AfricanKelli

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Juliann, Jennie and I got together yesterday to try out Juliann’s new pasta attachment on le KitchenAid. Several hours, many laughs and a couple of bottles of wine later…

Delicioso!

This was actually so much fun, it almost made me reconsider my superstitious notions of owning a KitchenAid pre-marriage. Almost.

~K

I have a bunch of fixes that need to be done around my small home. Some of them scare me (electric, plumbing) to try myself. Some I’m just clueless where to start (cutting new screening for a window, replacing a bathroom cabinet.) I finally resorted to requesting handyman recommendations from friends on Twitter when Matty caught wind of my plans.

To say his ego was wounded was a bit of an understatement.

A HANDYMAN?!  WHAT WAS HE?

Um, my friend? My roommate? Not someone I would expect to use power tools?

YOU ARE GOING TO PAY SOMEONE FOR THIS?

Once the all-CAPS screamy voice stopped, I asked if he’d consider building a new garden gate. The current gate is old and sagging. The wood is warped and it no longer opened entirely because the length had sagged lower than the height of the exterior walkway. In other words, it was real damn annoying to use and we’d been doing so for years.

Enter Matt, the African educated golfer who swooped into the hardware store and $30 and 2 hours later created an entirely new gate.

There was much personal satisfaction from this little project and much admiration and fawning on my part. I honestly would start this sort of project in a burst of enthusiasm and end up in the ER with 8 fingers. He made it look easy. And in all fairness, from what he says, African prep school is far more practical. They didn’t spend nearly as much time learning useless theorems when they could have been learning how to replace a farm’s water pump, a car engine and apparently — basic carpentry.

Makes my senior year of creative writing look pretty shabby by comparison. Or does it? I did creatively sweet talk him into building the gate with all too effective threat of hiring another man to get the work done.

I’d say I won this little round…

~K

You are familiar with Murphy’s law. And perhaps even my friend Adam’s law. (“Some people say, ‘You make your own luck.’ Most of those people are pretentious assbags.”) This weekend I finally figured out my very own.

Kelli’s law goes a bit something like this: over-think the task at hand, create lists and schedules and completely stress yourself out when these don’t fall into place as planned, reject all compliments given concerning the final project because in your mind it wasn’t 100%, and call the entire thing a failure. Regardless, the majority of those around you have no clue you are so upset — otherwise, you’d be adding that guilt to your plate too.  Instead, be the whiny martyr and smile through your aggravation only to blog about it later.

My parents are in town. I’ve been excited about their visit for weeks and invited some of our closest family friends over for dinner Friday night. Of course, my parents wanted to go out and I wouldn’t hear of it. So I took Friday off from work and spent the morning shopping, chopping, cooking, cleaning and planning. These are not chores in my mind; I am my happiest in the domestic habitat.

The meal included pesto and olives on baguettes with wine for an appetizer, chicken parmigiana and creamy pumpkin pasta and spinach salad for the main course, and spicy mexican brownies for dessert.

We sat on the patio under the stars and ate by candlelight. Decanters of wine flowed and the conversation was plentiful. And while I wish I could relax a bit and admit I pulled this off, I can’t. I wish the food had been warmer, the linens on the table had matched and a few other things had gone the way I’d planned. I fully recognize I’m letting my perfectionist tendencies ruin what was otherwise considered a great night, but alas, that is why this is Kelli’s law.

Happy customers: my papi, Martha, my mami, Martha Jr., and Alberto.

Every drive yourself crazy with your own kooky behavior? I’d love to hear them. Leave a comment and I’ll pick one for a Thanksgiving apron later this week.

~K

I’ve been reading, “The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven,” — a short story collection by Sherman Alexie. He is one of my friend Juliann’s favorite authors. This was such a quick and shocking read. I very much enjoyed it.

Alexie describes frankly the disparities of living on the reservation and the cliches that haunt his people.  He writes, “It is hard to be optimistic on the reservation. When a glass sits on the table here, people don’t wonder if it’s half filled or half empty. They just hope it’s good beer. Still, Indians have a way of surviving. But it’s almost like Indians can easily survive the big stuff. Mass murder, loss of language and land rights. It’s the small things that hurt the most. The white waitress who wouldn’t take an order, Tonto, the Washington Redskins.”

In another story, when a police officer offers a Indian child a piece of candy, disease bubbles to the surface. “I’m sorry, Detective Clayton,” my father said. “But my son and I are diabetics.” “Oh, sorry,” the detective said and looked at us with sad eyes. Especially at me. Juvenile diabetes. A tough life. I learned how to use a hypodermic needle before I could ride a bike… The detective looked at us both like he didn’t believe it. All he knew was crinimals and how they worked. He must have figured diabetes worked like a criminal, breaking and entering. But he had it wrong. Diabetes is just like a lover, hurting you from the inside. I was closer to my diabetes than to any of my family or friends. Even when I was all alone, quiet, thinking, wanting no company at all, my diabetes was there. That’s the truth.”

Good, brief read. Three out of five bananas, absoloodle. I’m now (still) reading “Blindness” and have “Anam Cara” on deck. ~K

I am not exactly a cat lover. In fact, I’ve been known to say that the best cat is one deep fried. My mom was bitten by a cat on her face as a child; her own litter grew up hating the feline world in solidarity.

Come to find out, that is really dumb. There are some very sweet kitties in this world and Woody and Yogi are at the top of the list.

I know. Woody says it is going to take a little more time to believe such news. I no longer hate cats.

Yogi is also a skeptic.

Abby, however, is such a cuddler and purrs like an engine when you rub her belly.

We’ve spent quite a bit of time hanging out by the fire for the last two unseasonably cold days in Golden. I’m not saying I’m ever going to own a cat, but I can see why they are sweet to have around.

Bruno, on the other hand, is coming home in my luggage. Love this little guy!

~K

This man has talked me into cable and internet at home. I must say, the internet so far is pretty awesome, as are the cooking channels and my new-found access to Whale Wars.

He did a victory lap after the cable man left, sitting promptly in front of the tv with the golf station whispering away.   It was almost like my home was protesting the change. The poor cable man had to drill nearly a dozen holes in a variety of external in internal walls before he could finally get things straight. The price is minimal when split, but I’m truly hoping this doesn’t change my way of life. More reading, less tv is going to be significantly harder now that Paula Dean is in my living room.

Then again, with this new entertainment and the ability to immediately post photos, I was submerged in creativity, completing a handful of projects:

Those T-shirts for the commenting winners

The quilt for baby Owen, including hand stitching the binding. Wrapped, delivered and received with happiness. That sweet boy will be here soon!

And a new bag with bamboo handles. Last week, when having lunch at a nice restaurant downtown meeting new donors*, I saw a woman come in with a simple floral bag with bamboo handles. The bag looked so nice and classic. I knew I could recreate it; $6 and one hour later, I have a thank you gift for the weekend’s fundraising caterer. I’m looking forward to purchasing more bamboo to make a series of summer bags in this fashion.

~K

*During this meeting (with a Senator and his lovely wife, no less) I managed, in a move only I could muster, to step just right when leaving the restroom and catch my sandal. It snapped, leaving me with one shoe 2 minutes before the lunch started. Nothing says, “Welcome Senator! Now, please consider giving us money!” like the blushing, barefoot girl.  Help me Rhonda, I hope they were looking at my smile and not at my sole.