kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Paradise

  • Ranting about Urban Sprawl & Open Spaces

    I long for an entire day to sit and write. To mull over the time I’ve spent away and enjoyed. To remember and feel the endless blue of Lake Tahoe wash over me. To smile at how silly to not have known of such a beautiful, relaxing place. Tahoe is Blue Oh to be in that water right now…so clear. So soft. Like glass early each morning, before boaters disturb its calm.  Not salty.  Not murky.  No sea grass or kelp.  Just brisk, fresh water.
    But I also need time to relax and forget the angst I feel when I have to sit on a freeway with a ridiculous number of cars attempting to go somewhere. Anywhere but where they all are, inching along. Testing one another’s patience. Pushing limits. Practicing stupidity.

    I’m not good at that. I can’t say how many times I longed for a laser or something like one might find on the Starship Enterprise. Zapping another’s molecules into oblivion because they see nothing wrong with darting in and out of traffic. Speeding up to and around cars in a burst of energy and then slamming on their brakes at the last minute, making me gasp with worry about what could happen to them and others nearby. Forcing me to finally grab for my book so that I wouldn’t have to witness what might happen next. Traffic I’ve gotten to the point where I can barely sit in a car that I’m not driving because of it all. “Take a nap,” the MoH tells me. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be possible. If I’m going to die, I’d like to know about it, or plan to go down with a very noisy fight, screaming obscenities about why idiots are allowed to drive and why they think they’re so much more important than the rest of us.

    I’ve tried to blame it on the developers. Those individuals who just keep building. The ones who believe we all need to live on top of one another and then crawl to work each day on roads not intended to hold that many people. They’re just looking out for themselves. They want to make more money, so nothing else seems to matter except their bottom line. Once they’ve planted the last stupid palm tree in the last stamp sized neighborhood, they never look back to notice that on the best day, it’s difficult to see more than a mile or so through the haze.  They don’t care.

    Incline Village Park Since I’ve traveled from our Paradise to another quite different, through the hell that is east of Los Angeles and back in this last week and can remember a time when much of that land was covered with lush farms and dairies, then I can say that I see no point to the sprawl. It’s so ugly. All of it. And it’s so very sad. Squashville

    When I was small, we used to drive up the old 395 to see my grandparents who lived in Chino, and then Ontario. I remember the long two lane roads marked by broken lines of paint, and edged with enormous eucalyptus trees. I remember being able to see the wall of mountains in the distance that rose sharply into the sky. It was possible to get there without needing to drive on a highway that had more than two lanes venturing in one direction. There were no mega malls. There was no Honda complex or obscure distribution center where an unbelievable number of containers awaited loading and then shipment out to consumers elsewhere. There were no areas filled with housing so compact that our slice of Paradise looks grand in comparison.

    Open Space   I know I should be writing about things that are light hearted and carefree. I’ve just returned from vacation. But I’m always tired after returning — especially when I’ve had to sit in a car for 10 hours. Especially when three-quarters of the journey is filled with the most amazing beauty imaginable, Eastern Sierras and then just before arriving home, we’re welcomed back to reality with the ugliest slap possible. The slap of “who cares what happens later. Let’s just use up what we have right now. Who cares?” It reminds me of what a blast site must look like with its center wasted, and a wave of smoke emanating from that center. Somehow, “Urban Sprawl” is too kind a description, conjuring an image of a restless adolescent who has outgrown himself, stretching to ease his growth taxed limbs. Far too kind an image for this.  Tree, anyone?  Water, perhaps? Cheap Desert Housing

    I have crossed the line. I am now old. I qualify for geezerhood because I wax about what once was. I find no beauty in what has evolved. I wince to imagine that it’s okay for others to have no need for personality in their neighborhoods. To want cloned strip malls or shopping meccas at an arm’s reach. To be so close to their neighbors that it won’t matter that they can’t see the sun through the haze.

    Aren’t you glad I’m back?

    Just refer to me as your little ray of sunshine.On Mammoth Mt.

  • And another one leaves Paradise.

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

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

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

    Younger Mom Quite a milestone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I shall be telling this with a sigh

    Somewhere ages and ages hence:

    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —

    I took the one less traveled by,

    And that has made all the difference.

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

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

    No mooning, though. Kay?

    Mom

  • I told you.

    All of you faithful short hair scientists know that I’ve been making a weak assed attempt to lose some weight over the past few months. The real focus has been to eat and live in a more healthy way — not just lose weight. The noble thought would be that if I focused on being more healthy, then the pounds, or lubs — as I affectionately refer to them — would melt off over the course of about six months. Uh…nope. And I’m not going to point any fingers at anyone but myself for this pseudo attempt to gain back a body I haven’t seen in the mirror for about 15 years. Time flies when you’re stuffing your pie hole. Ahem…

    But you also know that I have been exercising fairly diligently. Not as much as I could, mind you, because well, I dunno why. I sit in front of this thing all day talking to you? Because I have that food blog and I cook food that isn’t always conducive to anything but making sure our taste buds are extremely happy. That would mean our waistbands aren’t. Happy.

    You would think I’d give myself a break. You know, like since I’m exercising, eat more intelligently. Sheesh. Not. I’ve decided I need some kind of an electronic device that is strapped to an appendage somewhere — you know, kind of like Lindsay Lohan’s anklet. My device would be a talking device. It would let me know — in a very perky voice (NOT Rachael Ray, well, okay, Rachael) — that as I burned calories, I had earned particular types of food I might woolf down enjoy later.

    Okay, so imagine with me a sec:

    I’m walking: Sweat, huff…..trudge, trudge, trudge…I wonder how far I’ve gone? Puff…huff. Ugh….I can’t stand this…oof…

    Calorie monitoring device:

    You have burned enough calories to earn one charbroiled Porterhouse smothered in carmelized onions and sauteed portobellos finished with a port wine reduction…

    You have burned enough calories to earn a slice of a decadent boca negra served in a pool of raspberry coulis and topped with a mascarpone cream…

    You only have to burn 12,000 more calories to make up for what you ate yesterday…

    If you walk for the next two weeks straight, you’ll only put a dent in the calories you consumed eating that biscuit glace aux noisettes yesterday and the day before…

    Okay, so maybe that isn’t such a great idea. But I have been exercising. You know I’ve been challenging myself and struggling a bit to overcome some internal squeamishness about swimming in the ocean. But I thought I’d show you the route we took this past Sunday, and the one we’ll be taking again tomorrow. Mind you, we’ve also been getting up at 5:30 to do pool laps for 30 minutes in between the ocean gigs.

    Our Swimming Route

    It’s pretty far, isn’t it? When my friends said we’d be swimming to The Shores, I thought, Uh, I don’t think so. I figured I’d swim out part way with them, and then turn back by myself and wait. There was much discussion at dinner Saturday night about where cars would be parked, what time we’d arrive, who would pick up whom, and all kinds of other nonsense. The truly tough part is remembering the next day what we decided to do. Thank goodness the MoH is always tuned in and is able to steer me in the right direction. He sets the alarm, and he confirms what I vaguely remember about the previous night’s conversation. The MoH doesn’t drink wine like the rest of us.

    So two of us finally pick up the third who has her car parked at The Shores. The three of us travel back to The Cove and make a big production about realizing that all we could take with us was our largesse and our fins. We even had to figure out where to hide the car key. No cell phones, no camera, no bathing suit cover up…..Ugh. That meant we had to walk by people sitting on patios of some very chic restaurants enjoying Sunday breakfast. Thank goodness it was still very early — 8:15 — and that my fins are quite large. I strategically held them so that they’d dangle in front of my upper thighs, and then averted my gaze away from the touristy on lookers. We walked quickly toward The Cove.

    The water was a teeth jarring 66 degrees.

    The water was much calmer than the last time we went out. Less sea grass. I don’t want to discuss the kelp. The way it crawls along your legs as you pass over it. I know. I said I wasn’t going to talk about it. I get used to the water temperature fairly quickly, so that isn’t horrible. What’s creepy about the whole thing is that you can’t see the bottom once you really get out there. And if you think about that submarine canyon beneath, the one that sends absolutely frigid upwellings you have to swim through, gasping in surprise…the one that’s about 40 feet deep near shore and reaches depths of more than 900 ft. about a mile off the beach. That one. Totally and completely creepy. When images of creatures from the deep and very large fish with sharp teeth arise, we don’t say anything about them aloud. We talk about “stuff” — anything to ease the nerves. And we paddle faster.About half way across, my friend whose car was parked at The Shores realized that she hadn’t brought the key.

    Where is the key?

    So the rest of the swim was spent organizing for effort on how to get back to the car at The Cove.

    Swim back? Uh….Nope.

    Walk back? In our swim suits with all that traffic? People commenting about it not being whale-watching season. Uh-uh.

    Okay, then. How about a couple of unanswered collect calls to the MoH from a pay phone. You gotta love Caller ID.

    But finally, the Life Guard came to our rescue with a trusty cell. The huzbinks arrived not quite on a white charger (because we had caused a detour from their golf date–scuzethehellouttaus) and took us back to the car at The Cove. The swim had taken an hour. With wiggly legs and swaddled derriers in damp cover-ups, we walked to a coffee place and snarfed down three breakfast burritos and lattes.

    I can’t figure out why in hell I even bothered to go to the salon last week. At this rate, I’ll be back to square one Hag-ette status in a couple of weeks.

    But will I have a great tan? Hell no. The sun doesn’t shine at this time of the year in Paradise. Are you kidding? It’s all a big lie.

  • Sucking it up (and in) for an ocean swim.

    My friend called yesterday to see if I’d like to go for a swim at The Cove early this morning. We could do that first, rinse off in the showers, then drive up to visit a friend who has adopted a brand new baby.

    “How early?” I asked.

    “6:45? It’s not that cold. You get used to it and the water’s calm at that hour. It’s great,” she tells me.

    “I know. Sure,” I say, before I’m tempted to start whining about having to put on a bathing suit. Do I even own one? When was the last time I saw it? And when in hell was the last time I got in that water? It wasn’t the cold so much as it was the kelp and long pieces of sea grass that you have to swim through. And you can’t really see the bottom unless you wear goggles. We wouldn’t be snorkeling, we’d be swimming out to a buoy and back for the exercise. How far was that buoy?

    “Make sure you bring your fins. You have some, right?”

    “Yah, I have some — well, they’re the RT’s but they’ll work. I’ve used them before,” I said, trying to remember when that was, and how little his feet were then.

    “Great. See you tomorrow. I’ll come pick you up. We’ll have coffee, too,” she promised before hanging up.

    I woke up before the alarm at about 6am — always a good sign. The night before, I had found not one, but two suits I’d used in the past few years, and both seemed to be fine. There was no way I planned to try either on, as the idea of having to look at myself in one has never been one of my favorite things to do. Ever. No matter, I thought as I grabbed one, and threw it on with a pair of cargo shorts and a tee. I stuffed some undies into my purse to change into after we were finished with our swim, and out the door I went, already deciding that even though I was dressed for a swim, I wasn’t ready to participate.

    The morning was quite grey, and not especially warm. It was very quiet out as it often is on days with heavy overcast skies. My ride came and we drove to pick up another friend before heading to The Cove. The mood was light as we drove the short distance, and they graciously listened to me as I told them I may not go in. “The water’s great. It’s only cold right when you get in,” I was consoled. “You get used to it really quickly.” One of them had brought her wet suit along, so she wasn’t the one giving me the pep talk.

    La Jolla Cove But I had begun to think that something else was bothering me. Was I afraid? I hadn’t thought about that before. Although I was never what you’d call a beach kid growing up, I’ve always lived near one, and did spend more time than the average person may spend at the beach. I don’t recall being afraid. Or do I? Maybe it’s just that I have a healthy respect for the strength of the ocean. Maybe the combination of the chill of the water, the murkiness…

    We were there so quickly, none of it mattered anyway. I dropped my pants and left them in the car before following the others down the long flight of stairs past the large group of people clad in diving gear getting ready to head down as well. Lots of people come to The Cove to scuba dive. As we piled our things on a rock just below the wall of the cliff, I squinted to see which buoy we’d be aiming for. It wasn’t close. My two friends had just done the swim the past two days, and were letting me know that I’d be fine, and that with my fins, I wouldn’t have to use my arms at all. By this time, I had already begun to remember the instructions I must have had many years before — kick with your whole leg from the hip, back and forth…

    The small shoreline of The Cove is quite steep, the large grains of sand loose, and the surf harsh from time to time. Large rocks lie in and around the water, and sea grass is visible swaying with the constant motion of the water. The tide was low. I had goggles around my head, but decided I’d most likely not use them. So many others were just beginning or ending their swims. The group of divers had come down the stairs and awkwardly headed toward the water, lumbering, waddling back and forth to the edge — some backwards, as they already had their fins on.

    The coldness of the water isn’t horrible as I step into it, but I always have trouble with the flutter of seagrass against my legs. Seagrass I remind myself the water is refreshing when it’s been hot, and a bit of chill in the beginning is worth it. But once it hits my torso, the breath leaves me gasping a second or two. One of my friends holds my fins as I float in the water, pushing them onto my feet, one by one. The shore is barely two yards away, and already we have to tread water and begin to paddle. There are no waves — just large swells that carry us up and over, gently. I can tell where the kelp is ahead, as the bulbous heads poke their way to the top of the water, the very end of a long and wide rope I can’t see below for more than a few feet. Long strands of grass flow through the water in front of us, but thin as we swim farther from the shore.Kelp Forest

    The water is very salty, and soft. It takes little effort to hold myself afloat, whether I’m moving my arms or legs. I just want to turn on my back and float there, feeling the gentle lift of an occasional swell. Although I’ve been paddling enough to speed my breathing, it seems I’m not getting anywhere and I have to occasionally look toward the rocks near the cliff to measure that I’m actually getting somewhere. I can hear a seal baying on the rocks, and six feet away, one pushes its head above water before quickly diving back under. A long silver fish jumps up out of the water in front of us. I’m tempted to put on my goggles knowing that although the water seems grey, I would be able to see golden garibaldis swimming not too far below us.

    Garibaldi

    The water is so soothing I could stay all day. I wonder already why it’s so difficult to remind myself that I enjoy it from one time to the next. Why it’s easier to make excuses about bathing suits and very un-tropical water. “We’re almost to the buoy — do you want to go to the next one?” one friend asks of me.

    “How far is it?” I respond, thinking I might be too tired by the time I have to turn around to head back.

    “The same distance we’ve just come, but it’s your call,” she tells me, knowing I’m concerned about not being able to make it. “We’ll swim back with you, and then go back ourselves. That’s okay,” she tells me, always the gracious person she is.

    So we head back, passing many serious swimmers in their brightly colored caps, sporting their competent crawls and gliding effortlessly through the glassy water. They don’t seem to mind the kelp, the grass, or us — paddling at a relaxed pace, talking from time to time about nothing in particular — switching positions from back to front to relieve the tiredness in our muscles. We are quickly back to shore. “Make sure you take your fins off before you walk out,” one of my friends calls to me as they head back out. “You’ll roll over if you don’t.”

    I do as she says, and still have trouble getting out of the water, going down on my knees once before finally making my exit. I turn to see where they are in the water, and notice they have already made some distance. I am tempted to get back in and am a bit sorry for not continuing. But I do notice that my legs are a bit shaky, so know it’s okay that I wimped out on the extra distance. I wait and watch those latest to The Cove readying themselves for the water, wrapping my towel about me to dry off. I feel refreshed. I have time to notice that most of the bathing suit clad bodies in and around The Cove are less than svelte. A good number of them are quite a bit older than I, but most likely, routine swimmers. I could just tell.

    As the three of us prepared to head for the showers, one of my friends turned to me and whispered, “I guess it takes all different shapes,” to me as we eyed another group passing us on their way down. A young thin woman, a couple of older, heavier females, and a large man were suited to spend their time in the water as we had. How true, I thought, and how nice.

    I’m glad I decided to go in, and even more glad I have friends who tolerate my idiosyncrasies with kind patience.

    I don’t deserve that sometimes.

  • 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.

  • Walking Commentary

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

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

  • Do I have to go?

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

    You wake up.

    All night long.

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

  • Comfort Food and Snail Orgies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Comfort food?” I supplied.

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

    Life is good.

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

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

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

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

    Wait. Do snails have faces?

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

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

     

  • Grey days and Flying Snails

    Grey days and Flying Snails

     

    I’d forgotten how peaceful it is on grey days in Paradise. I used to love this weather when I was working because it was cool, and I could wear sweaters and jackets that helped me dupe myself into thinking I looked thin, or perhaps, thinner. Warm, sunny days meant no jacket and blouses whose buttons bulged at the bust or trouser waistbands that cut in painfully at the waist, revealing a rather unnatural indentation through any knit top I wore, more noticeable from the rear than from the front. I won’t discuss exposed arms protruding from sleeveless shells. Yes, grey days have their merit.

    But it has been extremely grey for days now, causing me to think about all the perky people in the world who thrive on sunshine. I’m beginning to see why they enjoy it now that I don’t have to wear anything but pajamas, sweats, and yoga pants. I’ve thought about all the college kids who come here for spring break to relax and party, and know they’re probably fairly pissed off about all this June Gloom business in March.

    Even though my only intention in going outside this morning was to gather up the brown cuttings I had left in piles a week ago, I soon found myself reaching through the plants with the hand rake to straighten things up a bit. I love doing that. It’s so satisfying making all that dirt look so clean, but there’s a drawback when you are supposed to be “cleaning up.” The patio was again covered with brown, moist leaves, spent blooms, and snails that had been dragged from their hiding places and were now helter-skelter making a run for it. One by one, I hijacked the slimy plant wreckers in mid-flight and threw them over the wall where, at some point, a car would put them out of their cracked misery. Exactly what part of the food chain are they anyway unless someone like me exposes their soft, mushy parts to organisms looking for a snack? One of these days, some unfortunate walker is going to get whacked in the head and I’m going to have to run and hide.

    I could hear the woman next door, upstairs on the phone. From her vantage point, I knew she could see everything on my patio and was probably thinking I was nuts raking in the mud in my pajamas and chucking snails in the road. She has gardeners that do her patio. Thank goodness the RT scooped the poop yesterday. Ever the cool one when I’ve been caught, I paused to take hold of my coffee and acted like I was sizing up the situation (which was sort of true because I still haven’t planted those flowers I bought on Saturday). I moved toward the door so I could slink back in the house, leaving yet another mess outside to turn brown waiting to be picked up next week. Such a tiresome cycle of inefficiency. But as I made it inside, I saw my new pair of Fiskars sitting near the door, and knew I’d have to go back out again. What difference did it make anyway? I’d already gotten rid of all the snails and it wasn’t like I was slinging dog turds.

    The Fiskars were a vast improvement on the pruners I’d been using for the past year. But that’s usually the case when you are in the habit of leaving them outside to get rusty each year and then throw them away. Unruly vines of honeysuckle, woody begonia stems, and dead lavender sprigs soon joined the mess scattered across the flagstones, but things quickly began to look better. A dove called mournfully nearby, most likely waiting for me to go back in the house so she could drink from the fountain. Nearly finished, I scraped and swept the pungent cuttings into a large black bag and tied it off to take to the trash.

    I’m waiting for the day that I see a neighbor peering through their blinds to wonder what it is I carry out from such a small garden in those huge, plastic bags.