
TAMARA KELLS The Brunette Lucy: I'm a free lance writer, who writes about family life, parenting, & the dumb stuff I do; always with an eye towards humor & optimism. My column ran for years on AOL, and has also been in the Town & Country & The Philadelphia Inquirer, Phil. Metropolis, assorted magazines & newspapers.I'm currently writing my book about my battle with breast cancer.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Crafts for Christmas - or Stuff I Shouldn't Do
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Cell Phone Wars
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Whatever happened to 70's sticom characters?
Saturday, September 26, 2009
My Glamorous Birthday
Sparkly baubles, convertible for the parade, $100,000.00
Friday, August 28, 2009
Tamara & Michele's Excellent Adventure
Well, we’re back. And, thank God Michele went with me. Apparently, the Garmin was programmed incorrectly (who could have seen that one coming). Had we followed the directions that the computer kept screaming at us, we’d have unintentionally been Thelma & Louise. I say that because I’m quite certain that it would have launched us off a bridge & into the
We wandered around the Sports complex section of
We were going up the stairs to the building, when Michele suggested I take a picture. Well, as she said, “After that guy gets out of the way”. The guy was taking way too much time to get down the stairs, & Michele was getting a little annoyed - & who could blame her.
That’s when it hit me, & I reached out my hand & said, “Mr. McNabb? My name is Tamara Kells.” Yup, it was quarterback Donovan McNabb. I was happy just to have met him, when Michele said “go take a picture with him!!” So I did, after I stopped shaking. He was very nice, asked some questions & was more than patient with me. It was hard for me not to pinch his cute little cheeks.
We made it into the building, when I began to notice some of the Eagles were, in fact, in said building. Now, had I known that, I would have studied the roster so I could call them by their names. Instead, we just watched them all go by & smiled & said hello. Now THAT was surprising – the fact that they were there & I didn’t stop them even if I didn’t know their names. And, no, I didn’t see Michael Vick. That I know of. It’s probably a good thing that Big John Runyan wasn’t there. He’s my favorite Eagle of all time.
Derek came down, & brought out a big ol’ box, filled with Eagles t-shirts. We pulled the car up, & he loaded it into the trunk. He was very sweet, told me that what we were doing was really nice, & that if I needed anything else, to let him know (he doesn’t know me very well, does he?). Bonus, he was really cute.
It was too early to go to the Phillies, so Michele took me to Tony Luke’s. Apparently, I was supposed to be impressed, but I’d never heard of this place. This quickly became evident to Michele, who thought I should be admitted to the nearest hospital for crazy people (not that she would have been far from wrong).
Still, good food. Then, it was on to the Phillies.
We went into the wrong parking lot at first. A really, really sweet girl helped me by taking me into the building to an office where I was directed to the right place. At this point, I should note that the gate I went through to go into said office was one way only. I was on the wrong side of the gate, while Michele & the car were on the other. Thankfully, she noticed my plight, & opened the door for me. If not, I’d still be wandering around aimlessly, begging for alms.
We finally get to the right area, but, sadly, the office was a good clip from where we’d parked. Normally, a light walk wouldn’t have been a problem. But, noooo. I’d decided to wear a wedged pair of heels. My feet were killing me, & I was wobbling all the way there. I kept glancing at Michele, wondering if she was strong enough to give me a piggy back ride. I decided against it, since I couldn’t guarantee Alex that I’d get her home safe & sound as it was (due to traffic, the long drive & my driving “skills”). However, if I delivered her with a sprained or paralyzed spine, I somehow doubt he’d let her accompany me on any future excellent adventures. I carried on like a trooper (a big, whiney trooper).
We made it into the building & met Scott Palmer. He took us into the elevator, & the next thing we knew, we were on a behind the scenes tour of the ballpark. A very, very quick paced tour. Mr. Palmer, aka Jesse Owens, seemed to think we were prepared for a nice jog.
We went into the clubhouse, & Michele took pictures of all of the guy’s (I don't know what they’re called) locker thingys. We saw the batting cages, went out onto the ball park, & Michele was able to take a picture with the World Series trophy. Thankfully, Mr. Palmer took the picture, as I couldn’t take a clear picture of a snail taking a nap. I think I may have annoyed Mr. Palmer, though, because the first thing that came out of my unedited mouth was, "Gee, this is a lot smaller than a football field".
Michele was able to keep up the brisk pace. I (however) was lagging behind, concentrating on not falling off my shoes & breaking my ankle. And if that wasn’t enough to keep me occupied, I began to have heat flashes. But a good scout is never unprepared, so I fished a fan out of my purse. I was able to surreptitiously fan myself until we rounded a corner. I dropped the fan.
Michele should really consider trying out for the Phillies. That girl practically dove to pick it up before our guide could see. But, ever the spry guy, he turned around & noticed. Good times.
We FINALLY made it to Palmer’s office for, “the interview”. He left & brought back some woman, who is their veteran’s affairs representative. We sat & listened to the stories of what they do for soldiers. And honestly, it’s impressive the work they do behind the scenes. I have to give them that. They listed all the good things they do; & all without recognition. So, kudos to them – seriously.
That was when I decided to ask if they would at least send something over to Rick & his unit. And they said YES!!!
They even went one step further. Mr. Palmer would like Rick’s
So, there you have it, folks, Tamara & Michele’s excellent adventure. And, again, I can’t thank Michele enough for accompanying me on it. If not for her excellent navigational skills, I’d probably still be wandering around
Tomorrow, I’m off to interview Kurt Landes, the GM of the Iron Pigs, Phillies’ minor league team. This time, I’m wearing flat shoes & I’m tossing the Garmin out the window. It’s only
Wait, never mind.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
I'm Too Stupid for my Car

I'm posting Kimberly Hedrick's favourite article. This appeared in T&C about 2 years ago.
I’m Too Stupid For My Car:
My husband, Matt, & I finally bought a new car. A brand new sporty Pontiac Grand Prix. To make a long story short, we’ve never in our married life paid more than $2500 for ANY car. I’ve been driving a 20 year old Chrysler for what seems like forever. I quickly became amazed & confused at the technology in these “new fangled contraptions”. Which, of course, meant I would never in a million years be able to figure it all out. No surprise there, I guess. Compared to this, my old car was the Fred Flintstone buggy in a Jetson world. And, trust me folks, I’m much more comfortable in the stone ages. Allow me to tell you about the many features my car has, how I found out about them, & how badly I use them.
The first thing I found out was that the windshield wipers work – really, really well. How did I find that out, you ask? Well, we were bringing it home from the dealership on a beautiful, sunny day. The kids were in the car with me & Matt followed in his van. We were SOOO ready to look all cool in my sporty new car. And that’s when it happened. I accidentally hit the windshield wipers, & couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to turn them off. All 20 miles to my house, they were going at seemingly warp speed. The kids gradually slid down in their seats so as not to be seen with the crazy lady with the wipers on. I look in the rear view mirror & see Matt laughing so hard I thought he was going to get in an accident. This should have been my first clue that this was going to be WAY tougher than I thought.
My car came with Onstar. I’ve heard of it, but didn’t have a clue what it was or what it did. With that feature, my car has its own phone & number – ITS OWN PHONE NUMBER!! Man, it’s like Kit from Knight Rider with a Neanderthal at the wheel. The buttons for this curious new piece of technology are located discreetly in the rear view mirror (that, I know how to work – the mirror, I mean). There’s the phone button, the Onstar button & the emergency button. Thankfully, the emergency button is spaced farther over & has red markings. Unfortunately, the phone & Onstar buttons are right next to each other. (You’ve got to know where this is going). I love the phone feature, because I don’t have to find my cell phone, which is always at the bottom of my purse. So I use this feature, a lot. However, I seem to always push Onstar instead of the phone button. The operator comes on & says, “Hello, Mrs. Kells, what can I do for you today?” They were so sweet. But after getting it wrong for the hundredth time, this is what I get now: “Mrs. Kells (heavy sigh), did you push the wrong button again??” I was very proud, though, when one day I pushed the Onstar button by mistake. I searched my brain frantically for a reason other than the obvious, I’m an idiot. Ah-hah! I came up with, “Bubba! Did you hit that button? Bad dog! Sorry about that!” Happy with my quick thinking, I hung up - & hit the phone button on accident.
The car has an on board computer, that can tell me how many miles I can drive on the current tank of gas, the weather, if the tire pressure is low, & so on. It actually sends a monthly email to my husband, after giving itself a check up! This feature makes me laugh really hard. If I can't operate two simple buttons on a mirror, what in the world would I do with an entire computer? Besides, if I even tried to touch it, it would probably tell Matt on me.
Another cool little feature is that I can remote start my car up to 500 feet with my key chain. Honestly, at first, I was afraid to use it. I figured that as soon as a car this advanced had the opportunity to get away, I’d be staring at the tail lights. To this day, as I approach, I swear I see the headlights narrow like a child glaring at a spoonful of cough syrup. All the little computers are trying to decide if escape is possible. I wonder if it knows that even if it does manage to flee, Onstar will find it. Take THAT – stupid car!
All in all, all this technology is pretty much wasted on me. Maybe in a few years I’ll have figured out what all the buttons do. Right now, I’m afraid to touch the wrong one for fear I’ll find I have an ejector seat. Imagine my panic when it began to get dark & I couldn’t figure out how to turn the lights on! But, it has a nice, smooth ride, unlike the tank I used to drive. And, the kids & Matt know how things work (even Dakota, the 11 year old boy!). So, until I get used to it, I’ll have to always have one of them in the car with me. Too bad, though, because it has a really cool sound system. Guess it’ll be a while before I can blast Def Leppard. Oh, well. Times are changing, & either you go with it, or get out of the way. I’m looking into turning invisible.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Fire - again (sigh)

Yup, more fire to report. And this time, it wasn’t at the shore; it was in my kitchen.
I put a large pot of water on to boil & left the room for a moment. When I returned, smoke was billowing from the kitchen. I round the corner & was horrified to see a ball of fire on my stove. Turns out, I lit the wrong burner & the stack of pot holders on the stove was a glorious fire ball. I grabbed the small section that wasn’t on fire & threw the bulk of the burning cloths into the sink & doused them with water. However, being new to fire fighting, I didn’t realize that would increase the already choking level of smoke.
Ever the Ethel to my Lucy, Elyse ran in to help (that's her picture up top).
We managed to get the last of the fireball into the sink & decided that we would perish soon if we didn’t open windows & turn off the air conditioner. I should point out at this time that our house is old, & the windows are heavy. We rush over & begin to lift the beast, when I lost my grip. The heavy window came crashing down, & smashed Elyse’s finger. So now I’m tending to Elyse’s finger, the house is rapidly filling with smoke, I knew I had to open the window & I should turn the a/c off. If this isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.
Finally, we determined that Elyse’s finger wasn’t broken, & had some of the windows & doors open, when Matt comes up the stairs & into the mix. Realizing that this was, in fact, an actual emergency, & not just one of my Lucy moments, he began to help open the other windows. While he’s opening other windows, he’s muttering about the “blankety blank” smoke detector not going off & how we could have all been killed & what was I thinking turning on the burner & leaving the room?
Boy’s friends were over at the time, & like moths to a flame, were anxious to get their front row seat to the screaming woman, injured daughter, smoke filled, man cursing carnival that was playing out before their eyes. I half expected one of them to ask if we had popcorn.
We managed to get the smoke out of the house, yet there’s still a tinge of the odor when I turn on the oven. But, thankfully, we’re all safe & the house didn’t burn down around us. Yet.
Friday, June 12, 2009
A Dog Named Bubba

Our family adopted our labs two years ago. Their original names weren’t dumb enough, so we changed them to Bubba & Mae-B (pronounced “maybe”). They were 3 & 4, respectively. Mae-B is your normal, yellow lab. She’s loving, playful, & willing to go anywhere with anyone at any time as long as they pet her. Bubba, on the other hand, is her polar opposite. He’s black, the size of a small pony, &, sadly, stupid; really, really stupid, but in a good, cute way. We also surmised that he had been abused, as he was quite skittish & never wagged his tail. I used to inspect it to see if it was broken somewhere. Of course, my husband, Matt, would make fun of me & ask where I got my vet training.
When we first got him home, my daughter, Aubrie (the dog whisperer), was the only one he wanted to be around. She’d walk into a room, & right behind her was her shadow. But, she loves him & he loves her right back. Next to gain his trust was Elyse & Dakota, followed by me. Matt is just now getting his grudging seal of approval. He's quite the comic, even though he never means to be.
Bubba had a Flintstone sized bone that he carried around the house. Between his size, & the added width of the bone, he had trouble fitting though doors. Honestly, it is pretty funny watching this goliath trying over & over – think pinball machine & you’ve got the visual. If we were nice people, we’d probably have turned his head for him. Seriously, though, it was just too funny. He’s afraid to drop it because Mae-B would pick it up. The ensuing tug of war is comical.
Bubba hates change as much as Britney Spears hates underwear (& apparently, long term relationships). Matt recently installed a tile floor in the kitchen. When Bubba saw it, you could literally see what he was thinking. “Are you people KIDDING me?” He often loses his footing. & ends up sliding on it as if it was ice. This, of course, freaks him out & he runs away. Well, kind of runs away. It takes him a few seconds to catch his footing. In the meantime, his legs are going a mile a minute & he looks like he should be in a cartoon.
Bubba is finally wagging his tail, & I kind of wish he didn’t learn. With one swipe, he took out a string of lights at Christmas. He’s knocked over lamps, tables, & the occasional kid. If I hear something crash, I don’t even have to wonder what happened. I just yell to the kids, “Bubba?”
But on the bright side, he loves us & we love him right back. He may not be the brightest bulb on the planet, but he's ours. And we couldn't be more happy.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Fire at Shore
On last year's trip to the shore, we had not one, but two close calls with fires. The first one came after my beloved mother in law, Gretchen, helped dry Dakota’s clothes. He’d been in the ocean. She put the oven on low, put his pants & hoodie in the oven, & dried them successfully.
The following day, Elyse’s clothes were also wet (this time from the now traditional tsunami that swept through). Remembering her Grandmother’s ingenuity, she, too, used the oven to dry her clothes. However, being new to the subtleties of oven drying, she put her pants directly on the heating element. And, to speed the drying process, put the oven on 350 degrees. Needless to say, we smelled smoke.
Thankfully, Matt removed the fire ball that had been Elyse’s jeans & was able to douse the flames. Smoke filled the room, & we were concerned that the fire department would be summoned shortly. Which they were.
The following day, a new “neighbor” moved into the apartment next door. She was an odd woman, but sweet. She entertained nightly & seemed to have an aversion to being inside her apartment. Outside in the shared hall drew the lion’s share of the crowd. Massive quantities of alcohol were consumed. We knew this due to the many, many empty bottles surrounding the extra large common trash receptacle. But, that was nothing compared to her cooking habits.
Apparently she enjoyed barbequing so much that she brought down a miniature hibachi. As most folks do, she set about getting the coals ready. Unlike some, she appeared to use half a bottle of lighter fluid on this miniature hibachi. She withdrew into her room to take a “nap” & let the coals get hot. I say “nap” because I think that sounds better than “passed out”.
And, yes, the coals got hot. In fact, flames erupted, & lept to the balcony above. Rousing our neighbor proved futile, so Matt & some others were able to douse the flames. Right before the fire department got there.
Normal people, upon finding that they almost burnt down an entire block, would determine that this wasn’t, perhaps, the best course of action to pursue. Our neighbor, however, did not. She tried again, & this time, thankfully, with no further incident. That being said, Matt & I had the kids throw their clothes into our suitcase. We wanted to be prepared in the event that we’d have to flee to avoid becoming our neighbor’s main course.
Thankfully, the remainder of the weekend went by smoothly. But.... This year's trip was not without incident. I'll write more about, "The Bird", later. In my crazy life, it's always something.
After all, I AM the Brunette Lucy!
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Back from Ocean City
Boy decided that a dip in the ocean was a good idea. Of course, the ocean water was still freezing. It took a while to defrost him. I was a little worried about brain damage for a while, though. He wanted to go back in. Sigh. Fortunately, he's completely thawed, & his lips aren't that weird shade of blue anymore.
Thankfully, Elyse didn't light her pants on fire this time. Aubrie didn't get sick, Matt only got mildly sunburned, & I did what I do best - shopped.
We left feeling great & Ocean City was still standing. Of course, the kids have standing orders never to look back. Just in case.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Flood Alert!
We've been doing this for 21 years, & it has never failed. It rains, and rains, and rains. I'm not talking scattered showers or your run of the mill rain storms. I'm talking about torrential, sideways, build an ark fast, type of rain. Oh, & wind. Almost hurricane force wind, & ocean swells of several feet. This is so that even if you can find a place to take shelter along the boardwalk, a small tidal wave will most certainly find you. Only industrial strength umbrellas can withstand the force. And even they have turned themselves inside out.
Another thing you can be sure of is that Sunday will be beautiful. The sun will come out in all its glory; reminiscent of the type of glorious scene Noah saw. The wind will be a gentle breeze, & the weather will be a balmy 80. Why do I know this? Because we leave on Sunday. This, too, has never failed.
Well, I've got to go. We're packing up now. Matt's loading lumber & tools on top of the van, along with schematics for rapid ark building.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Twitter stuff

I have an account on Twitter. I have no clue how to use it. So, I've taken to writing really dumb "musings". Then, I stumbled upon a link in Twitter, that linked it to the blog. So, even if you don't use it, you can still see how dumb my musings really are. And, if you know what I'm actually supposed to be doing on Twitter, would you put me out of my misery? And, probably anyone else that decides to "follow" me. The link is on the left of this page.
This ought to be good!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Boys & Girls
When my girls were little, they played with Barbies. They’d raid my closet, jewelry box & makeup to play dress up. But, not in the creepy, “Toddlers in Tiaras”, beauty contest kind of way. We watched sweet “videos” like “The Little Mermaid” & “Aladdin”.
When they had their friends over, they held tea parties. I’d make little peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, put in their favourite video & they danced around & sang like happy little idiots . I’d do their hair & let them play with my makeup. Who cared if they got lipstick over most of their face? That’s why God made face cream. I didn’t have to explain to their friends’ moms why I was returning their children looking like clowns. They knew exactly what had happened. Aubrie & Elyse came home plenty of times with blue eye shadow that was deposited in greater quantity on their foreheads than eyelids.
Enter The Boy, Dakota. When he was little, the girls drew him into their make believe world. They considered him their own walking, talking doll. That boy wore more makeup, bows, dresses, wigs & sequins than most 3 year old boys should ever have to endure. They’d take that cute little curl at the top of his head & attach some type of bow or barrette (complete with rhinestones) to hold it firmly in place. I still have a picture of him in a tutu, holding a wand. The girls & their friends were gathered around him, giddy with their masterpiece.
Then, The Boy grew up. And he has friends. Friends who are also boys. Remember all that fun, squishy girl stuff I spoke longingly about? Well, just throw that out the window. Boys are different. Really, really different. My entire mindset was to be changed. And not necessarily for the better.
The days of dressing up in frilly clothes have been replaced by dressing up as Darth Vader. Of course, Boy had to have the Darth Vader mask, which comes complete with a voice distorter & heavy breathing. Remember when that WASN’T a good thing – the heavy breathing, I mean?
The cute fairy wands are now light sabers. Boy tells his friends to bring theirs over, & the battle ensues. Unfortunately, most of the wars have been waged in my living room. The casualties, sadly, have been pieces of art, pictures & lamps. Thankfully, Matt & I planned for that. We only buy cheap stuff so that if it gets broken, it’s not so bad. I didn’t, however, plan for how much was to be broken at the hands of Boy & his friends! On the bright side, I get to change the look of my living room every six months or so.
The dulcet sounds of the Little Mermaid singing, “Wandering free, Wish I could be, Part of that world” have been replaced with the sound of swords clashing & voices yelling, “en guarde”. The only music that’s played comes from Rock Band. The songs are usually some grunge band that seems to be particularly irritated about one thing or another. What, I have no idea. I don’t understand a word they say. I’m told that the words are scrolled across the top of the screen. Problem is, they’re so small, I need binoculars to read them. That’s ok, as I somehow doubt I want to know what it is they’re lamenting, no, make that screaming, about.
Soft, stuffed teddy bears are now walking, talking robots. Robots that screech, “Intruder alert, intruder alert”. Night vision & spy gear are littered throughout our house. Boy even rigged the entrance to his room with some type of electric beam. Now, whenever I go in there, an alarm blares & the robots attack.
Barbies have been replaced with GI Joe & army men. His room is more often than not a war zone. He has army men & tanks stationed all over, readying for the imaginary war. Tanks with flashing lights & realistic battle sounds. Loud realistic battle sounds. Pillows are mountains, rugs are lakes, dressers are cliffs, & the army men are strategically placed all over them. I’m beginning to think Boy will end up being in the military. At least he could use his stealth battle plans to some type of use. Hopefully, not for evil.
Food lasts in my house about as long as it takes me to get it out of the grocery bags. I’m constantly begged to get the normal, kid “staples”. You know, Fritos, soda, cupcakes, & anything that’s sweet, salty, full of preservatives or fried. Stuff that makes me gain weight just being in its vicinity. I do wonder, though, if there’s some type of growth hormone in junk food. Boy & his friends are shooting up like fireworks.
Yes, there’s a difference between boys & girls; don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. And if you don’t believe me, have yourself one or three. But the differences are funny, baffling, heart wrenching, hilarious, & just about every adjective under the sun. I wouldn’t change one second of every minute with my kids.
Now, bring on the grand babies!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Hoping to Write
I was hoping to hear that the people whose style I attempt to invoke, such as Erma Bombeck, Dave Barry, etc. were in demand. Heavy Sigh & dashed hopes!
On the bright side, I can still write & bother you, you lucky minions! Ok, I’m done.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Snoring
I went in search of every ear plug known to man. I put in foam plugs that were supposed to mold to my ear, thus eliminating any sound from getting in. Problem with those, however, were that they felt weird. I couldn’t take them for long, as I’d have to pull them out & then clean my ears. I tried plastic & water filled ones & even an industrial pair given to me by my Uncle Warren. Nothing. Either they were too much of a pain to keep in, they didn’t work, or they worked so well, I couldn’t hear my alarm clock.
So, I did what humans have an uncanny ability to do – adjust. I got used to the sound of a freight train next to me all night. I even stopped worrying about the pictures on the wall falling on me.
When the kids were babies, Matt would hold them on his massive chest in his chair. They grew up thinking all men snored loud enough to rattle pictures. When they were cranky, Matt would get them, sit in his chair, fall asleep & snore. This would put them right out. I have a myriad of pictures of this big man with these tiny babies sound asleep on their daddy. As they got older, nightmares or thunderstorms would send them into our room. We’d set up beds, & they’d fall fast asleep listening to Matt snore. Thunderstorms had nothing on him!
Then, one day, we found out that he needed surgery on his heart. They did test after test, including a sleep study. It was determined that Matt had one of the worst cases of sleep apnea they’d ever seen, which exacerbated what would be considered “normal” snoring. The sleep study guy said that he had no idea how I ever managed to fall asleep next to him!
After his successful heart surgery (& many hours of my worrying about him), he was sent home with a breathing device that made him look like Darth Vader. He was to put this device over his nose & mouth, thus forcing a constant amount of air so that he would get a full night’s rest. Problem was, it also stopped the snoring.
Yup, I said that was a problem! I went from sleeping next to a bear to complete & total silence. It was AWFUL! I entertained thoughts of pulling the mask off, just so I could hear the ever present sound. I thought better of it, though, as it was saving his life. Boogers. Not the life saving part, the part that he didn’t snore anymore.
And that’s when the irony hit me. At first, I tried to drown out his snoring. And now, after 20 years, I desperately wanted it back. Like the old saying, “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone”. So often in life, that saying holds true. How good we have it, but take it for granted. Or, worse, don’t notice.
I’m adjusting, slowly, to the lack of a rumbling train sleeping next to me. Of course, I had to buy a big ol’ fan that made a lot of noise. Still, if adjusting yet again is the benefit of having my big Matt around for a long time, then, I’ll adjust.
Besides, I still get my “fix”. When he falls asleep watching TV (which is pretty much nightly), I hear the now comforting, and missed, roar of a freight train. And I’m happy to hear my dear friend & husband making it.
Tamara Kells Website
Monday, March 9, 2009
Blogs & Twitters
Then, I got a “twitter” account on accident. I was trying to get in touch with the editor at the Inquirer. Since my article appeared there a while back, the head muckety mucks have changed. Well, he doesn’t post his email online. Instead, he has a link to his twitter thingy. I follow the link, & find out that I have to create an account to write to him. So, of course, I do what I’m told & did it.
THEN, & I really don’t know how this stuff happens, I get an email saying that Gavin Newsom is following me. Following me where?? Anywho, I look into who this guy is & it turns out, he’s the mayor of San Francisco. Ok, I personally didn’t have that little tidbit of information – Michele told me. Thank God for good friends!
Next thing I know, some guy named Dave Peck is following me. What am I; the Pied Piper?? I have no clue who that guy is, except that it appears he has some talk show on the radio. How in the world did these folks find me?
All this leads to a conversation our family had about blogs & twitters while on the way to eat (ooh, ask me about the Chinese buffet we went to! Holy cow, they had everything under the sun to eat & we went there because for some reason both the girls decided to give up meat for Lent which is making me crazy especially since right before they announced their plan, I bought a bunch of meat that was on sale & now I have a freezer full of beef I can’t cook. Um, probably another rant. I’ll stop).
Honestly, I can’t believe that this is where the English language is going. But I digress. I’m supposed to network through twitter to link to my blog, then get people to follow my blog, especially if they’re twitter people, because it’s supposedly the new “thing” to do, but “netiquette” requires me to then link to their blogs & twitters & follow them around. At this point, I got lost in the conversation. How do I link, why do I care, & why don’t people get paranoid when strangers are “following” them? Could I lead them off a cliff or something? It seems like a rather large responsibility to entrust to an idiot.
Matt then summed up, kind of, how folks link to bunches of people. Apparently, they can throw out a virtual net & get a bunch of people on their “followers” twitter home page. Don’t ask me for particulars – I zoned out during the explanation. I have no clue why people link, follow, twitter & blog. I’ll leave all that technical stuff up to Matt. I just do what I’m told.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Dancy Dance
I was at a homeschool function the other day when a mom remarked about my curly hair. I told her that it was natural and that my husband, Matt’s, was too. All three of our kids inherited our dark, curly hair.
Our first daughter, Aubrie, had Shirley Temple ringlets. We were constantly being stopped so people could admire it. So, we did what every good parent does that has a Shirley Temple look alike. We trained her like a circus monkey. We taught her to dance when we said, “dancy dance Aubrie”. She could be in the middle of eating and she’d drop her spoon, stand up, and dance. I’d put her in dresses with frilly socks and take her out. When people would admire her, I would tell her to dancy dance. And, like the good circus monkey she was, she performed.
Looking back, I wonder if that had an ill effect on her. I could be wrong, but her aversion to dancing as a teenager might, possibly, conceivable, albeit slightly, be in direct correlation to her youth.
Elyse, on the other hand, had baby fine, stick straight hair. Until she turned 6. Her hair exploded like microwave popcorn into a mass of curly, thick hair. Which, of course, she hated.
She would take her paper scissors and cut a nice, thick patch of hair at the root, right in the middle of her head. Of course, I tried to even it out so it wasn’t so noticeable. Other than shaving her head, she stuck out like a sore thumb. An adorable, brown eyed sore thumb.
Boy (Dakota) was born with little hair, except at the very top of his head. He had a patch of hair that curled like a kewpie doll. Of course, I thought it was adorable, and made sure that curl was always there. To add insult to injury, his sisters would dress him up like a ballerina and put a bow on top of the curl. I can see that he might not like his “girly” hair.
It, too, grew in like a storm in Kansas. Now, we can barely get a comb through it and it grows faster than we can cut it.
The kids are learning to cope with their hair. Aubrie has a firm grip on her curls, as well as an industrial strength straightening iron. Elyse figures if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em and leaves her curls alone for the most part. Dakota has resigned himself to the fact that other than shaving his head, he’ll have to live with the cards he’s been dealt. Besides, he looks just like his dad. Fortunately, he’s happy about that.
One day, Aubrie's dad will walk her down the aisle. At the reception, I'll get to dance with her new husband. We'll have come full circle when she gives me his hand and whispers, "dancy dance mommy".
Miracle on 12th Street
Courtesy of Normie Kells
For about the last 45 years, my husband, Matt’s, family has gone down to the shore every mother’s day weekend. It’s always a fun time to hang out with each other. This year, however, was different. My father in law, Cliff Kells (known to the grandkids as “Normie” – long story) passed the week before Thanksgiving. This was our first year without the family patriarch, who was such an important part of our lives for so many years. He also was my biggest cheerleader & champion of my writing. Throughout the following months, there were many signs that he was still with us. None, however, were as amazing & real as what happened on May 11th at the Tahiti Inn, Ocean City, NJ.
We arrived at our apartments on Thursday afternoon. The apartments surround a common courtyard, with sliding glass doors & windows facing it. Those are the doors that we used to get in & out of our units. Everything was fine, & nothing was unusual all day. The next morning, Matt went next door to his mom’s to have
coffee, & as he walked up to the sliding door, noticed something
unusual. There, clear as day, was a profile of Normie. At first, we thought it was from the fog, however, the profile stayed the entire day. You could see his nose, where the folds of his skin were, his eyes & his chin. Of course, there were doubters in the family. Things were mentioned such as Matt or his brother, Bill, did it. The problem with that is that Billy isn’t as tall as Normie & Matt is taller, & the face was exactly where it would be on Normie’s 6 foot frame. Also, even if you try to press your face against glass, the features are compressed. This was not. It looked as if Normie had stood there & a light was shined on his profile & embedded in the door. Later that day, my mother in law, Gretchen, went to church. She walked in & as she did, the organist played the first verse of “I am with you”. After the first verse, she quit & went on to another song, as if she didn’t know why she suddenly started playing that song.
I’ve always believed that our loved ones are never gone, & are around us. Normie has let us know for months. But, on 12th Street in Ocean City, he proved it to doubters & let his beloved wife know that he is, indeed, still with her.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Where's My Other Shoe?
WHERE’S MY OTHER SHOE?
My husband, Matt, said that I’m a pack rat. I couldn’t hear him, though, as he was standing behind a stack of unfinished projects. But if we ever get attacked by killer bees, he’ll be really glad that I saved all the netting that was going to be a bed canopy but turned into really nice padding for my unfinished ceramic coyote. I don’t really like the term, “pack rat”, though. I prefer to be called a collector of rarities.
I began to think that he may have a remote chance of being right one day. I was looking in my closet for a pair of pink sequined shoes that can only be worn with one specific outfit. I found the first one in record time, but I just couldn’t find its’ mate. I did, however, find my black satin special occasion purse, which still contained the dance program. What a nice walk down memory lane.
I also found a large bag of fabric paints. Technically, they can no longer be called paint, as they had dried up & were hard as a rock. With their pointed nozzle, they would make a really good projectile object. A bag of yarn, a few takeout menus & a stocking stuffer I forgot to give my son later, I conceded defeat. The pink shoe’s mate was not to be found. You’d think that the obvious thing to do would be to throw it away. But, what if I find the matching shoe? It really was a one of a kind. So, back it went into the closet. I set it free in hopes it would begin a quest for its partner.
Please don’t get the idea that my house is filled with boxes. Matt is too much of a neat freak for that. Or, uh, as he likes to call himself, a minimalist. All my “collections” are stashed away where no one can see; unless you open my bedroom closet. Do that, & all bets are off.
Occasionally, Matt would go through my stashes & throw things away. He didn’t think I knew (until now). One thing has stopped his major, secret cleansing rituals, though. I started saying, “Oh, well, if I can’t find it, I’ll just go out & buy another. You’d be surprised how quickly he can find what I was looking for.
Matt & I have been married almost 20 years now. Proof that a collector of rarities & a minimalist can live quite happily together. To celebrate, we’re going to go to dinner tonight. I’ve figured out what I want to wear. Now, where’s my other shoe?
Friday, February 13, 2009
Puzzled
My husband, Matt, is a puzzle fiend. Crossword, Sudoku, Jumbled Words, you name it, he loves them. I, on the other hand, hate them. Matt calls it a left brain/right brain issue. I call it a don’t care/too frustrating issue.
I do ok with jumbled word puzzles, but once I get frustrated, I’m done. Matt tried to explain what Sudoku is, & how it’s played. All I had to hear was that it was math related. After that, I had zero interest. Numbers make my brain hurt.
He recently emailed an intelligence test having to do with colors. The average person is supposed to get it right within 5 tries; he got it in 3. I, however, now have concrete evidence to point to that I actually have no brain. I got 14% on my first try, & 0% on two others. I actually got worse!
At first, there was no way I was going to divulge this little tidbit of knowledge. I figured I could just walk away & forget about it. Unfortunately, I couldn’t.
All I could think about was why didn’t I get this test? I’m not a complete idiot (as far as you know), & this test didn’t seem that hard. I’d go back & re-take it. Still, my score was “you’re so dumb, how can you even manage the controls?” Look, I’ve been told I’m not the brightest bulb by some, but a dumb computer is telling me I’m stupid? It was war.
I’d keep taking the test, failing, taking, failing. The more I tried, the worse I felt. Even in the shower, I was going over all the instructions, trying to figure out what I was missing. Then, I’d go back with renewed fervor, only to get laughed at by my computer – again.
That’s when I formed my conspiracy theory. Maybe it was a joke that Matt thought would be funny. And, what if he really DIDN’T get it in 3 tries? What if he was trying to tell me he thought I’m an idiot? Was he doing this on purpose to make me crazy?
Well, by the time he got home, I’d worked up a good ol’ case of mad. I hollered at him & told him exactly what was on my pea sized mind! He looked at me as though I’d lost it, & then, & then, had the nerve to suggest that maybe I wasn’t reading the instructions. That’s when I told Mr. Man what he could do with his puzzle.
After trying, hard, to contain himself, he showed me what I failed to figure out. Then, he bust out laughing. I couldn’t believe how easy the mistake I’d made was, or how silly I felt yelling at him. Then, I promptly sat down & re-took the puzzle/test, & got 100%.
I guess the moral of the story is, don’t take out your lack of problem solving on those you love. Either that, or, don’t take stupid puzzle/tests. And, sadly, in my case, the real moral is that I’m an idiot, & shouldn’t be allowed near computers. ‘Nuff said.
The Curious Case of the Brunette Lucy

She was pretty dumb.