drive through where I can order a few more hours each day with a super-sized box of salty hot fries.

    And I’m pensive. But that shouldn’t stop my Friday Follies, because I’ll indulge in a bit of Peaflock egocentrism instead of worrying about the economy, or whether I’m being green enough. About whether the RTR will persist in his subtle efforts to resist all half-assed attempts at parental pressure to become a neurotic type-A studentisto at some point in the future. Smart young man.

    So how is my almost 16-year-old last birdie in my nest doing these days? I thought you’d never ask. Outside of continuing to be the gentle and respectful, scruffy around the edges, but hugging type person that he’s always been, I’d like to say he’s seen the light and has become an organizational sensation with a sparkling bedroom. A notebook that one might be able to detect some semblance of order. A backpack whose lumpy contents I don’t have to wonder about.

    He hasn’t.

    But his bathroom is cleaner than ours now, because The Gramster is sharing it with him. It looks like a real bathroom now with a mirror you can actually see your reflection in.  And he’s loving the guitar, the lessons, and even his cool guitar teacher. I keep asking him when he’s going to get House of the Rising Sun down so I can sing, and you know, I think he’s working on it. I’ll let you know if I actually get a gig on YouTube so you can spit your cereal milk or coffee all over your keyboard.

    But school? Well, let’s just say we’re gently reminding him that if there’s not a solid “C” in Spanish and Algebra II, then the MoH has decreed that when we get back from Italy this summer, he’s getting a J.O.B.

    So I’m still trying to figure out exactly whose consequence that is since the RTR doesn’t have a driver’s license, and since I remain challenged to completely understand which higher plane of existence he spends most of waking moments on, I’m not comfortable with the idea of him being behind the wheel of any vehicle. Too. Scary. That means that I would become the J.O.B. taxi.

    I hate driving. Thoroughly.

    Besides, I think our philosophy is losing credibility faster than you can yell, “Phony!” at me. If I haven’t raged enough about it before, or, if you were smart and skipped through the pretty pictures of those twenty or so posts, you know that I do have rather strong opinions about the general quality of public education. In spite of the two decades I spent working as an educator — a damn good one, thank you very much — I’ve always believed that what we do best is try to fit all children into the same sized hole. And because my pensiveness is about my son today, and not public education, I’ll leave it at this: If I truly believe that, then how, how, how do I continue to find myself veering toward that norm? It’s amazingly difficult to pull away from that force.

    So how is the RTR winning this? About two months or so ago, his art teacher invited a spokesperson down from a school in San Francisco to speak. The funny thing about it is that each day when I pick him up at school, we have the same exchange:

    Me: How was your day?

    Him: Pretty good (although this fluctuates between other responses such as, fine, average, normal, okay…)

    Me: Did anything new and exciting happen?

    Him: No.

    It’s one of those warm, fuzzy mother and son moments that we smile about. So it figures that the one day I forget to play the tape, he actually has something to say:

    Him: Mom. You know how you always ask me about whether something new and exciting happens at school?

    Me: Yah?

    Him: Well today, a person came to our art class.

    Me: What did he talk about?

    Him: Well she was from this art school in San Francisco and it sounds really cool. You don’t have to have SAT scores.

    Me: Really? *Oh. Swell.*

    Him: Yep. And when she asked if anyone wanted information, I raised my hand.

    Whoa. This is the part where I have to control myself and not act like I’m giddy that he is showing an interest in something that doesn’t resemble tiny military figurines or tanks, World War II and YouTube comedy segments. He’s spoken to someone from admissions on the phone twice.

    Do you know how difficult it is to keep up with the whole, “It matters that you WORK hard in school, because in life you have to WORK hard if you want to find the right kind of WORK for yourself instead of just finding a job that pays well- blah-blah-blah-dee-dah-work-work-work…” diatribe when the school your son has decided he’s attending has this philosophy:

    The Academy of Art University maintains a no-barrier admissions policy for all undergraduate programs. The Academy was built on the educational philosophy that all students interested in studying art and design deserve the opportunity to do so.

    All he needs is a high school diploma. Period.

    Okay, so… and parents who are willing to pay the tuition.

    But it’s right up his alley of interests. So go figure.

    Guess the MoH is going to have to whip out his checkbook. But the RTR is still taking the SAT next Saturday.

    Just. Because.

    And the next two years will fly by as we continue to pander to the great education god in the sky and resist temptations to walk the streets with signs that plead, “Will clean your bathroom for son’s GPA.” Okay, so maybe not.

    He told me the school doesn’t recognize GPA, either.

    Go figure that his non-plan looks like it’s going to work. Just think about all the grey hairs and wrinkles I could have saved worrying about that sweet kid.

    Where does the time go?

  • The family that views together?

    My mother loves watching television. Loves. It. So it’s been a challenge for her since arriving back in Paradise to adjust to our television viewing habits. Um, we don’t exactly have any?

    She’s got to feel like she’s in TV Hell.

    We do have shows we enjoy, but from my perspective, it’s more about being with my menfolk in the evening after dinner than the show itself. Sappy, but true. Now, the MoH would probably say, “Whatever,” to my response being the avid one-who-looks-forward-to-his-three-shows-that-aren’t-sports type person that he is, but you do get the idea, right?

    Outside of those few shows on our highly intellectual viewing agenda (American Noodle, Bones, House, Top Chef…), we surf. Someone grabs the clicker while I’m putting the finishing touches on the latest recipe I’m subjecting my family to and their job is to find something we’ll all enjoy while we’re eating — nothing anyone really cares about. You know, like Dirty Jobs, which is great viewing while eating. Have you seen the one about the clean up after the toilets exploded? Nice.

    This isn’t always as easy as it sounds since we’re usually ready to park our butts on the couch with food and beverage in hand around 7PM most nights. There’s never really anything on. One-hundred-fifty channels, not counting choices for the On-Demand channels or pay-per-view options and there’s nothing on. If you have a closet full of clothes and often feel as if you have nothing to wear, it would be similar to that feeling. Completely hopeless.

    Like I said. We surf. It doesn’t matter that it’s 6:50 or 7:12, the one with the clicker stops at whatever looks good — erm, that would so not be Cash Cab, okay? Who thinks of that crap? We settle in while we eat, try to ignore the Doggo who waits patiently for any finished plate to lick, never blinking lest she miss that opportunity, and like the relatively content saps we are, watch whatever is semi-interesting. Sometimes, that means staring at the pretty pictures on one of the HD channels.

    This is all very contrary to what my mom is accustomed to. She is a stalwart TV Guide person, planning her television viewing time meticulously. In fact, she enjoys reading said TV Guide aloud to others so that they, too, can know what is on and marvel at all the possibilities. So I’ve explained the on-line Guide to her. You know. That place that lists all shows on all channels across all hours of the next few centuries? Yes. That one. I’ve also shown her how the DVR works. That way she can record her favorites, then watch them while I’m wasting the prime years of my life *snort* sitting at my Mac every freaking morning of the week. Okay, so maybe not weekends. But still.

    So she’s adjusting, but it’s got to be strange. Annoying? Probably downright aggravating. I know we can be that way. So I also encourage her to watch television in our bedroom when we’re downstairs. Warm the bed up, blow the cobwebs off the Sony and fire up the engine to see if it still runs. And she has. Once.

    We have been enjoying American Noodle together, and that’s been fun, but I’m sure she’d like to hunker down with her own schedule, with her own television, which, by the way, is sitting in the garage with the rest of her Earthly possessions and is just about as big as the little bedroom I wedged her into. In fact, now that I think of it, that television is so enormous, I wonder if it will fit through the door.

    Okay, so maybe not that big. But I don’t want to think about trying to carry it up the stairs. Besides, we don’t have cable active in that part of the house. Gawd forbid giving the RTR another reason to hole up in his cave. Besides, can TVs actually pick up stations without being hooked up anymore?

    So this morning, after diligently recording Boston Legal and Grey’s Anatomy, do you think she’d actually be able to sit down and enjoy them? One would think so. But for some reason, the sound wasn’t working on the television. One of us must have pushed a mysterious button on the clicker and it’s hopeless to try and figure out which one it is without dorking the entire operation up beyond all repair. So I clicked off the power surge for a few minutes and let the whole thing reboot.

    It works now.

    But she’s upstairs messing around with her laptop which was freezing up every time she had more than a couple of windows open.

    I have my fingers crossed that it’s fixed now, too.

    Because, like I said, I’m in the prime of my life and have so many swell things to get on with.

    Like vacation plans.

    I finally found a cute little place in Sorrento for the second leg of our trip to Italy (I booked an apartment in Rome for the first leg) which is happening in less than six weeks and I am sooooooooo not ready…The Hotel del Mare sits nearly at the Marina Grande and is a winding, hilly walk to the center of Sorrento. A great way to work off the breakfast that comes with the room!   It sounds like the four of us will be shoulder-to-shoulder and have some family bonding time.

    But I am starting to get pretty excited about the whole thing.

    It’s finally beginning to feel real!