life according to me
In spite of completely ROTTEN refs and Peyton Commercial King Manning, the Sunshine Boys have won. Without L.T. and without their first string quarterback.
Clearly, the MoH and the RTR are not very happy…Bwahahahahahaha!
Of course the carnage on the field is allowing the New Cheating England Patriots some glee in anticipation of their supposed perfect season and Super Bowl win.
But.
The fat lady has not yet begun to sing.
Just wait.
Cheaters never win, Bill.
So we made it to Virginia and after a few days of very grey skies and a refreshing chill in the air, it totally warmed up to near 60 degrees and then rained. Sheesh. And today?
The freaking sun is out. What’s up with that? You would think that when you fly across the damn country for the holidays at least it could pretend like it was going to snow. Feh.
That list I made before I left had to get done or we wouldn’t have been able to get on the plane. So no problem there. When the shuttle driver arrived at the front door to collect us, the house was decent, the presents for the older boys were snuggled under the tree and as an added bribe to them to take care of the house while we were gone, we had the RT open one of his presents we couldn’t take…a gamer’s computer (HP Pavilion Elite) with a 22″ flat panel monitor and a humongous graphics card (XFX GeForce 8800 GT XXX) and I have to swagger around a bit when I say that even though I have absolutely NO idea what I’m talking about) that had to have its own power source (or some kind of a fan thingy installed). We had it installed before we left the store (Fry’s Electronics, thank you very much and NOT BEST BUY Bwhahahahahahaha Losers…) by a sales/tech guy who was completely cool, talked the entire time he was putting it in and answered everyone else’s questions at the same time — including “The Wife” on his cell a couple of times regarding being home on time for a change. The guy works 16 hour days. Amazing. We came home with a fist full of rebates I now have to complete so we can actually have a few checks in the mail at some point in the next century. I’ve done them before and I swear we never get anything out of them — most likely because I forgot to cross a “t” or dot an “i.”
Now the cool thing about this computer is that it also functions as a TV, so that helps us out a bit in the area of ensuring that we can all be in separate rooms watching different programs and never see each other ever again. Trick. AND (drum roll…) now neither the MoH or the RT has to use my Mac. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT.
Seriously. It’s mine, mine, mine. ALLLLLLLLLLL mine and they don’t get to TOUCH it.
EVER. So I’m sure the two older boys (okay, so they’re men, but you know how that goes when you’re the mom, right?) are enjoying it while the RT is away. And you can imagine the RT is sweating a bit because he had to leave it at home and is now stuck in this female infested house for the holidays. My sister does have a Wii, though, so people have been having a blast with that. I haven’t succumbed, but most likely will tonight after a couple glasses of wineski.
Enough of that nonsense.
So I just wanted to let you know we were all alive and well, have celebrated my mom’s 70th birthday in true style (there wasn’t a fancy dress in the house…) and took some photos I’ll have to try and share later. Totally hilarious. Oh, and “we” constitutes my sister’s family (husband and two younger daughters) her oldest daughter and her boyfriend (who left Monterey, CA to live here instead and are holed in upstairs indefinitely..) my mother (who’s living in the basement sort of indefinitely, but actually more like temporarily…) a dog, and three cats who all have to be kept away from one another. Oh. And us. Quite the household.
Today, more lists are in order — but they’re the lists I’m good at that include miles of ingredients and a sequence of what to prepare in which order. With one last trip to the grocery store (there have already been two…) we’ll be ready to hunker down for a fun night of dessert making, toasting (instead of the roasting we did to my mom last night), and preparing for our holiday breakfast and then dinner later.
The MoH and RT are out today with my seester doing the turismo thang in D.C. I’ll venture out on Wednesday (which is our wedding anniversary) and make like a tourist myself. Maybe I’ll even twist the MoH’s arm a bit for a swanky dinner or something.
In the meantime, I sincerely hope you are warm, doing what fills your heart — regardless of what it is — and that you are healthy.
Thanks for visiting my little space in the Bloggosphere so often this past year. You have helped to take me from the exhausted, burnt out, frazzled, and completely flattened person that I was, to a person who laughs much more than she used to, and who has also recovered something she thought she’d lost for good — writing.
YOU ROCK!
Oh look everyone. Another Saturday. I continue to be amazed that the days on the calendar just whip by with such complete disregard for the fact that I’m on the back side of a half century and it’d be nice if things could slow down a bit. Not permanently, of course. But long enough to allow for the extended time I require to think about things that really don’t matter in the grander scheme of the universe and the survival of the species. I don’t know which particular species, but still.
But there are some things that matter so much, I can’t imagine what I’d do without them. The loss so many have experienced this past week in San Diego in the wildfires has prompted me to wonder about choosing if I had to. But my choices aren’t necessitated by a fire. They’re the result of simply taking stock, and acknowledging what keeps me anchored. Understood is that family and friends are not something to be considered here. Period.
Solitude. I can be around many, many people. But I prefer not to. I love the busy roar of a large city, but not as much as a winding road and low grass covered hills. And music? It can bring me to tears, cause me to dance, or force me to sing along whether there are words or not. But even music can’t compete with my need for solitude. The quiet I enjoy for part of every day when the only sound I can hear is the rustle of trees outside my window, or the creak of wood somewhere in the house matters. Plain, simple quiet.
My stove. I could say cooking, but not being one of those Top Chef type people, I wouldn’t want to have to cook on a hot plate, or a sterno flame. No. I’d need my stove. The one with the nine cheery red knobs. I’ve heard people say they love their cars — the purr of the engine, the handling, the acceleration. That’s how I feel about my stove. Ah…the sound it makes when those convection fans switch on. Vroom…vroom….It isn’t in my kitchen because its design is sleek, although it is. Or because its technology is a wonder. But it is pretty amazing. It’s in my kitchen because I use it. Seriously use it and have fun the entire time. It connects me to food and family and friends. Creativity and learning. Tradition and new cuisine. It provides the peace of mind that diligently proceeding through a set of steps can provide, and at the end of them all, have my taste buds sing. Could I have all of this without my particular stove? Certainly. But it just wouldn’t be the same. It weighs a bit more than my Mac at about 1,000 lbs. so it isn’t exactly something I can ever take with me if I go. But I’d find a way to get another. Trust me.
My Mac. It has one little plug that connects it to my house. One. But it connects me to so much more than I can possibly be connected to otherwise. Ironically, I’m writing this on the MoH’s laptop, and it’s fine, but it’s not my Mac. I could make due with a different computer if I didn’t have a Mac. I can buy just about anything I want, read (which would be another thing I wouldn’t do without because it’s like breathing), travel, learn, listen, create…But it wouldn’t be the same. Iwouldn’t have my lovely screen, or sleek white lines, or easily swiveleing-thingy-ness. I wouldn’t be able to waste copious amounts of time with iPhoto, or click open my Finder services for the Oxford dictionary (the Webster widget doesn’t come close…). And photobooth, and iChat (which I’ve just learned to use). Pathetic, isn’t it? Don’t even argue with me about this. I’m a goner. And iTunes? Well.
Rod wants to know what’s on my playlist. I don’t have an iPod (solitude, remember?) but I do happen to have three whole playlists on in my iTunes library which are organized very specifically. And when I check the list of songs I’ve played most, the following come up. They’re supposed to say much about who and what I am, or what I’ve been thinking. But I’ve developed an odd habit at this point in my life. I don’t listen to the words of songs. I listen for the melody. I listen to whether it’s written in a major or minor key, whether it’s sung by an uncomplicated voice and a single instrument, or an energetic voice and a band. And it’s all connected to mood. I listen when I have to write. When I have to sit at the computer and am easily distracted. I play it loudly, singing along — whether there are words or not. So I’m not sure what these particular songs say about me. I’ll have to think about it. But I’ll have to figure out what the words are first.
She Is    The Fray    (40)
Snow    Red Hot Chili Peppers (37)
Betty    Kate Walsh (26)
Savin’ Me    Nickelback (25)
If it Makes You Happy Sheryl Crow (25)
In Need Sheryl Crow (24)
What About Now Daughtry (23)
When the Lights go Down Faith Hill (23)
Photograph Nickelback (23)
Over You Daughtry (22)
Squeeze Me Diana Krall (22)
You’re Still Here Faith Hill (22)
Slow Like Honey Fiona Apple (22)
Tonight Kate Walsh (22)
Nearness of You Norah Jones (22)
This post was sponsored by Robert of Miscellaneous Ramblings who inquired about “Three Things I Wouldn’t Let Go,” and Rod of Inside Rod’s Head who insisted that “Our Players Don’t Lie.” The links provide the directions which are blissfully uncomplicated. Yes! There is a meme god in the sky.
What do you think chick, vanessa, paisley, meleah, mel, jenny, phil, rj, scott, and micki (whom I know has a “meme-free” zone, but am asking the question anyway)? It’s an interesting exercise combining the two…I’ll have to do some analysis on it after I figure out the words of the songs I’ve listed.
Have a splendiferous weekend.
See the face up there in the header? The one with the gaping mouth. That would be me. Me dealing with — or half-assed trying to deal with and summarily failing to deal with the heat. And the humidity. OH MY GAWD.
I knew I never liked this kind of weather. But now I know I really detest it. Completely. And one might think that one might lose some poundage since she’s sweating rivers all day. But no. Instead, I make like a dirigible, or something. Oh, that I could float away on a summer breeze to a place far, far away.
So if you’ve been taking notes, don’t ever plan a vacation here in August. Ever. Or September. Or October. It’s too freaking hot. And I don’t want to hear it from you guys from the Right Coast. Okay? You’re so done with the sucky weather about now, aren’t you? Plus, you get rain. We never get rain. Well, at least we haven’t had any this year. Okay, I know Texas is floating away and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, truly, but do you have any idea when the last time it rained here? Huh? My glasses are sliding off my nose. The inside of my elbows (is that an anatomically correct description?) are sticky, and the back of my knees (see parenthetical insertion earlier in this sentence) are beginning to drip. Hell, my fingers are sweating. Is that even possible? I’m beginning to feel like a braised dumpling.
It’s Sunday evening. I’ve just finished making yet another knock down drag out pasta dish. (Check out the lips in the side bar….swagger, wink) And a salad I’ll have to try again all by itself just to savor the interesting flavors. And where do you suppose everyone else is? Downstairs. They’re watching 300. A couple of them for the umteenth time. They’ve eaten, and now they’re going to wallow, yet again, in surround sound, chest thumping, guts and glory. No thanks.
I’ll just bitch and moan all by myself. (Insert fingers in ears at this point.)
I haven’t been cranky all day. I did get to slide into the Pacific a bit after 8:00 this morning, the sea grass no longer grossing me out to the degree it used to. The water a soothing 75 degrees. The water smooth as glass with barely a swell to disturb the surface. If only I could get my fins on gracefully. But no. No matter how regally I stride into the water, and then lower my body in to slip on my fins, even the most gentle swell pushes me back into the sea grass, knocking me on my ass, scooping copious amounts of heavily grained sand into the crotch of my conservative black Ralph Lauren one piece suit. The one that’s three years old. The one that if I suck in my gut, I don’t look quite so bad. Well, to me, anyway. Like that matters, since what I’m there for is to swim. I’ve developed a bit of the buff attitude since I’ve figured out that quite a number of people are less than comfortable with the idea of swimming in the ocean. Interesting. (This is another swagger opportunity.)
Today, I decided again to try the snorkel and mask so can swim differently, pick up more speed, and if I gird my loins, take a peek at any fish that may be swimming near by. Do I need to tell you what a pain in the ass the whole mask and snorkel are? Yes, the fish are great — well, the small ones — but the little black gizmo that keeps my snorkel pipe attached to my mask broke while I was already out some distance, so I had to find a different way to keep the stoopid pipe in the air. That would be the whole purpose of wearing it — so I could breathe while I was swimming, right? But then all was fine, and I was able to look at what little I could see under the surface of the water.
Long golden strands of kelp still attached to the sea bed swayed in the current, the water a slightly cloudy and pale aqua hue. A shadow here and there — perhaps my own or that of my friends — caught my eye occasionally. And there were columns of bubbles rising heavily to the surface, released by scuba divers far below. Occasionally a fish would leap from the water and then quickly back flop back in. And if I wasn’t paying attention, I found myself swimming in circles with my friends far ahead, calling, “Where are you going?” like it was some kind of a plan on my part. Yes, a plan to put one arm and then the other into the water and stroke, stroke, stroke to shore where by 9:00, the small sandy beach was already packed with people, their towels and blankets spread on the damp sand, ready to bake themselves in the already sweltering heat.
I’d like to be there right now, floating in the briny water. Letting the gentle swells lift me up, then leave me behind to wait for the next. It was lovely.
But now it’s hot. And it’s nearly 10 PM.
I’d go out on the patio to cool down since every window that can be opened is opened, and the air is thick, damp, and still. But I can’t. It’s that time of the year, and the orb weavers are back. They have a tendency to build their webs very near the patio door, and across the patio, so when one of us tries to venture out to get the cats in for the night, or to look up at the stars or the moon, we snap the web across our faces and run screaming back into the house. Well, not quite, but we’d like to. It’s pretty disgusting imagining whether the spider is in my hair or not.
The white blob in the center is the spider. If it’s this large already, I can’t wait to see how big it grows this season. Perhaps I’ll give them names this year. Gus. Or Barney. Maybe Eddie. Why not?
And it’s a bit sad to see the damage we cause after they’ve worked so hard all evening to create their webs. I’m sure they’re disgusted by us and our nighttime fumblings. But they get right back to business after we’ve gone, and by morning, they’ve taken the whole web down and are no where to be seen.
Just. Like. That.
I could mull over the paradox that is “America’s Finest City,” or what I lovingly refer to as Paradise:
palm trees and NIMBY pettiness;
temperate climes and a questionable, tenacious city attorney;
luxury housing and chronic homelessness; or
cutting edge schools and an on-going disparity in achievement between African American and Latino students, and Caucasian and Asian students.
But I’d rather not. Well, not today, anyway.
It was the MS’s (Middle Son) birthday yesterday, and at his request, we moseyed on over to Joe’s Crab Shack to sit upstairs, squint and sweat in the setting sunlight, eat, drink, and listen to The MS’s good friend talk about techniques for meeting women. It seems he’s purchased quite a number of products on eBay on the subject and is very close to being a poster child of sorts, soon to hit the road and profess his new found wisdom. The MoH was enthralled, but only long enough to ask about the young man’s success rate. Mmmm….numbers.
The RT remained mortified throughout the meal, especially since the MS’s friend directed a good bit of his commentary toward the RT, and encouraged him to “take notes,” because if he’d known at 15 what he knows today…well. The RT? A kid who couldn’t bring himself to walk down the “pink aisle” in Toys R Us when he was little? Uh, no. No note taking on the “how to snare women” lecture. But graciously, the MS’s friend shifted his tutelage to that of something more closely related to the RT’s interests: war games.
Before long, the two were discussing a way to profit from purchasing models, painting them, and then selling them. Of course, with some financial padding from D-A-D to really get things going. Great. Headlines on Yahoo read: “Teen makes fortune in garage. You, too, can have a home-based business…”
But the MS was quiet — a rarity. He’s already familiar with his friend’s good-natured schtick, but still. It was his birthday and he’s been making his presence known verbally since he was born, earning him the nickname, “Cryin’ Ryan.” No, he’s never been a whiner. Quite the opposite. He is much more quiet in his utterances now, but he always has something to say, always. Information, information, information. So I found myself wondering whether he regretted inviting his friend, whom we all have known since the two were in junior high, and have enjoyed. Who knows.
Maybe he was mulling over being yet another year older. Uh, what about me, here? Or rethinking Joe’s. They have been known to circle the table to howl a birthday ditty while urging the guest of honor to gallop around the restaurant, straddling a child’s pony on a stick. Really. Or, he could have been lamenting the lack of a Birthday Check at that point in the evening, which did surface later.
Perhaps it was the homemade card. 
(No, it’s not snowing — that’s art.)
The birthday “cake?” (I had the peaches, okay? And those are blueberries, not raisins, so unscrew your nose. Besides, it’s not your “cake.”)
And the greeting for his arrival on our front door? (What’d you expect? Balloons? That’s so junior high.)
Aren’t you glad you’re not one of my offspring? It takes work to keep them humble, but they keep coming back for more.
We finished our dinner and beverage-ez right at the 7PM tourismo hour, walked across the street to the beach and headed toward Crystal Pier to enjoy the sunset. Various and assorted “night folk” were already gathering, others settling in for the night with blankets, bags full of worldly possessions, and a ragged novel in hand to squint at in the waning light. Welcome to my bedroom…Only one less than cogent fellow verbally accosted us, yelling something none of us could quite understand. But we weren’t special, because he seemed not to discriminate in his quest to let people know he was there. Yelling. And trying to get into the restroom, which was locked. So add that to my list above:
Blazing sunsets and incoherent drifters.
Yes, you might be able to see just why Paradise is a veritable paradox — a place where you never actually have to stick your head in the sand to be a card-carrying member of the “not my problem” club.
You can just allow yourself to be hypnotized by the pretty colors.
Oh, and very handsome men. Whattahunkster. Nice guy, too. But he h-a-t-e-s having his photo taken, so this was a serious gift to me.
I’m surrounded by them.
But you won’t ever find me whining in the men’s room.
