Watch for it soon on Gourmet on a Hot plate
Whining
about a minor problem: I slept wrong on my left hand. Not sure what I did but
this morning it felt like I had either sprained it or had a deep bruise. It
hurt to wash my hands, to comb my hair, and, worst of all, to type. In my
world, that’s a disaster. It wasn’t till I tried to nap—and was aware the
entire time that my hand and shoulder hurt—that I had the good sense to take
two Tylenol. Amazing. All better. I did read today that Buddhist practice
preaches that it is more healthy to sleep on your left side—the physiological explanation
was complicated, but apparently most things in the body drain to the left. I’m in
with that, if I could just keep my hand from underneath my head.
But
that soreness set the tone for my day. I seem to sing this song too frequently,
but I did a lot of work this morning. Just none of it on the novel I keep
telling myself I am writing, although scenes go through my head all the time.
Want a glimpse into the life of a writer? Try the word procrastination. Right
now I am kept busy following various political developments in our country.
Some days I’m really optimistic; other days, like yesterday, I feel corruption
is winning. It’s sort of like being on a seesaw. But it does take a lot of my
time just to keep up.
And
today the wonderful lady who cleans my cottage was here, so we had long
conversations about whether or not the lettuce in the vegetable bin was ready
for the trash—a lot of questionable stuff went out. And we spent a lot of time
while she looked all around on my desk and on the floor for a tiny yellow pill
that I’d dropped. I didn’t want a dog to eat it. Finally, triumphantly, she
produced it from a corner of the bookcase across from my desk which is where I
last saw it. I guess I brushed it off, and being light, it flew across the
room. I conferred with Jordan—should I brush it off and take it or discard it?
This particular pill costs like gold. Her advice: take it.
What I
did accomplish today was to proof the neighborhood newsletter and get it off,
plus take notes and exchange emails with a friend who has a food-related
business that I will feature in an upcoming Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog. Like salsa?
Just wait for this one. Thursday is my food blog day, but this week I may just
wish everyone Happy Thanksgiving and hold the salsa until next week. Because
no, you definitely cannot cook Thanksgiving dinner with a hot plate and a toaster
oven. Jordan tells me she will cook at least one side dish in the cottage. She
and Christian will be hosting his family.
I,
meanwhile, will be in Tomball with Colin and his family. First time I’ve
traveled since quarantine began, and while it’s not far (four hours?) it seems
a major trip. Sophie will go with me, and one of my projects today was to begin
to assemble clothes, etc. It’s remarkable how much stuff it takes for an old
lady to travel—and for a writer who cannot go without computer, legal pad, books,
etc. My packing list is extensive.
Now we
have a new crisis. Jacob just came out to say that his dad disconnected the
wifi to reboot it but forgot the reboot part and went with Jordan to visit
neighbors. So neither Jacob nor I can do much—and they are not answering their
phones. Life’s little distractions.
Ten o’clock,
and no, I don’t know where my children are. But I know one grandson is safely
inside, and I know the wifi is working again. My hand has stopped hurting. I
haven’t solved the problem of Kevin McCarthy and his gang of outrageous
Republicans, but hey! Joe Biden is working on that. All seems almost well with
the world tonight. Sweet dreams, y’all.
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