The Monday blues

 

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.

Learning to count my blessings

 

The resident papa cardinal in my back yard just flew down to the railing around the deck, sat there a moment surveying his world, then flew to the sidewalk, pecked at a few things, and flew away. I love sighting him and was so relieved to see him and “mama” again this spring. Cardinals are not travelers. They generally stay within one yard, so I am indignant if I see mine in the yard behind me. They say when you see a cardinal on your property, it means someone in Heaven is thinking of you. I always think it’s my dad, a great gardener and bird lover. When Jacob was little, I taught him about cardinals, and he would say excitedly, “Look, Juju, the red bird.”  I don’t suppose he’d let himself get excited today, but I do.

The cardinal is one of many things that makes think I should count my blessings, on this a day when I’m really feeling sort of whiny about several things, including the small health hiccups of age. Frequently you see a question asking people if they age would they rather keep their mind or their physical well-bring. Having seen my mom sink into dementia as the result of several small strokes, or TIAs, my answer is unequivocally that I want to keep my mind lively. It’s one reason I continue to write (aside from the pleasure I find in writing).

But for the last couple of weeks, I’ve been struggling with swollen legs and feet—puffy is the word for my feet. I’ve contacted the cardiologist, and he has prescribed more physical therapy, which is okay but sort of a nuisance because it’s a repeat of what we did not a month ago and what, since then, I do every day myself, though not as often as the therapist would like. They don’t want to give me a prescription because of my recent bout with a kidney injury, so I’m sleeping with my feet in the air—above my heart—and trying compression stockings. Not sure the latter was a success today.

I have exercises to do—chair yoga and five loops around the small circle from living area to bedroom to bath in the cottage. The PT figures it’s about 100 feet total if I do it five times But I have a problem: Sophie goes bat-shit crazy, especially over the chair yoga, though she follows me, barking furiously, when I do the walking. She can easily tell the difference between me just walking from desk to bedroom or bathroom and me doing the exercise walking. On nice days I can lock her outside, though she protests, but on rainy days, there’s no such out. In the past when she stayed outside for long periods of time, I longed for her to come in—guess that’s come home to bite me.

At any rate, with all this going on I fight the temptation to think of myself as an invalid. It’s part of my worry over being a recluse—it’s so easy to stay home and not make that extra effort to get ready to go out, especially when I don’t know the accessibility of my destination. I have ordered myself an upright walker, hoping that will relieve some of the pressure on my arms and shoulders and entice me to get out in the world more.

I thought that was so smart, until I read an email from a friend who said her husband ended in the hospital for two nights because he took a hard fall off his—yeah, you guessed it—upright walker. She thinks, however, there were extenuating circumstances.

Tonight, neighbor Prudence had a meet-and-greet for a run-off candidate for the city council election scheduled for June 2. Jordan sort of co-hosted, and I wanted to go because I wanted to meet the young candidate. I am really impressed by how he organized a neighborhood that had lost its sense of neighborliness and helped earn it the Best Neighborhood of the Year award. But because of my swollen legs and not being sure of access to Pru’s and not wanting to burden Jordan and Christian with looking after me, I elected to stay home. I think it was the right decision, but it’s also the decision that makes me worry that I’m becoming—or have become—a recluse.

After days of rain, it was lovely, sunny, and almost hot today. Tomorrow will apparently be sunny also but then more rain Friday. Of course, it’s the Colonial Gol Tournament (which has a better name) that is attracting all the rain. Happens every year.

Stay safe and dry.

Watching chickens and feeling better

Not sure there's a connection between watching chickens and feeling better, but I have a great deal of fun watching the chickens outside my bathroom window. Once I found the pen empty, door open, and emailed the owner in alarm. Now, I’m more seasoned. I know they let the chickens free range in their back yard if someone is around to watch them. The other day I found a lone chicken in the pen and the other three out roaming. Had the penned one been bad, I wondered. Do you punish chickens? Surely not. Another day, I found the pen empty of chickens but the relatively new pup, who happily plays with the chickens, was trapped in the pen and obviously waiting for someone to come rescue him. It occurs two me that the two young boys, ages ten and twelve, growing up at that house are having a marvelous childhood, whether they realize it now or not.

Now it’s happy hour amusement at the cottage to encourage guests to look out the bathroom window at the chickens. And tonight, in their honor, I had scrambled eggs—from those chickens.

After self-diagnosing myself with everything from stomach cancer to the beginnings of Alzheimer’s, I feel better today and apologize for my whiny blog last night. Signs and symptoms, which I won’t detail here, lead me to believe I had some kind of stomach bug. I’m still being careful but feeling more cheerful—and a bit more interested in food. Now if I could stop blowing my nose….

In fact, I’m feeling much more optimistic about my writing and anxious to get on with my research. But I keep getting sidetracked by the Alice Roosevelt mystery I’m reading, The Body in the Ballroom. She certainly was an interesting young lady—and a fascinating character all her life.

It occurs to me that maybe life gives us these little setbacks as a way of energizing us to go forward. You know, one step back and two steps forward. That’s how I feel about the world tonight.

Our neighbor, Susan, and one of her New York sisters, came for happy hour tonight, and we had a great time, talking about their childhood home, which just sold, our church, where they grew up, restaurants in Fort Worth—Becky says the food is better than New York. And, yes, they looked at the chickens.

Struggling for a thread

 Struggling to think of something to blog about tonight. It’s been an ordinary day—as days are ordinary lately, since I’m pretty much confined to the house and on a walker. Really, what can you think of new and different to report from that perspective.

Is it news that Louie Gohmert included gay couples on his proposed ark, not realizing they wouldn’t reproduce? Is it news that Hillary Clinton clinched the Democratic nomination? Well, yeah, it really is—first woman to be nominated by a major political party—but who doubted it anyway? And I don’t think she’ll be satisfied with that—it’s all the way or nothing. Is it news that Donald Trump verbally attacked the judge “of Mexican heritage”? Nah, I don’t think that’s news anymore.

News doesn’t get much more exciting closer to home—Jordan and I had wine on the deck and she made me the half-sandwich I thought sounded good—rye, cheddar, mayo, tomato, and diced green onion. Lovely to be outdoors on the deck—until she went into panic mode because a wasp was about to fly into the house. Thanks to her quick action, fueled by adrenaline, danger was averted.

Jacob apparently thinks we’re going to tear down the entire existing apartment—so not true. But he has asked to be the first to sling a sledgehammer in the demolition process. I bet Lewis can find a spot to mark with a big black X for Jacob to begin his demolition.

And so the day went—a guest blog about Chicago written, an evaluation of a novel for a contest, email, etc. At 11:30 I realized I was really tired, so made some lunch (not a success) and read Facebook; slept for longer than I care to admit. How much can be exciting when you’re on a walker and it hurts to put weight on the sore foot?

Looking forward to better days. Lord knows, I have enough work piled on my desk to keep me busy for two weeks, if I’d just buckle down and do it.

Moving, hail recovery, and chaos

 This moving and hail recovery business never stops. It comes in drips and dribbles, forcing me to deal with things like insurance. Tonight the man who cleans my Oriental rugs brought them back, and we asked him to take the big Uncle Bob weaving with him. It was mounted on a board, apparently very thoroughly, and he and Jordan spent maybe 30 minutes taking out tacks, etc. He made joked all the while, and Jordan laughed appropriately—I couldn’t hear him. But we finally got it off the board and, since he told me he can do anything when I asked if my rugs came out all right, he cheerfully took it off. My brother is going to see about hanging it in his house—Cindy thinks maybe over the guest bed. Tomorrow I have to figure out how to send the bill to the insurance.

Books are still a major problem. A friend came tonight and took my set of Time/Life Old West books (missing one volume—I have no idea who I loaned it to), plus some other books for his son who reads voraciously about the American West. Jordan is holding a closed book sale on May 18 for Lily B. moms and has the coffee table piled high with books I can discard. She wants to “stage” the house before then—this is of course a sort of foreign concept to me, and I’m not sure how she’ll stage all this chaos. But I have great faith in what she can accomplish.

The guest room is a mess except that it has the double bunk beds in it. Jordan and Jacob slept there last night, so she could take Sophie out in the night for me. Problem with that is Sophie barks at me, so I got to do all the honors and clean the kitchen while waiting for Sophie to do her business—actually I don’t think she needs to go out; she just gets bored. Jordan said she heard me and lay in bed thinking, “I should get up and do this.” But she didn’t. When I woke up Jordan, Jacob and Christian were all here, so I thought I’d just stay in bed until they cleared out, because Christian was going to walk Jacob to school. At eight, I heard this, “Juju! Juju! I need to leave.” His parents had gone. I jumped out of bed, hugged him, and sent him off, watching out the window as best I could until he got to the crossing guard. I was in no shape to stand on the porch and watch him as I usually do.

Foot is better tonight though hugely swollen, but arms and shoulders are really sore from pushing myself up from the floor. I said tonight I feel like I’m always whining about something.

Tomorrow will be a better day. A friend is coming to spend the night and Mother’s Day with us, and Jacob will have a buddy spend the night. I’m glad Linda will be here to help with two little boys.

The best I can say is that life is never dull around here! Sleep tight, my friends.

Cultivating Cheerfulness

A good friend told me today that my blogs of late have all been downers, complaints of one sort or another. Jordan chimed in with “I’ve tried to talk her out of her depression.” I have mixed feelings about this. Quite honestly, I admit I have whined a bit—my back hurt, my house is in chaos, I got a rejection—and I shared those things. I think each of us have periods of depression and discouragement, and if I’m going to do a personal blog—which mine is, particularly for this year that I’m hoping to compile them—then I think I should be honest about my feelings. Pollyanna isn’t always at home. 

On the other hand, a friend and I were going into a restaurant for lunch the other day, and I saw a woman with multiple physical handicaps pushing a small grocery cart (no matter she was pushing it away from the drive-in window of a liquor store). I looked at my friend and said, “I’m never going to complain again.” Guess I haven’t been good about keeping that resolution, though I know some of my posts have been thoughtful—i.e., the pope’s visit—and some joyful, like last night’s reunion with old friends.

Still, maybe being sure I post positively will help me improve my disposition as I go, and truthfully I’m a happier camper tonight. I think mainly it’s due to the ministrations of my brother, who did a lot of spasm relaxation techniques (lay person’s description) on my low back today—for an hour and a half or so. When he’s working to release your back, his hands may well be on your head, but it’s magic, to me, that he can say, “Yeah, it all goes to that one spot” and point to the place in my low back I knew hurt. I won’t fool—even his low impact techniques sometimes hurt like fury, but by the time I got off the treatment table my back was ever so much improved—pain free. John and Cindy, my sister-in-law, do a two-man technique that involves pushing legs straight in the air and gradually back toward my head. John said I tolerated it well, and Cindy said she couldn’t believe how flexible I was. Music to my ears.

We went to Carshon’s for lunch—best Reuben ever—and as we left, John observed that I was walking pretty well and that the fact I didn’t hurt so soon after treatment was a good sign. Tonight I do feel better than I have in a long time. A bonus; both during treatment and at lunch, I had a great visit with both of them. John asked about my tremor and I said I’d had it for a long time—it’s the reason I don’t take the juice in communion, because I can see grape juice all down the front of whatever I’m wearing. He laughed and laughed, but it’s true. I’ve always had shaky hands. It was that kind of a visit—we caught up on kids and other things.

It was a hectic day at my house with all kinds of workmen, loud saws, and noxious fumes. I can’t tell any progress in the bathroom, except they were under the house and there’s a big hole where the shower will be. But my kitchen counter went in, and I am thrilled with it—it’s going to make my kitchen looks so much lighter and brighter—and speckled as it is, it won’t show every spilled drop of everything like the old counter Formica, a dead, dull gray, did. I stop every time I go in there and admire it. No pictures—I don’t think pictures of vast empty counters tell you much. Lesson learned as I cleared the counters for this work—I have way too much junk in my kitchen. I will be judicious about what I put back.

So here I am, back to being a happy camper. Bear with me, please.

 

Short blog on whining

 Short blog tonight because all I would do is whine about my hip and back. Instead of wallowing in my pity party, I’m taking some steps forward. Will have a nerve conduction test on my legs tomorrow; will make arrangements to have another osteopathic treatment; and will make a new physical therapy appointment at the clinic where I went so successfully before.

Today I reached the nadir of my self-pity. Hip hurt so badly I could barely walk, lurching from one solid substance, like a table, to another, like a door frame. Had to ask Jordan to get someone to bring Jacob home. But I know that’s no way to live, and I won’t live like that forever. So I took some positive steps. By this evening, my hip is better, which my brother tells me is just from moving around. However he did agree that maybe I overdid it over the weekend—two grocery stores and the hardware one day, and dinner for four the next. So today I declined, with regret, lunch with two of my very favorite friends.

But I’m moving forward, folks. Just watch my dust. And do you know how wonderful leftover mushroom stroganoff tastes the next day? Oh my. Heavenly.