Not quite the restaurant experience I wanted

Betty and I are longtime fans of Tokyo Café, a Japanese sushi house/restaurant that burned a couple of years ago. This seems to be my Phoenix week but the café re-opened a couple of nights ago, risen from its own ashes. She and I both know better—don’t go for two weeks when a restaurant opens or re-opens to great hoopla.  But we ignored our wiser selves and dragged poor Jacob into our folly.

Tokyo Café was always a quiet place with no wait and very little noise. Not tonight—we got there at six and were seated at seven, with Jacob moaning about how hungry he was. I finally said I’d endure the wait a lot better with wine and gave Betty my credit card. She’s not aggressive and was in line at the bar for a good whole but the magic worked as I hoped—we got a table while she was getting wine. She came back breathless, having spent $29 on two glasses of wine (I was astounded too though it was good wine).

Jacob ordered edamame as I knew he would, and Betty surprised me by ordering stir-fried rice. I came for sushi, and sushi I would have—but who knew it all had cream cheese in it. My Philadelphia roll was good but married by my conscience working about the cream cheese and wishing I had remember to specify soy wrap instead of seaweed. So I was a little hungry when I got home. Betty loved her rice, but Jacob as not enthusiastic abbot the edamame—stir-fried in a soy sauce and he didn’t like the “brown stuff.”

Jacob was a charmer tonight. When I asked if he’d carry my purse, he said, “No, Juju. I have t get you in and out of the car.” And he did. He and Betty had high old discussions, most of which I couldn’t hear because the pace was so noisy.

All in all, it was not our best dining adventure and not a good advertisement for a restaurant that we really like. Wait a couple of weeks and try it—you’ll have a different and better experience than we did.

And us? We’ve been compiling a list of easily accessible spots. See you around.

Limp dishrag and other excuses

No blog tonight. I feel like a limp dishrag that someone just wrung out.  I went ‘to the doctor this afternoon and walked much farther with the walker than I am used to. Everyone praised how strong I’m getting, etc., and it would have been music to my ears—except I was concentrating on walking and the pain in my left hip—which has miraculously disappeared again right now. It comes and goes but with no regularity or predictability.

Doctor’s report confirmed what I suspected: I am in excellent health, but I’m lactose intolerant. There go my bowls of cottage cheese for breakfast, my cheese slices on a ham sandwich, my bowls of yogurt. Ice cream is not a problem, and no I won’t substitute tofu, well beaten, for sour cream. I am using almond-free milk with my cereal and it’s fine. This is going to be a learning process, as I find what I can tolerate and what I can’t.

Tonight I really wanted the meatloaf plate from the Grill, so we picked it up and brought it home. Didn’t taste nearly as good as I anticipated but I imagine it will make a good sandwich tomorrow.

To add to my list of semi-disasters, my computer has acted wonky all week and required frequent calls to TCU’s support staff, but I am beginning to suspect what one friend suggested is true—it’s time for a new computer.

I’m off to read a good book and stare at the rapidly changing sunset. No dramatic streaks of red and gold \tonight but patches of a soft rosy pink set against patches of light blue sky—a delicate sunset, calming to the soul.

Phoenix Rising

Sunday night's blog on Monday morning.

Jordan and Christian cooked a real “company meal” tonight for Jay and Susan to thank them for all they did to help us through the great hailstorm and the massive move that followed—and for always being ready to help, especially with Jay’s truck.

Susan talked about how much she likes looking out and seeing my cottage ablaze with lights in the evening, and indeed it is like living in a compound. But tonight, was her first look at the main house since Jordan and Christian have moved in, arranged their furniture (much different from mine), and made it their own.

We dined on some fine English china that my mom and an aunt began collecting for me when I was in high schools—Golden Grapevine, with an elaborate gold pattern (no, not dishwasher safe). With it Jordan used the gold flatware I had to go with the Imari china I since gave to one of the other kids. Jordan had also found wine glasses with gold patterns, and she was excited to set this elegant table.

The menu was roulade—layered flattened pork tenderloin, topped with flattened chicken breast meat and then prosciutto—sort of like making a turducken at Thanksgiving only much easier. In between the layers you put a sauce of chopped parsley and basil, anchovies, and oils. Roll the whole thing up, brown it, and bake. It’s an elegant dish but complicated to prepare, and Christian did an excellent job. Jordan served goat cheese mashed potatoes and a wonderful green salad as accompaniments—and oven-fried a few slices of potato for me since goat cheese is not on my diet list—nor is the decadent chocolate cream pie she served for dessert.

Susan at one point said it was like seeing new rise out of the remnants of the old, like Phoenix rising, and she’s right. The old, thank goodness, has not been gotten rid of but simply moved off center stage, while the new—Jordan and Christian’s makeover of my house—moves on to center stage.

Susan asked if that thought made me said, and I said not at all. I think tonight was the fourth time I’ve been in the house since I moved out, and I haven’t missed it. Nor does it make me feel sad to see it with different furniture and a different look and feel. I retreat to the cottage, which looks and feels like my house always did. They have their space, and I have mine, and it is time for the order to change.

A sad note to my post about the white dog: the dog at Animal Control is not our white dog. It’s an owner surrender and has never nursed a litter of pups. So we don’t know where our white dog is, and we can only wish her godspeed where life takes her next.

I knew I shouldn’t have given her a name.

The Saga of the White Dog

This is in some ways a cautionary tale, though I don’t know that any of us could have done anything else. It’s also a story without an ending, and that gives me hope.

In my neighborhood, Berkeley Place, neighbors not only look out for each other, we look out for everyone’s pets. See a loose dog? Probably Fido escaped from his yard and his owners don’t realize it. Put it on the Berkeley Buzz, our email? Did your dog or cat get out? Put it on the Buzz—chances are someone will either return your pet or report that they have it secured for you to pick up.

The white dog first appeared on the Buzz a couple of weeks ago, spotted in the eastern part of the neighborhood, minding her own business.  Next day, different location. And the next. There’d be a day without a sighting and the small network following her would get anxious. Then she’d appear in the wee early hours following an early-morning walker.

She was wily, coolly rejecting all friendly approaches. One neighbor said he couldn’t even get close enough to use a catch rope.

Everybody had a theory about her. It seemed to me she was moving purposefully, whereas most stray wander aimlessly from tree to bush. Generally, strays don’t hang around the same neighborhood day after day, though we did have one dog it took a month to catch. The white dog stayed, and speculation began that she had hidden a litter of puppies nearby. In the picture above, it looks to me like she’s recently nurse.

Once she was spotted diving into low bushes in front of a house. After she emerged someone searched the bushes. No sign of puppies.

Neighbor John Holmes was active in the effort to capture the dog, and he reported one day that he was trying to coax her to him when a woman he didn’t recognize drove by and assured him she had Animal Control on the line at that moment. Not what John or any of us wanted to hear—if she did have puppies and was taken to the pound, disaster would occur. Besides, John said if she was feral, they would just put her down. There was no need to involve Animal Control unless she was a menace to people or other animals, and she clearly was not.  When he called Animal Control, they would neither deny nor confirm that they had her. There were no more sightings.

Yesterday a neighbor known for her active rescue work reported Animal Control had only one dog that fit her description, and she was sure it was “our” white dog. Today the dog would have gone off her three-day hold as a stray. Robin has promised to try to keep track of that happens next—adoptable list, “desperate” list, sick list. Her Berkeley fans will stand by “our” white dog.

You think I could call her Lucy?

How Blessed I am October 21, 2016 Every once in a while I stop whatever I’m doing to just stare around my cottage and think about how blessed I am. Even when the renovation was underway I never thought I’d live in such a cool space. It is, I told a neighbor tonight, like living in a Manhattan loft but without the major traffic-vehicles and people—hazards. It somehow makes me feel sophisticated to think I live in 600 square feet—and such a cool 600 feet. Cozy, comfortable but without kitsch or cute. I am thoroughly besotted of my own life situation. And that includes the many friends who come to visit, my children who are often around and if not in constant touch. And tonight another pleasant experience emphasized how lucky I am. The neighbors director behind us, Jason and Amy Brown, had invited us for dinner, but Jordan felt during the move she had to reschedule—twice. Then Jordan began to worry about taking me to their house which doesn/t have easy access, let alone access to restroom facilities. It was finally decided that Amy would bring the dinner here—and she did with grace and style. The Browns have two boys—Sam, Jacob’s age, and Alex, now in 2nd grade I believe, so the three boys had a grand time playing tetherball and flip in the driveway. We decided though that Alex was a little bored with flip—it’s a fifth grade thing. Funniest moment of the evening: Jacob mixed up child abuse and child obesity. He and Sam both knew the words but not the meaning, so I had to explain. That of course led Jacob to enumerate the times he’d been a victim of child abuse at my hands—well, there was the time I used the cussword, “Damn,” in talking to him. Even he admitted that was not a serious fall from grace. Meanwhile the adults sat around the patio table, under the trees, on an absolutely perfect night. Amy’s meal was just right for the situation—thin slices of Manchego and pear with crackers, a bowl of olives, and a bowl of marinated almonds. She explained it was a Spanish meal. Her entrée was wonderful, rich lentil soup served with hunks of baguette—perfect dinner for a fall evening, when the air turns a bit cool as soon as the sun goes down. We talked neighborhood news—Jason is president of the property owners’ association. And we talked about children and education and our wonderful local Lily B. school. And Zika virus. Did you know that daytime mosquitoes have Zika, while night-time ones have West Nile? Our topics ranged far and wide. It’s always stimulating to talk with people you don’t see often—sometimes I feel when I see old friends we’ve already said everything to each other that needs to be said. We steered clear of politics though everyone had a good laugh—at ?

October 21, 2016

Every once in a while I stop whatever I’m doing to just stare around my cottage and think about how blessed I am. Even when the renovation was underway I never thought I’d live in such a cool space. It is, I told a neighbor tonight, like living in a Manhattan loft but without the major traffic-vehicles and people—hazards. It somehow makes me feel sophisticated to think I live in 600 square feet—and such a cool 600 feet. Cozy, comfortable but without kitsch or cute. I am thoroughly besotted of my own life situation.

And that includes the many friends who come to visit, my children who are often around and if not in constant touch. And tonight another pleasant experience emphasized how lucky I am. The neighbors director behind us, Jason and Amy Brown, had invited us for dinner, but Jordan felt during the move she had to reschedule—twice. Then Jordan began to worry about taking me to their house which doesn/t have easy access, let alone access to restroom facilities. It was finally decided that Amy would bring the dinner here—and she did with grace and style.

The Browns have two boys—Sam, Jacob’s age, and Alex, now in 2^nd grade I believe, so the three boys had a grand time playing tetherball and flip in the driveway. We decided though that Alex was a little bored with flip—it’s a fifth grade thing. Funniest moment of the evening: Jacob mixed up child abuse and child obesity. He and Sam both knew the words but not the meaning, so I had to explain. That of course led Jacob to enumerate the times he’d been a victim of child abuse at my hands—well, there was the time I used the cussword, “Damn,” in talking to him. Even he admitted that was not a serious fall from grace.

Meanwhile the adults sat around the patio table, under the trees, on an absolutely perfect night. Amy’s meal was just right for the situation—thin slices of Manchego and pear with crackers, a bowl of olives, and a bowl of marinated almonds. She explained it was a Spanish meal. Her entrée was wonderful, rich lentil soup served with hunks of baguette—perfect dinner for a fall evening, when the air turns a bit cool as soon as the sun goes down.

We talked neighborhood news—Jason is president of the property owners’ association. And we talked about children and education and our wonderful local Lily B. school. And Zika virus. Did you know that daytime mosquitoes have Zika, while night-time ones have West Nile? Our topics ranged far and wide. It’s always stimulating to talk with people you don’t see often—sometimes I feel when I see old friends we’ve already said everything to each other that needs to be said. We steered clear of politics though everyone had a good laugh—at my expense—over the picture of me in front of Chicago’s Trump Tower.

Good neighbors, good food, a delightfully pleasant setting—who could ask for more?

Time Change, Computer Woes, and Where did My Energy Go?

There’s something nostalgic, sweet but sad, about the waning twilight as we approach the shift back to Central Standard Time. The air seems to take on a golden glow, as if mimicking fall colors, and the sunlight is less harsh than summer’s direct rays. I for one would stay with daylight savings all the time. I dread the early darkness.

My record so far this week: full days with a working computer: 0; partial days with a working computer: 2; days without a computer: 2. Not a good record for a writer, nor is it good for my peace of mind. Being compulsive, I always have a to-do list—and information for getting it done is locked in my computer. Everything from today’s grocery list to my calendar and notes for a thousand projects. Writing last night’s blog this morning because the computer refused to put down letters last night. And when I tried to type the word “Time” (above), it instead merrily told me it was 8:41. I have p in frustration.

Highlight of the day: an hour telephone consultation with a TCU tech who took over my computer, got rid of a bunch of malware and generally got me back in working order. It’s a delight to work on the computer without fearing it will do something weird in a minute. So much to do from the weeklong backup

At ten o’clock last night Jordan was out blowing leaves off the patio. Watering olants and arranging five small lit skeleton heads outside my window for my viewing pleasure. I was collapsed at my desk in fatigue. I read a post from a neighborhood mom who had three kids with three simultaneous practices and her husband was out of town. She took it all in stride. I remember those days when I didn’t get out of the car until ten and then spent the next two hours doing chores. I hate to admit this but it’s apparently true that energy and enthusiasm (for some things) generally diminish with age.

Today, however, is already a much better day because my computer works and because it's a lovely sunny day. Looking forward to the weekend.

A Day…or Two…Out of my Life

My computer quit cold turkey Sunday night. I had gone to do dishes; when I tried to log back in, it kept telling me my pass code was incorrect—I knew it wasn’t. But there went everything I planned to do not only that night but for the next day. Because I pretty much live my life at my computer, I was devastated.

Next morning I threw myself into the world of computer repair. My computer guru son-in-law threw up his hands—he’s a Mac consultant and said I needed a pc guy. So I called the Geek Squad. Now there’s a big business model! Wow, are they streamlined. They would make a house call for $249 a week later. “I’m a writer,” I wailed. “I can’t go a week without a computer.” For sympathy I got a flip, “Sorry!” I made an appointment, hung up and called Staples. For about $50 less, they sent a technician out that day (I am not yet mobile enough to take a computer to the store and was willing to pay the extra for a house call.) I cancelled the Geek Squad.

Tyler arrived about 2 p.m. Monday and stayed until maybe until 5:30, then left taking my computer with him because he needed hardware from his shop. Promised to be back that night, said the next day he came back but the cottage was dark and the gate closed. He brought the computer back about eleven yesterday morning.

I had taken advantage of the enforced hiatus to read a cozy mystery, something that often feels like a waste of time but really isn’t—I learn for my own work from every book I read. This time, it was Ellen Byron’s Body on the Bayou.

Being a compulsive personality has its downsides. I was obsessed with the growing list of things I needed to do once I had access to the information on my computer—everything from the grocery list to a blog. Yesterday, with the computer back, I dug in, and I have pretty much worked since. But the computer, which now is behaving beautifully, has not always cooperated—dancing type, refusal to accept a password, etc. I think I’ve seen this before-when a computer has been to the computer “hospital” it takes it a while to settle down and get to work. I hope tonight we’ve reached that point.

I’m writing this with one eye on the third debate. Hillary must never know who she will be debating—in spite of predictions that it could get ugly, Trump is thoughtful, subdued. He nods and shakes his head a lot, and she does the eye roll. A study in controlled emotions—sort of unexpected.

Coming to grips with life and its realities

This is the blog I was preparing to post Sunday night when the computer went kerflooey.

What can I say? Colin worked so hard the whole 24 hours he was here—and I find I maligned him in last night’s blog when I complained about him running errands—the errands were all about things he needed to fix stuff at the cottage.

He scrubbed the bathroom grout and mopped the floor, replaced the outdoor light, helped me with some nasty chores, worked like a dog today to start my car. The battery was too far gone—jumping it didn’t get enough power to start it. Tonight my car is in my driveway, with a brand new battery. And Colin even took time to go on a bike ride with Jacob and Morgan. One of the good guys and a terrific father/uncle. Plus he brought his files up to date on my banking and other business, so now we are in sync.

When Colin went to jump-start my car, he visited with longtime family friends. He was gone so long I feared trouble and called—no, they were just talking. (My ears were burning). He came back to report the useless battery and said, “I’m going to go get a new one real quick.” I did it again—laughed and said, “You haven’t done anything real quick since you got here.” Of course he hadn’t, but he’d done a mighty work slowly and thoroughly.

I sometimes say Colin is my rock. I’m sure my other kids understand, but Jordan is my caretaker who devotes hours to my needs, hours she could easily devote to her family. And she makes me feel secure. But Colin is my rock who reassures me that my world is in order.

Decisions from the weekend: I am going to work on my strength and walking with the walker more. I am going to ask the PT to work with me on the exercises he wants me to do—I apparently don’t have the will power at this point to do them alone, and that’s okay. My goal is strength, not walking unassisted. I am beginning to realize that I may never walk unassisted—the danger of falling is too great, and another fall could be catastrophic.

I will smile sweetly at friends who urge me to walk more, work out more, go out to eat more. The workout plan is above/ as for going out more, not until I get a clean bill of health from the gastroenterologist. I am still too subject to unexplained sudden accidents. If others don’t understand, they aren’t wearing my shoes—quote my darling son.

He and Morgan left much later than usual—three-thirty at least. So I hope they got home at a decent hour so Morgan could get ready for school tomorrow.

The view from the cottage tonight is grim—graves. Christian got the Halloween spirit this afternoon, and built a graveyard in the back, just outside my window. Oh, happy day!

Hurry Up and Wait

Colin and Morgan at home in the cottage

My oldest son, Colin, and his eleven-year-old daughter, Morgan, have come for the weekend with the explicit goals of figuring out my finances yet again!, figuring out what to do about my car and driving, and a couple of other things. They arrived about noon, and we had an enjoyable visit until two. Then Colin announced it was time for my nap, and they would run errands. Just before six, Morgan was here but we had no idea where Colin was. He finally came in a bit later and when I asked about my car, he said, “I went by to look at it but errands ran away with the day.” I didn’t ask why he waited to do errands until he got up here. But there it was—six o’clock—and we/d done nothing except have a nice visit.

Before I retired that would have driven me wild. I would have complained about the errands and called him two or three times to ask when he’d be home. The new me took a long nap and decided he was the one who had come up here with a plan and he’d get to it sooner or later.

Meantime, Jordan and Christian hosted a formal dinner party tonight—well, at least as formal as they get. Colin, Morgan, and I stayed in the cottage, though folks came out to see us. Jordan sweetly served us dinner—best steak we’ve had in forever. I couldn’t eat the mashed potatoes, to my dismay, because they had cream cheese in them. But we are full and happy.

And we’ve pretty much brought Colin’s files on my business up to date—Colin will be the executor someday and is now my unofficial financial consultant so it’s important for him to keep up.

Tomorrow he’ll get my car out of Subie’s driveway and bring it up to my driveway. We’ll sit in it and talk about how I feel—can I react fast enough to get my foot from gas to brake in an emergency? Does the inflexible brace allow me enough ankle movement to react and control the car? Will the walker fit in the back seat? If I talk the walker and go somewhere alone am I in more danger of falling getting it in and out? So many questions. A friend offered me an appropriate amount for the car, but Colin’s wife said if I’m to sell it, I should sell it to them. So many questions but fortunately we don’t have to decide tomorrow. Part of that lesson I learned.

Meantime I will sleep happily tonight knowing that I have one child and one grandchild under my cottage roof.

Dull chores on a dull day

Sophie watching from living room chair where she

keeps an eye on me at my desk

            Today thunder and lightning woke me about six and continued well int the morning, after which it turned drippy and stayed dull. A wet dog jumped into my bed about seven and snuggled as close to me as it was possible to get. We both slept until almost eight-thirty, cozy in the covers.

A perfect day I thought for dealing with that stack of miscellaneous problems on my desk—the editing bill whose check went astray, the water bill payment credited to the old account when we needed it on the new account, property taxes that I don’t intend to pay until December but have to be able to find at that time, Insurance problems. The telephone bill. Thank-you notes. It’s endless, and you could probably write 100 pages in the time it takes you to plow through that stack.

But I dug in. Some days everyone you deal with, particularly at utility companies, seems determined to keep secret whatever information you need. But today people were friendly, cheerful and helpful—a huge bonus. By noon I was almost through with the stack, and the sun had come out.

A friend wrote she hated to see the sun come out because she loved a rainy Friday. I almost agreed with her. But the sunshine helped me over the sleepies. I finished the stack, satisfied with the answers I’d gotten, and prowled on Facebook for a while.

Nap time—for a short nap. Wakened this time by a clean, soft dog with a brand new haircut. She rooted around in the covers and finally settled with her head on my shoulder where she could gaze into my eyes. We had a great visit, with me scratching the ears, talking to her, and generally as content as she was.

Soon, she knew, it would be time for a treat and then supper—the Cavalier spaniels come out and the three eat dinner in companionable silence, but everyone has to wait for Sophie to finish before the after-dinner snack bones come out. The dogs know the routine perfectly but still become anxious and impatient.

Sophie is at the center of my household. I don’t think I’d take to living alone at all well without her company. She listens to me talk to myself, follows me around the cottage, lies at my feet while I work, and is generally underfoot—a way of making sure I know she/s still here. She gives me the sense of another presence in the cottage.

On the other hand, she is so freaking darn cute and adorable that when she kicks u; her heels I just sit and laugh. I couldn’t live without a dog, but I don’t think just any dog would do. My doodle dog (half border collie, half poodle) is the perfect combination of clown, helper, and worshipful slave.