No biggie

 

Ever have one of those days when little things go amuck—no biggie, but you are left with the lingering feeling that the world is just slightly out of whack. That was my world yesterday. I started the day by filling the teakettle—for some unknown reason I poured all that water into the cup that was waiting for a tea bag. Of course, it promptly overflowed all over the counter while I watched in absolute amazement.

The day didn’t get much better. The PT guy said he would be late because he had to get his brakes worked on. He usually comes at nine, which I find a bit early, so at first I was grateful. But I found it hard to dig in and work on much of anything, not knowing if he’d show up and interrupt any minute. Finally, close to noon I texted that it would work best for me if we cancelled. So we did—and he came and took a chunk out of my morning today. I know, I know—I should be, and am, grateful because I’m getting stronger, able to walk farther without resting, but I itched to be at my computer and not doing endless repetitions of shoulder shrugs and kicks and so on.

And yesterday the case whatever (manager?) was the same—I was waiting to hear from her, but she finally called about noon and said it would be today. So this morning she came and took my blood pressure and measured my oxygen—which the PT had just done an hour earlier. Redundancy.

I closed out yesterday by dropping a couple of mushrooms slices, dripping with the butter they were sauteed in, on the clean shirt I was wearing—and I’d just had compliments on what a cute outfit I had on.

I thought I was through with the day, but no. About two o’clock this morning—does that still count as yesterday? —I woke with the realization that the cottage was really hot and stuffy. I stumbled around, trying to turn either or both of my heating/cooling units to a/c but was unsuccessful. Finally gave up and fell into a fitful sleep. This morning I called the a/c repairman who gave me straightforward directions over the phone and, of course, that worked perfectly. I should never try to do anything mechanical at two in the morning—and only rarely any other time of day! Now I have the French doors open and just enough breeze blowing in that the cottage is comfortable. Who needs a/c?

A good thing about yesterday: late last night I finished a mystery that I was thoroughy enjoying—Three May Keep a Secret, by Susan Van Kirk. The title comes from good old Ben Franklin: Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead. The novel, first in a series of three, is everything a good cozy mystery should be—small-town setting, retired schoolteacher as protagonist, enough history to make it interesting. Fire, as in raging, fatal infernos, fuels this mystery, and Van Kirk writes about it with some authority. Apparently, she knows fires almost as well as she knows small towns. Now I’m moving on to Finding Freedom, a memoir by the owner of the iconic Lost Kitchen in Freedom, Maine. The restaurant is staffed entirely by women, takes reservations only on postcards, and specializes in using local products. Dinner is $200 per person and from all reports worth every penny, and the waiting list is long. It’s on my bucket list.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow—a day with no obligations. I can sleep until Sophie and I want to get up, I can work undisturbed, we have a simple dinner plan—bangers and mash (the Scot in me is coming out even if they are Irish bangers), and my Canadian daughter is coming for happy hour. Yes, I will do my shoulder shrugs, kicks, and walking—accompanied by Sophie who goes frantic over my exercise for some reason. Wish I could read that little brain.

 

 

Mexican night at the Alters

Years ago--twelve or more to be exact--when Jordan was still single and living at home, we used to have Mexican night on the front porch (no deck then). Jordan invited all her friends, and sometimes we ended up with as many as thirty people on the porch. It was strictly BYOB and pot-luck, and we had some amazing dishes. A few of her friends were married, most single, all childless--I remember well the first couple that arrived with a baby. We all thought the idea of any of them being parents was amazing.
Last night we had a mini-version of Mexican night. Seven adults and Jacob, who arrived late having been to a birthday party. Sat on the deck, and appetizers were queso and giant nachos that the girls made. For a main dish I made an enchilada casserole, new to me. It amounts to layering a chicken/tomato/black bean/cream cheese mixture with large tortillas and grated cheese in a pie plate. The recipe makes two "pies" (three tortillas each) but my challenge was that one of our guests is vegetarian and Jacob doesn't much like meat, never has. I cooked frozen corn and substituted it for the chicken in one plate--the vegetarian really liked it, though I never did hear much from Jacob (except for a few things, he's rarely enthusiastic about food though he's always starving). The recipe called for a tub of Philadelphia Santa Fe Blend Cream Cheese cooking crème. I have never seen such a product. I bought chive-flavored cream cheese spread, augmented it with a little plain cream cheese, and about a tablespoon of homemade taco seasoning (I always make my own these days--never sure about preservatives, etc. in the prepackaged kind). Beat it with a mixer until smooth.
It was a lovely evening, though it began to grow chilly just before we came in. To my embarrassment, two of the guests, both newcomers to my home, cleaned the kitchen, leaving me relatively little to do. So I read cooking magazines--a real indulgence on my part--and still didn't go to bed early.
Today was an off day. Woke up out of sorts and kept telling myself dreams don't have any relation to reality, which of course is not true--I firmly believe they come from our deepest thoughts. The rash that appeared on one side of my neck now covered both sides, in spite of my treatment with an OTC steroid cream and Jordan's with lavender drops. I'd dreamt heavily but my sleep was interrupted by a tapping noise that puzzled me. Figured out it came from my antique bed and this morning found the headboard and side rails were about to part company.  The night before we'd had a couple of episodes of the toilets running over, and even though they behaved all right this morning--if used sparingly--I called the plumber. He worked a long time, so long that I snuck off to nap before getting Jacob, and realized dimly that I didn't hear him any more. Too late I discovered the note that said not to use the toilets in the main house tonight; he'd be back in the morning. He could clear the main line, although he did show me some roots he'd pulled out.
So here I am, in a house without toilets--no, I will not go out to the guest house in the dark of the night--with a rash on my neck and a bed that makes noises of its own, even when I lie still.
To add to my woes, the publisher from the press I wrote in Chicago has not responded to my query; the next publisher on my list is not open to queries right now and promises that after you query, if there is a request for the next three chapters there is a subsequent six-month wait before they decide if they want the entire manuscript. I don't have that much time in my career, let alone my life. At that rate, I'll be in my eighties before if and when they publish. Self-publishing looks better and better.
Tomorrow, I'm convinced, will be a better day. I'm having lunch with a good friend who always cheers me. She loves turquoise--jewelry but also the color. I have a new brown and turquoise top, and I'm going to wear is on the theory I'm happier when I think I look good. And she'll be so jealous.