Sometimes it’s good to have a routine

If all of life were lived by routines, it would be terribly dull. But sometimes I find routines comforting. Since Jordan is my primary caretaker, we’ve developed several routines. In the mornings, she’s at my cottage before I wake up and is waiting to hear me call her. I have tea, read my e-mail, wash my hair and drink Muscle Milk for breakfast—I’m partial to the chocolate, with its slight tinge of almond flavor. Most mornings we each do our own work—she for her travel agency and me whatever writing project is on my desk.

This morning, however we did menu planning. Jordan’s new resolve is to plan menus a week at a time, instead of clasping hand to head about 5:30 and thinking, “What will we have for dinner?” I’m not sure what all we settled on for the week, but I had lots of fun going through the food magazines that had accumulated on my desk. My theory is to have a big Sunday supper, something like a roast chicken or pot roast that will provide leftovers for lunches and the rest of the week. Not sure about tomorrow’s entrée—may be tourtiere, a hearty French meat pie. Jordan also must plan five days of lunchboxes for Jacob.

Another routine I’ve treasured since retirement: an afternoon nap, I used to nap on weekends before I retired but since then I’ve slept every afternoon-and I do mean slept, in the bed,at least an hour, complete with dreams.

Dinnertime brings a routine for the dogs: Jordan brings her two and their dishes our here. You should see them prance and dance when she heads this way with dog bowls. Sophie is waiting, and all three get a treat—sort of like happy hour for dogs. Sophie gets a rawhide chew but theyre too big for “the girls”—Cricket and June Bug. Each dog must wait until all three are through with the treats and then they get dinner. They know by now not to try to poach on someone else’s dinner. After dinner, they get a milk bone but they must sit to get it. So cute to watch them, especially when they’re anticipating dinner.

We have no evening routine except reading, writing. My days are comforting—it’s a good word for routine, but then I’m not an adventurous person, not one whose feet itch to travel. I’m so comfortable in the cottage.                    


On a completely unrelated note: my 43-year-old son-in-law just got carded trying to buy wine.