An Award Turns Into An Adventure

Last night my daughters and I set off with an Uber driver for the Will Rogers Medallion Award Banquet at the iconic Cattlemen’s Restaurant in the Stockyards District. Helping me in and out of an SUV these days is a bit problematic but I have found Uber drivers almost always helpful and cheerful. We arrived safely and my chair and I rode a small platform the six steps up to the main level—only to be told that event was down a set of about 20 stairs. The manager assured me he had strong staff who could carry me safely down the stairs. I hesitated. The girls said, “Think of it as an adventure, Mom.”

Let the adventure begin! And it wasn’t nearly as unsettling as I expected. The four young men kept my chair almost upright and they moved in concert with steady assurance. I felt like Cleopatra or some other ancient queen. Perhaps I should  have waved my hand in benign blessing to the crowd below.

Downstairs we found a few good friends and acquaintances, wine, and dinner seats in that order. Then we waited for dinner …and waited…and chatted and laughed …and waited. A pleasant couple from Arizona across the table chatted. Then one of the largest men I’ve ever seen slid (sort of) into the chair next to Jordan and his equally large wife fitted herself in on the other side. (We guesstimate he was 400 llb.) Fighting off hysterical laughter, Megan came around and   moved me a few inches the other way, giving Jordan a bit more space. But periodically I asked Jordan why she was hovering over me, and we all laughed. I was not amused however that the gentleman (?) never apologized, asked Jordan if she was all right or in any other way acknowledged that his size caused a problem for others.

Dinner arrived and I ran smack into my new dining restrictions. Green beans oozed butter Megan reported the dinner rolls were already glazed with butter, and I voted against olive oil as a substitute for sour cream on my potato, I will have to do some solid research on dairy substitutes. By the time it came to a really nice-looking filet, done just the way I like it, I was through. 

The awards presentation went smoothly. Charles Williams, the man in charge of the whole event, was knowledgeable and precise, saying just enough about each entrant without inviting them to respond and thereby drawing out the evening. At intermission we thanked him and fled homeward, but I brought with me a lovely bit of recognition: the silver medallion in the cookbook class for Texas Is Chili Country.

Brazen Hussies Friday

           
I belong to a small but oh so significant writers group that holds Brazen Hussies Friday every week. I‘m not sure of the official requirements, but I do know that every Friday, we celebrate the good things we’ve accomplished or that randomly came our way during the past week. Some of us have to be coaxed; others are indeed truly brazen and we all cheer for them because the more brazen you are the more you get done.

I am somewhere in the middle—often having things to brag about but never feeling they measure up to the brags of others in the group; after just a couple of weeks, you learn to recognize brazen hussies by their bragging styles.

I think the custom is great because it encourages looking back on your work and assessing it. This week was one of medium accomplishment for me. The biggest was that I survived, with my sanity relative untouched, a whole week of computers glitches. The technician I was dealing with was patient and finally got it fixed.

Beyond that I edited the November issue of our neighborhood newsletter and got it off my desk, blogged occasionally when the computer would permit, finished and evaluated the book I was reading for the Sarton award,

My bad for the week: when you are told you are lactose intolerant that means even a little cream cheese tucked away in sushi. Lesson learned the hard way.

On Mondays this same group plans the week—each of us outline our goals for the week, which is great because it forces you to look at your work pile and prioritize. It will be a reading week for me, and I have to look at due dates—first up will be a friend’s manuscript for which he needs a blurb yesterday, then the next Sarton book (last in my pile), and then a book loaned to me too long ago by a friend. I’ll take some rain please to go with all that reading.If I get really efficient I’ll tackle the cooking magazines that have been on the corner of my desk forever

As I write I’m watching a Halloween cooking show—they come up with some disgusting things. Glad I already had breakfast. A meatloaf fashioned too look like a grimy, grungy foot?

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.

Reliving good days…and some not so good

          If you heard laughter ringing from the rafters tonight, it came from my cottage. Two old friends came for supper—all of us were doctors’ wives in the ‘70s, when our doctors were beginning their careers and dreaming of glory. Nancy’s ex was a pathologist and, I believe a classmate of my ex, Joel, or in the class behind. Joel and I moved to Texas in 1965; Nancy and Tom, in 1971. The third member of our group was Linda, whose husband, Lynn, was a surgeon in nearby Granbury and died way too  young. We shared good times back in the glory days—dinners or parties every weekend, we ladies involved in the women’s groups; our kids growing up together. There’s a bond there that lasts over the years

And we could laugh about the negative times—Joel and I divorced in ’82; Nancy and Tom in ’84. Nancy and I went to dinner frequently until the dinners sort of tapered off. I think we got tired of talking about exes and their faults. Nancy, an administrative surgical nurse, moved around in several jobs and even to Austin once. I forget what year Lynn died but Linda’s uncertainty came out in the form of a bad relationship followed by marriage to a guy she met on the internet. I was horrified but he turned out to be a really good guy I was proud to call my friend. I grieved when he died unexpectedly a couple of years ago or more. So now we all three are widowed, and we can joke about the second-wife syndrome of doctors.

Linda and I had rehooked long ago but it was only in the last year or so that we found Nancy. Tonight was our second reunion of sorts. Linda brought a delicious salad and a skillet of sauerkraut and sausage, with chocolate bread for dessert—it tasted to me like pumpkin bread with chocolate chunks.

Yes, Nancy and I talked some about the faults of our exes but not excessively. I am always reminded of a young friend named Joel who listened to his mom and me talk about the original Joel and his late-in-life peccadillos and, yes, flaws. “If he was so awful, why am I named after him?” he asked. His mom looked at him and said, “Because we all loved him.” Best explanation I’ve heard.

It was good to bring the past alive for a bit tonight and to realize that we’ve all moved on and had full and rewarding lives since those days. We’ll do dinner again soon.

It had been an upsetting day, just because of the tension in all our lives right now, and this evening erased that. I’m going to bed a happy camper tonight.

Staring into Space

I’ve noticed this tendency in myself for the last few months: I tend to stop what I’m doing and stare off into space. It happens any time of day but particularly in the morning. With my leg either in a boot or brace and my other leg compromised by pain, I dawdle over getting my pants and shoes on in the morning. I t has to be done in ritual order—left (sore) leg first, because it hurts to lift it—so that leg goes into underwear, pants or shorts, sock (now that’s really a challenge) and shoe; then the right leg and add to the ritual these days buckling into the brace and fitting it into the shoe. Sometimes it may take me a half an hour to get to that point because I stop to stare into space—and because I put off standing up because it hurts my left hip. Doctor, home health nurse, everyone tells me I have to do it because walking on that hip is the only way to make it better, but damn!

I find myself staring into space at other times during the day too. I’ve always wondered about people who say they meditate—how do they get their mind to fix on one topic and stay there? When I gaze at the far horizon or whatever, I have no conscious thought in my brain, though I often sense that an idea comes into my head and instead of continuing what I’m doing, I follow that idea off into wherever,

I’ve blogged about and most of you are aware of the major changes in my lifestyle I’ve experienced lately—health and mobility, living quarters and cooking accessibility, independence (I’ve had to give up ideas about that). I’ve tried to meditate, but I simply couldn’t or wouldn’t focus on one subject.

It occurs to me however that in those times I drift into space I’m really meditating, working on the issues in my life I need to sort out. Jordan was upset last night that I was upset (I know, bad sentence) over the prospect of limited mobility in the future-tonight she made it a bit worse by saying she doubted I’d ever drive anywhere by myself again. And she may well be right, and it may turn out to be a blessing for which I will forever be grateful for good friends who take me hither and yon, but what Jord didn’t understand in her quest to make everything better, is that I need to work all that out in my mind and it isn’t going to happen overnight.

So if you see me staring off into space just think that maybe I’m driving my VW on a scenic backroad, top down, my dog Sophie at my side.

It’s all going to work. It just takes time.

29.00

Oops. There goes my lifestyle, changed again—for what? The fourth time within a year? There was the broken ankle/leg with non-weight-bearing which finally morphed into weight-bearing in that black boot; then there was the whole huge change of moving out of the house and into the cottage—which I absolutely adore.

Today I saw the orthopedic surgeon, proudly showing off my new, lightweight brace. He approved, showed me where and how it is supporting the ankle. Of course I had questions? May I go to the bathroom barefoot in the night? Yes. You have no idea what a relief that is. Struggling into either the boot or the brace is a pain in the middle of the night when all you want is to answer nature and then go right back to sleep. Besides, sometimes there’s a certain urgency to my night trips.

Next question: may I drive? Yes, if I practice in an empty parking lot and find that I can stop in time and control the car. My right foot is, he told me, a clumsy foot. But unless I make a miraculous mobility recovery, the car presents problems. It’s a VW Bug convertible, and the walker won’t fit. I love my car. I’ve had it eleven years. It’s my sporty car to keep from being a stodgy grandmother. I don’t want to sell it (probably $500) and buy a new car. Dilemma, but at least I don’t have to solve it today.

Then the kicker question: how long do I have to wear the brace? As long as I’m walking. “The rest of my life?” I queried, and I’m sure my voice went of the chart for squeakiness. He, a taciturn man, nodded and said yes. I’m still processing that in my mind. First of all, there go all my cute shoes, and I am sentenced to wearing orthopedic shoes with ankle socks. Second of all, it isn’t at all like running carefree through the grass. I will always be awkward, which I guess is better than not being able to walk. I’ve actually wondered how much that was a sentence to the walker, whether sitting in it or walking.

We will be getting an electric wheelchair, but I thought of it as something in the far-off future. I don’t want to put myself in a wheelchair now, because of that old adage, “Use it or lose it.” Spend 24 hours without walking and there’s a strong possibility that you’ll never walk again.

The physical therapist should be here in a day or two, and I’ll run some of these questions by him. I know however that I have to get serious about exercising and recovering the strength I’ve lost.

Another piece of good news in all this is that the doctor says the brace should help alleviate the terrible ache and pain in my left hip, though, as he emphasized, it takes time. But if that pain lessens, I’ll be more willing to walk and do exercises. Right now, it hurts. And yet, I guess I have to walk to heal the hip. Seems to me I’m caught in several circular dilemmas.

Who thought, the night last spring that I fell, that I was triggering all these changes in my life?

Bad Day at Black Rock

We all have bad days but today was surely one that I’m glad to put behind me. I’m often slow to get dressed in the mornings—it takes time to move my feet around and into pants and shoes, and I have to put on my brace. Today I lingered in bed until it suddenly dawned on me that I needed to use the potty—yes, I had one of my sudden GI attacks. By the time I got over that and redressed, I had spent an hour—and was pretty demoralized.

I went to work at my computer with a certain determination. I’d had a couple of spells of drifting off and then catching myself at my computer, and I surely didn’t want that to happen again. I think it’s the only bad thing that didn’t happen today.

AT&T sent me a friendly reminder that my bill was overdue for the cell phone. Checked the bank records and I made two payments in September. Result was that I spent about an hour and a half on a conference call with the bank and AT&T. The representatives of both were cheerful and helpful but it takes time to dig through records and find the solution. I am incredibly indebted to the two women I talked to, but I was so frustrated spending all that time on hold when I could have been doing something—anything—else.  We have it straightened out, I think.

Jordan came in just as I finished the call and sympathized, which was a help. I doctored the tuna from yesterday and in futzing about the kitchen managed to flip the tuna fork onto the floor, spattering tiny bits of tuna all over the kitchen area. Let Sophie in—it took her a few minutes, but when she discovered the tuna, she cleaned it up for me. I had a box of wine (shh! Don’t judge) on the counter and when Jordan came back in she discovered I hadn/t turned the spigot all way off and it was sending a steady stream of chardonnay to the wonderful wood floor in the kitchen area. On hands and knees, she wiped it up—and left me feeling apologetic and guilty. Nothing I did went right today.

Subie called and came by for a quick visit—during which time I had another GI accident. Fortunately, she’s an understanding friend, and it didn’t bother her at all. After she left, I settled down to edit the blog draft I’d written last night—not for my blog. Napped about three and slept till shortly after five.

No more major or minor upsets but I figure I’d had enough for the day—including spooning my dinner soup all over my pants. Neighbors came over to see my digs and then I got back to work. I’m ready to put this day to bed.

I did it! I cooked a meal!

Okay, Jordan helped—plus she did most of the dishes. But I really did cook our main—and only—dish. It was a pork and white bean chili recipe that I found in prowling through recipes. It was relatively easy with few ingredients—ground pork, cannellini beans, chicken broth, cumin, salt, green chilies (a poblano chile was optional and we optioned to omit it). On serving, you sprinkled it with shredded Monterrey Jack and lime juice. I bypassed the cheese, but the lime juice makes an enormous difference. We definitely decided the recipe is a keeper, and I did most of the cooking—Jordan did the stirring, adding broth and beans as needed.

For me, a big part of the satisfaction I got was in standing up to cook—and I did. I’m intimidated by weaning myself from my walker, and I am often hesitant to walk because my legs and low back ache—a result, I’m sure, of changes in my structure from wearing the walking boot. I think it’s getting better but it’s slow. So I’m proud of what I did tonight. I try to stand and walk as much as I can, but I realize it’s not enough.

A good day. I had a guest blog on my mind for 24 hours—I knew how it was going to work out, and I thought it would be one of those times when writing is sheer joy. When the words flow, and it just pours out. Not at all how it worked out—each word came like pulling teeth. And it was a subject I am really interested in—the history of the Ferris wheel—an astounding story. The original and only genuine Ferris wheel could carry 38,000 passengers a day. I know enough about writing to know that simply having gotten the draft done I accomplished a lot. The easy part will be tomorrow going back to polish.

So tomorrow I go back to it again—polishing, choosing what I’m writing, studying what to write next. I do it because writing is what I choose to do with my life, and it’s a great life.

The debate? Yes, I’ve got it on. I find Trump subdued tonight, but he goes for the old debate trick: when accused, turn the accusation to your opponent.

More cooking in the cottage

My kitchen

This is going to turn into a cooking blog if I don’t watch out. Maybe that’s not all bad. Tonight’s dinner was experimental and obviously needs work. But yesterday I asked Amy to buy scallops at Central Market—they came in a bag with ice, and she asked me what to do with it. “Just throw it in the sink? I said, intending to come right back, drain the ice (they tell you not to refrigerate with ice), and put in refrigerator for tonight’s dinner. Six hours later I found the scallops still in the sink, the ice now all melted.

At first I thought I’d go ahead and cook them. I remembered the tables upon tables of raw seafood in the fishermen’s huts at Seaview, sitting out with no refrigeration. But given my stomach problems I decided that wasn’t smart and reluctantly threw them away. Double tragedy because scallops aren’t cheap and I was really looking forward to them, and because it left me with nothing for dinner. I had found a recipe for baked eggs on spinach and decided to try it, though I have no way to bake.

Taste was good, flavors blended well, but I need to work on my cooking technique.

The induction burner cooks hot and quickly, and while I was waiting for the top of my eggs to solidify, the bottom was turning into hard-cooked egg—not the way I pref3er. The recipe called for a toasted English muffin (I tried to saute several baguette slices and burned them), bacon (frozen, so I left it out), and an egg—I used two for good measure. Obviously my limited cooking facilities and ingredients made a huge difference, but I think the recipe has potential.

I need the toaster oven out here but have avoided it for lack of counter space. The Burtons have my wonderful, handmade wooden butcher block in storage, and we’ll measure to see if it will fit in the kitchen area.

This was the kind of day that renews my faith in myself—I got a lot done. Finished reading a book for the Sarton competition and turned in the evaluation (hate that part of it) and did the internet search on the Ferris wheel. I know a lot about it and about Ferris himself from The Gilded Cage but needed to get facts and dates back in mind. I’ll do a guest blog on the wheel later in the month if you want to watch for it. But the whole story, with its impossible outrageousness, intrigues me. One of what I judge the better scenes in The Gilded Cage occurs on the original Ferris wheel.

So now I’m going to treat myself to a cozy mystery.

Stormy days

My dinner tonight

Lovely early this morning to be wakened by crashing thunder and heavy rain, the kind of noise that makes you want to snuggle down in the covers and stay there all day. It was not so lovely when a wet dog jumped in the middle of my bed and refused to be budged to give me any space. Sophie, once brave and undaunted, is now terrified of thunder. Jordan had let her out at seven and put her right back in. Hence my wet visitor.

Spent the day spinning my wheels, taking one step forward and two backward. Tried to uipload a book to several digital platforms, on review found a typo, went back to correct it, and now I can’t get the text to upload. And similar frustrations/

Planned to finish reading the book I’m almost through with tonight, but I had young people here until 9:30—finishing that book goes on tomorrow’s agenda. I wouldn’t trade the company for work time. I’ll have plenty of that over the weekend.

Big achievement today was cooking a good, balanced dinner from scratch. I planned for it to be the first meal I cooked all alone but Jordan and Chandry came out here and nothing would do that Jordan took over the cooking, laughing about how much fun it was. We fried a potato in olive oil, then quickly cooked four cut-up stalks of asparagus and seared a ground sirloin slider. Good, and I ate most of it, but I have to learn to cut the amount of olive oil. Good grease but still grease, and I felt the dinner was heavy because of all that oil.

The young people are all getting old—it’s 9:30 and they’ve gone. And I’m getting older—woke with a touch of a rainy day headache, and it’s back tonight. Time to take myself to bed. Hoping for another storm tonight.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

What’s for supper?

I woke with one of those three-o’clock in the morning panics this morning. It dawned on my what I’d be giving up in going lactose restricted. When I announced that, Jordan immediately collected the cottage cheese, yogurt, and Sargento cheese slices from my fridge. But I eat much more dairy than that-milk with cereal, mayo on sandwiches and with all kind of salads—egg, chicken, tuna, ham. What was I going to feed myself?

Lunch today was easy. Friends Jeannie and Betty brought me meatloaf, green beans, and roasted apple slices. Turned out dinner was equally easy—I had the same thing all over again. And a friend visited for happy hour and convinced me of what I suspected—mayonnaise does not have dairy. It is creamy because when you mix the olive oil and lemon together, it emulsifies. And Jordan and I both found lactose-free mayo recipes, so I’m home free on that count. I can have tuna salad and tough it out without the cottage cheese.

Still I decided if I’m going to do this—and do it right—I need to plan ahead. So I had a delightful morning sorting recipes—something that was on my to-do list and that I love to do anyway. I came up with recipe ideas--like a baked egg on a bed of spinach. Oops? I don’t have an oven. How am I going to bake it?  I think I can figure a way. And a frittata with asparagus, green beans, and scallions—I’ve never made a frittata in my life, but how hard can it be? Once again I’ll have to figure out a way to cook the top without overcooking the bottom. This cooking without a stove or oven is going to be a challenge. I have a good toaster-oven in the main house that would do all these things but really don’t have counter space for it.

Scrambled eggs (with water and a tad of olive oil) will be good. I can get almond milk for my morning cereal. This is going to make me think more about the creativity of cooking. Other things I found that will make cooking this week fun: tortilla, green chili and lime soup—with chicken of course; that baked egg, which sounds better all the time. A white bean and pork chili. I think in my reliance on tuna and cottage cheese I’ve been missing a whole world of good food, and I’m ready to discover it.

And who knows? We may discover lactose isn’t my enemy and move on, searching for another cause for my gastric distress. Meantime I don’t intend to starve.

The Joy of Old Friends

October 5, 2016

….and the trauma of a doctor’s visit. Today I had both those pleasures. I had an afternoon appointment with a gastroenterologist to get to the cause of my ongoing GI problems. Yes, I was nervous about it. The doctor is an old friend who has treated me previously; we have friends in common, and he reminded me that he treated my oldest child and diagnosed his Crohn’s disease. So the appointment should have been a piece of cake, and in many ways it was because I felt at ease to talk with him. But there is no easy solution—he recommended a two-week trial period of lactose restriction, ordered blood work, and told me to come back in three weeks. A step in the right direction.

During his exam, I panicked because I was on a narrow table and was sure I was going to fall off—in fact I thought I was falling. He and the nurse kept assuring me they had me, but I wasn’t convinced. Realized that my fear of falling is strong, and I have to get over it if I’m to be fully mobile again. Kind and gentle as he was, the experience made me feel wrung out and exhausted.

And the no dairy news was not good for me. I used to live on cottage cheese, still eat a lot of it and yogurt and cheese. I had prepared an appetizer array for my guests but realized I couldn’t eat any of it—pimiento cheese, roast salmon with herbed cream cheese, assorted veggies which aren’t yet on my “can’t have” list but the doctor warned against them

I’ve known Bill and Sharon well over forty years, and they came to see my new digs tonight. We had a wonderful visit—lots of laughter. We talked about their kids, my kids, our Chicago trip. They had brought a cold supper—a Mediterranean salad with roasted vegetables and salmon. But we ate so much appetizers, we weren’t hungry—I tasted the eggplant and squash but passed on the tomato and mozzarella. They left, repeating how pleased they were for me, how impressed with my cottage.

It’s a nice night to be cozy in the cottage, and I’m ready to tuck myself in. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Cats, clowns, water bottles, and bacon

Another insignificant day in the life of Judy Alter, wannabe rich and famous author. I have decided that the world is going crazy. It’s not just the Trump scary silliness—though I’m sitting here ready to watch the Veep debate. But take for instance the current craze with water bottles. Yep, recyclable plastic water bottles. Jacob and his buddies fill them halfway with water, put the tops on, and practice flipping them. The object is to make them land right side up. It sounds really boring to me, but they spend hours at it, both alone and with each other.

But then they branch out. One afternoon I woke from a nap to hear strange noises on the roof. Turns out Jacob and a friend were lobbing bottles onto my roof. I reminded them it was a new roof, and I didn’t think that was a good idea. A few minutes later I watched Jacob lob a bottle toward the back fence and then cover his mouth with amazement. Yep, he’d broken a title in the patio table. We stressed how expensive those tiles are. Those incidents have not deterred him—I sit at my desk and watch him lobbing bottles, though for now to less sensitive places.

I am subject to this idiocy. I got a new pack of bacon out tonight and was horrified that it said, “Use or freeze before October 29” I hadn’t even frozen it. How sick would it make me if I went ahead and made a BLT? Slowly, it dawned on me that’s it’s only early October. I whipped the remaining bacon into the freezer and made my sandwich. It takes me a long time to cook though I admit I wasn’t hurrying tonight—still it took me over half an hour to make a half BLT.

I find the same thing sometimes in the morning. I’m prone to sit on the edge of the bed and stare into space. I’m not sure if I’m procrastinating or just enjoying the luxury of not having to rush. Some mornings it’s 30 minutes between waking up, doing my morning ablations—teeth, etc.—and getting to my desk. Add twenty minutes for washing my hair.

Two scary things loom on our horizon. One is the national problem of scary clowns. Jacob really grilled his mom tonight about the clowns and why she had warned him about them. She did it of course to warn him in the unlikely case that he ran into one of these creatures. Jacob is sometimes a bit scared, and this is one of those times.

Which means it’s good we didn’t tell him about the coyote(s) who apparently roam our neighborhood at night. In past months we’ve heard of an occasional cat killed, but last night, if my reading of the bulletins was correct, two cats were killed. And friends in other parts of the city have lost outdoor cats in the same manner—what you find is mostly a furry of fur. The south end of my neighborhood has a creek and wooded area, and we figure one or more coyotes are coming from there. But it could be a bobcat. We keep our animals in at night, but I know some people with feral cats can’t do that and these are scary times. When our dogs are out in the evening I have a birds’-eye view of the backyard so I’m not worried, but I hate to hear about other animals killed.

My verdict on the veep debate: pretty boring, but Kaine has a nice, open personality. Pence is a smug, supercilious piece of work.

Over and out.

 

October 4.2016

Another insignificant day in the life of Judy Alter, wannabe rich and famous author. I have decided that the world is going crazy. It’s not just the Trump scary silliness—though I’m sitting here ready to watch the Veep debate. But take for instance the current craze with water bottles. Yep, recyclable plastic water bottles. Jacob and his buddies fill them halfway with water, put the tops on, and practice flipping them. The object is to make them land right side up. It sounds really boring to me, but they spend hours at it, both alone and with each other.

But then they branch out. One afternoon I woke from a nap to hear strange noises on the roof. Turns out Jacob and a friend were lobbing bottles onto my roof. I reminded them it was a new roof, and I didn’t think that was a good idea. A few minutes later I watched Jacob lob a bottle toward the back fence and then cover his mouth with amazement. Yep, he’d broken a title in the patio table. We stressed how expensive those tiles are. Those incidents have not deterred him—I sit at my desk and watch him lobbing bottles, though for now to less sensitive places.

I am subject to this idiocy. I got a new pack of bacon out tonight and was horrified that it said, “Use or freeze before October 29” I hadn’t even frozen it. How sick would it make me if I went ahead and made a BLT? Slowly, it dawned on me that’s it’s only early October. I whipped the remaining bacon into the freezer and made my sandwich. It takes me a long time to cook though I admit I wasn’t hurrying tonight—still it took me over half an hour to make a half BLT.

I find the same thing sometimes in the morning. I’m prone to sit on the edge of the bed and stare into space. I’m not sure if I’m procrastinating or just enjoying the luxury of not having to rush. Some mornings it’s 30 minutes between waking up, doing my morning ablations—teeth, etc.—and getting to my desk. Add twenty minutes for washing my hair.

Two scary things loom on our horizon. One is the national problem of scary clowns. Jacob really grilled his mom tonight about the clowns and why she had warned him about them. She did it of course to warn him in the unlikely case that he ran into one of these creatures. Jacob is sometimes a bit scared, and this is one of those times.

Which means it’s good we didn’t tell him about the coyote(s) who apparently roam our neighborhood at night. In past months we’ve heard of an occasional cat killed, but last night, if my reading of the bulletins was correct, two cats were killed. And friends in other parts of the city have lost outdoor cats in the same manner—what you find is mostly a furry of fur. The south end of my neighborhood has a creek and wooded area, and we figure one or more coyotes are coming from there. But it could be a bobcat. We keep our animals in at night, but I know some people with feral cats can’t do that and these are scary times. When our dogs are out in the evening I have a birds’-eye view of the backyard so I’m not worried, but I hate to hear about other animals killed.

My verdict on the veep debate: pretty boring, but Kaine has a nice, open personality. Pence is a smug, supercilious piece of work.

Over and out.