AfricanKelli

One of the features I love most about reading dooce.com is how she writes about her husband. Boy, does she love him. And he, in return, writes about his love for her at blurbomat.com. It is sometimes gushy, sometimes funny and always sincere. I suppose if I knew Heather and Jon, I’d want to puke. But alas, they are like television sitcom stars — I only think I know them. Therefore their public devotion is sweet and tolerable.

I’m nervous about writing about my relationship on-line because who knows what the backlash could be. Mostly, I am hesitant because I know it would embarrass the hell out of my partner. Thankfully, I still care what he thinks, so I’ll keep this short.

Tomorrow begins a six-day challenge that may define the rest of “R’s” life. He is beginning the final stage of PGA tour school. Don’t ask me to explain the stage qualifying process. If you really want to read about it, visit here. Let’s just say they aren’t kidding when they call it the most arduous task in professional sports.

He’s been dreaming about playing on this tour since childhood, when he’d caddy for older players so he could walk the course. I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone so determined. He eats, breathes and dreams golf. He wants this more than anyone I’ve ever met has wanted anything.

Being near this source of motivation is at times tiring, but usually inspiring. It makes me want to have something to chase with such passion. It makes me want to love an idea, a goal as much as he does. It makes me want to get up in the morning with a hunger for the day’s work ahead. (Mostly, it makes me want to have the energy and resources to write the stories bouncing around in my head.)

I’ll update the scores, starting tomorrow, for the next six days. He’ll need to finish top 30 out of 168 men to receive his PGA tour card. For now, all we can do is wear his lucky color in support (purple), send positive thoughts, and plan the post-party. If you’ve got any advice about golf course fashion, I’d love to hear it. Think warm, comfortable, and cute: africankelli@gmail.com.

Cheers,

~Africankelli

My friend John sent me a beautiful card this week. Isn’t getting personal mail great? You rummage through the “have you seen this kid” postcards, the pizza coupons and the countless credit card offers only to find a handwritten letter from a friend. It is like finding treasure! I was so happy, I couldn’t wait to get back to my little casita. I sat on the curb next to the stuccoed mailbox and read:

“Every book has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it, and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.”

                                                                 — Carlos Ruiz Zafón

                                                               “The Shadow of the Wind”

I am blessed with awesome friends who read.

 ~AK

What do you learn after three days in nearly non-stop rain?

How much you should thank your parents for having the sense to raise you in a sunny climate.

I’ve been to
Seattle before and find it lovely. The rolling hills, glassy water, clean pine air. The people are multicultured and kind. The shopping and food are fantastic. (The traffic is awful — worse than LA in some parts.) The family I visited are one-of-a-kind in hospitality and graciousness.

With all of this in mind, I was still ready to shoot something this morning on the way to the airport. For the love of GOD people of Seattle — don’t you miss the sun? You know, that source of happiness in the sky?

We landed in Phoenix after a bumpy flight and a three-hour delay at Sea/Tac. Nonetheless, there was a consecutive sigh among all passengers when we landed. There, in the not to far horizon, was the sun. It hovered in its mightiness, cheered the smiling Phoenicians below and generously welcomed these new passengers.

That is when I realized, it is no coincidence why grunge, Starbucks and Prozac all sprouted from Seattle. The rain, the gloom, the ever-blowing freaking cold wind, make the sane crazy.

For some, in just three days.

Home sweet home,

Africankelli

Thanksgiving is my favorite day of the year, hands down. The food, the family, the relaxation and lack of stress – it is the recipe for my happiness. Plus, there is no awkward gift giving or receiving to foul everything up. In our family, it is a day dedicated to our love of carbohydrates and lots and lots of turkey.

This year, much to my grandmother’s unhappiness, I’ll be spending Thanksgiving with my boyfriend’s family in
Seattle. While my family is all of 10 people total, his immediate family could fill a 747. The good news is that I will blend and many will not realize I am not just another member of their clan.

One year, my Aunt Paula left a kernel of corn in front of each person’s plate at the table. She wanted us to go one by one and say what we were thankful for. Then we would add the kernel to a centerpiece. It seemed cheesy at the time, but it got us to think about why we love each other.

When I said that I loved Thanksgiving because of the pumpkin pie, eyes rolled. Eating pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving meant that my grandmother had spent time preparing it. She used her mother’s pastry cutout in the shape of a leaf. She sprinkled brown sugar on top. She proudly brought it to my aunt and uncle’s home so we could oooh and aawww and stick our fingers in it when no one was looking.

My grandmother was healthy enough to do this. And, as an 8-year-old, I couldn’t explain the emotions behind my declaration of love for pumpkin pie, but my grandma knew anyway. She winked at me and cut me a giant slice.

I am thankful that I have eaten her pumpkin pie for every Thanksgiving for 24 years. (One year I was away at school and it was depressing.)

This year, I’ll eat another woman’s pie and I’ll smile and be merry, but I’ll know that there is an empty seat at my grandma’s house with my name on it.

Without any more pandering, these are a few things I am thankful for this year:

1. My family’s health. My grandparents, parents and brother have had an up and down year, but everyone has pulled through and are doing well.
2.  My friends. They listen to me complain, read my silly web site and love me and my gangly ankles.
3. My work. I love what I do, even if there are bumps along the road.
4. Creativity. Finding joy in crafting, writing, taking photographs and writing long letters to friends abroad.
5. Peace. I am thankful that Sudanese officials have signed peace agreements. I am thankful that Rwanda has included in their constitution they will only accept generic drugs. I am thankful that Sierra Leone is putting itself back together. I am thankful that Muslims and Christians are learning every day, in Africa especially, that they must respect each other’s differences to have the best quality of life.
6. My running shoes. I am thankful for my health and ability to escape everything for an hour each morning to clear my head and prepare me for the day ahead.
7. Camelback Mountain. Like a sleeping giant that looks over the Valley, it reminds me daily why I love the desert.
8. Debate. I am thankful I live in a country where I can read, vote and speak up. I am thankful that I can write letters to the local paper arguing with their authors. I am thankful I can stand on the corner with a picket sign if I do not agree.
9. I am thankful I have two families that would like to me to attend their Thanksgiving day celebrations.

Wishing you a wonderful Thanksgiving,

~AfricanKelli

Hello, my name is Kelli, and I am a shop-aholic.

But, thanks to my thrifty upbringing, I am also a guilt-aholic. Rarely do purchases go without a heavy dose of remorse on top. Did I really need this? Could I have found it for less money? Was there a coupon?

I am torn between the love of fine, luxurious things and my passion for helping others. The internal debate goes something like this:

“If I spend $328 on this fabulous Coach bag, am I being selfish? What could I do with that money? I could send girls to school in
Africa. I could buy immunizations for refugees in Sudan. I could send books to Afghani girls. I could buy my mom a fabulous purple wallet to go with her new fabulous purple purse. Buy it! No! Buy it ! NOO!”

And so on. My face similarly distorts during Super Bowl parties when there are bowls and bowls of yummy chips and dip and my self-control has gone on strike.

“Not another chip! That is 25 calories alone! You’ll have to walk on the treadmill for 10 minutes just to burn that one little chip. Stop eating!”

“Damn, this tastes good,” I’ll think a few minutes later, having firmly wrapped the duct tape around the mouth of my conscience, as I dig in for more. (She’ll come out screaming the next morning when I’m recovering from carb hang-over.)

But damn, that bag would look so good. And now that Coach has that great ‘Try it on’ feature, I salivate even more over the smooth leather, the shiny buckle, the perfectly hemmed lining, the ridiculously priced matching wallet.

I resort to finding a cheap knock-off at Target that isn’t nearly as cute, but feeds the same hunger for a new handbag.

They say true wealth is needing less. I believe that. I’d love to have the lotion that would cure my mosquito bite-like itch for purses and shoes. I think this man is a saint. He worked as a janitor and left $2.3 million to students.

Just think what that money will buy…err, do.

~Africankelli

I love to read. There have been several times in my life when books were my dearest friends. When I travel and am all alone, I look forward to combing through the latest selection and finding just the right choice for the journey. There are times I worry this choice won’t be long enough, and I am never without something to read. In this case, a back up book is packed in my luggage.

I discovered books when I was almost three. My mom, on pregnancy bed rest, was at home with a 2-year-old and had few options for entertaining. Her solution was to send my father to the nearby library regularly. We rested in bed all day, watching
Sesame Street and reading book after book. By the time my brother managed to get his umbilical cord all the way around his little neck (three times), I was the one hooked.

He was born and went into an incubator to warm up for a couple of days. When Cody finally emerged, my mother counted on me to entertain myself for longer and longer periods of time with the Dr. Seuss and Curious George books in my room. The brilliant pictures kept my interest for a bit until I started kindergarten. I’ll never forget in first grade when I rushed home in a state of unprecedented excitement to tell my mom, “I LEARNED TO READ TODAY!”

She smiled and listen to me rumble through several pages. Soon enough, my cuteness wore off and with the baby crying in the next room, she needed me to read quietly.

“Kelli, can you read to yourself?” she challenged me.

“Um, Mom. That is what I am doing.”

“No, I mean, can you read without saying the words out loud?”

Woah. No one said this was part of the deal. Hearing my own voice still is one of my favorite past times. I talk to myself long after everyone else has stopped listening.

“Well,” I said, snottily, “I suppose I can try. I mean, why wouldn’t you want to hear me? I CAN READ!”

“Just give it a shot.”
“And sure enough, “The Fire Cat” didn’t need to be said aloud. (This is still my very favorite children’s book. It was given to me by my Aunt Karen and had her name in the front, written in black crayon.)

Today, I prefer fiction, but can be talked into just about anything. I’m giving a ton of books as gifts for the holidays. One of my latest favorites is “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coehlo. It is up there with “One Hundred Years of Solitude” and “The Poisonwood Bible.”

I read about a book a week, with some exceptions. The classics usually trip me up and make me think like I’m not getting the hidden meaning. I typically avoid them. In 2005, one of my resolutions is to mow through these suckers. Here is what’s on my schedule:

January            The Grapes of Wrath

February          Catch 22

March              A Farewell to Arms

April                The Invisible Man

May                 Huckleberry Finn

June                 Madame Bovary

July                  Dr. Zhivago

August             Walden

September       Slaughterhouse Five

October           Night

November        Persuasion

December        Brave New World

What is even more pathetic is that I already have all of these books. They are collecting dust with about 100 others I  have ambitiously purchased in the last few years.

This week, I’m finishing “My Sister’s Keeper,” and moving on to “West With the Night.”

I’d love to hear about your favorites.

~Africankelli

One of the best places to grab a burrito in Flagstaff is Salsa Brava. On Monday, when the check-in girl at the registration table was rude, and the packets were all given out and my tear-streaked face was just recovering from my professor run-in, Salsa Brava came to mind.

I am an emotional eater. Who isn’t? Okay, what American woman isn’t? Even if you don’t eat when you are upset, you are at least an emotional non-eater. And God, how I wish I was one of those girls. Alas, these thighs love chips. And dip. And enchilada style anything.

There are two Salsa Brava locations in Flag. My favorite is tucked in behind the KFC and next to Buster’s. You miss it if you’ve driven through the second light in town. But the students know where it is. And so do the locals, which makes it an excellent spot when town fills with hungry, Taco Bell-eating skiers or Grand Canyon sightseers.

 I stood in front of the booth, peeling off my jacket, scarf and mittens. I hungrily stomped up to the salsa bar and debated between tomatillo and extra hot. A combination of both was perfect. And then I daydreamed as my vegetable burro enchilada-style was being made.

Mariachi music floated above. A heavy chile and grease scent was omnipresent. My ice tea was brewed fresh and had just the right amount of Splenda and lemon.

I thought about how many times I had sat in this same booth with my friend Finny. We used to sneak away the second deadline was called. We’d wait for the newspaper to get hauled off to the printer and we’d jump in her little white jeep and race toward our burrito paradise.

There was never a lack of excellent conversation, giggles or emotion. We bundled up the passion and anger we had in the newsroom and made these feelings bite sized and digestible.

One of my favorite memories was one Yom Kippur. There she sat, eating a pork tamale. I undoubtedly had a veggie burro. We were in college and probably hadn’t slept or eaten in the last day. We were exhausted. This meal was our ritual before both going our separate ways to sleep off the compressed stress of the week.

She looked up to ask, “Do you think tortilla chips are considered unleavened bread?”

We giggled. She told me about how her grandmother, an Orthodox Jew, had two sets of everything in her kitchen — one for dairy and one for meat. She described her grandma’s wig and how it was out of respect for her grandfather that she never showed her real hair outside of the home.

Between the spicy bites of salty rice and beans, we share our childhood memories and swap advice on classes and life. I miss those meals. Lucky for me, she now lives in a new Mecca of culture and cuisine – the Bay.

Fin, we should get together for margaritas soon. (And does anyone else find it strange I am thinking about that tequila-brimming sweet, glorious salty rim at 2 pm on a Thursday?)

~Africankelli

Dear Margaret,

I am shaking in anger and sorrow at your death. I want to lash out, to investigate, to punish. I want to broadcast to the world that this — THIS – is why 52% of Americans want war. The ridiculous kidnapping, the mistreatment, the torture, the murder. These acts fuel hatred. They add kindling to the dwindling fire of pro-war sentiment in the country. They make me scream.

Last night, I prayed for you again. I’ve done so regularly since you were taken. I pray your husband may eventually find peace. I pray that your family may be able to forgive your captors and see them for the frightened fools that they are. I pray that you are watching over
Iraq, leading others to continue the humanitarian work you so loved.

Margaret, I am so sorry we never had the chance to meet. I could have learned so much from you. You are who I want to be: a selfless peaceful leader who fights for social justice.

You will never be forgotten. May you rest in peace.

~AK

The drive to Flag was lovely. Low-lying clouds clung to saguaros on the hills outside of
Black Canyon City, encased the red rocks of Sedona and eventually capped the peaks of the San Francisco Mountains. Before I headed to my conference, I wanted to say hello to one of my favorite professors. “M” was my teacher, my mentor and my friend when I studied in Flagstaff. I approached the School of Communication confidently – my new jeans. A cute scarf snuggly warming my neck. The 10 pounds of college weight long since dropped. My hair done. My makeup just right. I was ready to see him and have him hug me and tell me how I’m still one of the smartest students he’s ever had. And… look how great I look!

I vainly envisioned finding him in one of the many aging classrooms, with the large pane windows whistling in the almost-Thanksgiving freezing wind. I would walk by and he would see me and stop teaching. He’d smile and wave me in. There would be a fresh crop of freshman Com students and “M” would brag about my accomplishments. He would note my attentiveness in his classes years ago. I would blush and eat up the attention with the biggest self-centered spoon I could find. Sometimes your ego needs to be fed – even if it is just a dream.

In reality, I walked into a building I could barely recognize. For $14 million, they erased nearly every foot of that giant home where I spent so much of my college life. They replaced it with glass, steel and presumption.  I walked floor to floor, taking in the details of each step, searching for some familiarity.

This couldn’t be the same building where we played roller chair bowling at 2 am, while trying to fight off exhaustion on deadline. Or where Joseph Reeves inspired me to write and forced me to use punctuation. Or where I fell madly in love with a career.

This building was crisp, new and emotionless. As I rounded the corner on the third floor, I found “M’s” office. Of course, he wasn’t in and didn’t have class scheduled for hours.

It wasn’t meant to be.

I scribbled a note and left it on his door and headed back into the cold. Only I heard his voice by the door. He was walking in. I smiled and waited.

He was walking past me.

“M!” I called out. Surely, he was playing around. This man lauded me. He pushed me. He made me his pet project. He told me that I was one of the best students he’d seen in years.

He turned and stared blankly.

I swallowed hard.

“Kelli, ‘M.’ It is nice to see you.” I extended my hand.

He blinked.

“Oh. How are you?” he replied, his eyes searching mine for a memory.

Polite, brief conversation ensued for just a moment. I noticed how he’s gained a dramatic amount of weight. It’s as though someone put an air pump to his belly button and filled him until his skin was taut. Until his face sprouted an additional chin that his beard won’t quite reach.

We parted with quaint goodbyes. I tried unsuccessfully to fight the looming tears until I reached my car. So much for perfect makeup.

Everything changes. Sometimes it is better to keep your memories tucked close and not go back for a second helping.

It can never be how it once was.

Last night, two girlfriends and I went out for a drink. In
Phoenix, there are three main places to pick when deciding where to go on a Saturday night. There is Scottsdale, where black leather and botox are “in” year-round and a glass of wine costs $12. In Tempe, bars sit within walking distance of ASU; there is a good possibility of having to stand in line for 30 minutes for something to drink because it is “One Dollar You Call It” night. The fashion here is equally questionable and relatively painful. Stomachs (flat and rolled), breasts, thighs and earlobes galore hang everywhere. This is nostalgic because it wasn’t too long ago that I thought leaving the house without my earmuffs for a night on the town was a-okay. Luckily, I survived and moved on to our third and final bar option, Chandler.

Chandler? Yes, Chandler. Not the cowboy, redneck Marlboro side of town. The Intel side of town, where computer geeks, elementary school teachers and others too lazy to get dressed up for Scottsdale peruse on Saturday nights.

The mission to the Polaroid Project was to photograph Katherine with as many guys of interest as possible. This girl is freakishly photogenic. She is a very pretty girl, but photographs like one of those wrinkle cream models who you pray are airbrushed. I brought a permanent marker and thought I could write her name at the bottom of the photo. The guy could go home with a memento and it would be a fun way to meet people.

Apparently not.

Katherine wasn’t too keen on the idea from the beginning. Regardless of the amount of cajoling Rebecca and I did, she firmly planted her sticks in the mud. We got to the bar a bit early and the crowd was older. Within an hour, there were many good looking guys. One photo had been taken — of Katherine smiling and grasping her beer for support. I wrote her number and the bottom and now all that was left to do was find Mr. Right, or even Mr. Close to Right, to give it to. While we waited, more and more good looking men arrived. As much as we wanted to approach them, the aggressiveness had to come from her.

She wasn’t interested.

Strangely enough, a married couple at a nearby table was having the time of their life watching us plot and push Katherine to sheer discomfort. They invited us to sit down and we told them the story. They thought it was great and soon enough, the husband was out on the dance floor with Katherine on a manhunt.

Alas, they came back empty handed and we left. Katherine said she was never coming back. Rebecca and I rolled our eyes. We’ll go back. Especially if the guy I gave the photo to calls…

~Africankelli