Surviving, Day #2

No, it's not Jacob's birthday, and he hasn't been 14 for several years.
But in the upper left you can see the trees I've written about tonight.
They are too beautiful to lose, and we need lots of trees for the climate.

Yesterday it was the ophthalmologist; today it was the dentist and the driveway, or teeth and trees. The dentist first:

When I was a kid, back in the Dark Ages, I had bad teeth, inherited I’m told from my dear father. Whatever, I had lots of cavities and in my tween years spent a lot of time in the dentist’s office. The dentist happened to be a family friend—he and his wife/nurse were Uncle Walt and Aunt Kaffee. Uncle Walt was a taciturn man, but what did a kid of twelve know about taciturn? I just thought he was disapproving of me, and I was intimidated. In those days, the dentist’s drill was a clumsy, slow thing and having all my cavities filled was a long and painful process. (To Uncle Walt’s credit, most of those gold fillings are still in my head some seventy years later and to his double credit as an adult I learned to appreciate him.) Needless to say, I dreaded and hated going to the dentist. I remember making those trips to the Hyde Park Bank building, though now I can’t tell you if it was on 51^st Street or 53^rd. Seems to me, I went alone, though some thirty years later I always went to the dentist with my children. Add to all that the truth that anxiety is a feeling I’m all too familiar with, and it’s easy to understand that I carry with me today some dental phobia. At my ripe old age, I have finally learned to take excellent care of my teeth (especially if I don’t eat blueberries) and the hygienist is pleased with me. Visits are usually not long and always painless—especially since she’s agreed not to use the hydroelectric thing on my teeth. But I still get anxious, so having a dental cleaning behind me is a great relief. Of course I have to go back in three months, but I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

And I’ve had such problems with dental insurance. I didn’t like Cigna’s coupon books because I pay through my bank, so I ignored their coupons, sent them checks which they returned, and then they cancelled me for nonpayment. Me, Pollyanna, the good girl who pays all bills promptly! Then I took out an Ameritas policy which not only didn’t save me money, it cost me because it hardly paid anything on my dental bills and I was left with a huge balance plus monthly insurance payments. It seems that my dentist was out of network, but then I found he isn’t in any networks and yet he has a thriving practice. So I cancelled Ameritas (angrily, I admit) and discovered my Humana Medicare covers dental work—why I didn’t know that all along is another puzzle. But the final blow came today when I was told that with any Medicare policy, I have to pay the full amount up front, and they will reimburse me when the insurance pays. The system is beyond me, but I admit to a few unladylike phrases today (not in the dentist’s office, however).

On to the trees: For years I’ve worried about two tall, beautiful oaks that grow at the edge of our driveway, close to the house. They provide wonderful shade for the house in summer. Over the years (maybe as much as a hundred) they have broken and pushed up the concrete of the driveway so navigating it is a real challenge. I knew it would have to be addressed one day. When an arborist surveyed our trees, he suggested replacing the concrete with gravel so the tree roots could breathe. A good friend who has a masonry company offered to pull up the concrete, but the owner of our lawn service threw in a monkey wrench by asking, “What if the concrete is holding the trees up and they fall over?” (One would for sure take out my cottage and me if I were in it.) The arborist said that almost surely wouldn’t happen (no guarantees), but he wanted to treat the trees first to strengthen them. For a couple of weeks I’ve been trying to coordinate arborist, mason, and the lawn service guy. And I’ve been worrying about trees falling over. Was it safe for me to stay in the cottage while the concrete came up? Finally, it was all set for four o’clock Thursday; then it changed to 1:45. And then, today, Wednesday, the concrete crew showed up unexpectedly. Good that it cut down the time for me to be anxious. All went smoothly, the trees are still standing, and the broken concrete is gone.

Tomorrow, there is nothing on my schedule except work at my desk. Nothing, I hope, that I must survive. Color me thankful that these two days are behind me, my eyes are okay, my teeth are clean, the broken concrete is gone, and the trees are fine. God is good..

Random thoughts on a cold night

 

I have no idea what this image has to do with this blog, 
but it somehow landed here and I cannot get rid of it.
At least it satisfies the algorithms.

This is the kind of night when I really notice the one flaw in my cottage: there is no fireplace and no room for one. Jamie bought me a tiny artificial fireplace—the flames look very real, and it gives off just a smidge of heat, but I like it for the atmosphere, the thought of a fire. We have not yet gotten it down from wherever it was packed away over the summer. The cottage tonight, however, is toasty warm. I have the thermostat on the two ductless split systems—one in the living area and one in the bedroom—set at a level I never would in a regular furnace, but I don’t think these units heat as well. At any rate, I am comfortable—and I spent yesterday being cold all day.

I had the classic school dream last night—I was enrolled in two college classes but didn’t really want to take them. Finally I realized that I had already completed the degree requirements, and I dropped the classes. Such a relief! Occasionally I dream I am enrolled in a class and it’s time for the final, but I’ve never attended—or I couldn’t find the classroom. I think the class is often paleontology, something way out of my field of interest.

School dreams like that are not unusual and often mean that you are dealing with unpleasant memories or are anxious about something. I really don’t feel that there’s much in my life to be anxious about. But in the wider world, there is so much to be anxious about. I find that since the horrific Hamas attack on Israeli settlements, I am less optimistic. These days I am truly worried about an international war, with our troops suffering air raid strikes and half the Middle East ready to join the fight—though who on which side remains sort of unclear, except I don’t think Israel would have many allies. And at home, antisemitism is on the rise at an alarming rate. It’s like that night over three weeks ago Hamas let loose all the evil and hate in the world. It scares me that people are so fierce, and the individual stories break my heart.

Where is Solomon with his wisdom? Not only did he use his sword to settle a matter of motherhood, he successfully ruled over two tribes and is recognized today, in different ways, by both Jews and Muslims. I see no path forward to peace, and I grieve at the bitter fate of civilians on either side of the conflict. I read somewhere that over half the Palestinians killed in the conflict were children. Both sides are fixed on vengeance, but as Ghandi said, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” I am afraid that is what is happening to us.

It's hard these days to go back to the ordinary, to root yourself in such things as Halloween and getting plants in before tonight’s frost and what to fix for supper tomorrow night. But it is those ordinary things I think that often hold us together. And today I read an article about that most ordinary of things: the common southern phrase, “Bless your heart.” We all know it can be a biting insult, but an article in Southern Living suggests it is much more nuanced. The meaning depends heavily on the speaker’s tone of voice.

Whispered in a conspiratorial voice, usually about someone not present, it casts doubt on the subject’s abilities, mostly mental or social. Stated in a clear, caring tone of voice, it conveys real concern or sympathy. Said with sass, it implies judgement and an incredulous, “What were you thinking?” If the speaker’s voice holds pity, and you’re the recipient, accept that it is not a compliment and move on. If it’s said matter-of-factly, it may mean that the speaker doesn’t want to reveal their real feelings and wants to end the conversation.

Feeling much better today—thanks for asking. Cold symptoms cough and stuffy nose persist, but I have more energy and more interest in what I’m working on. Wrote a thousand words today, most of them good words.

Bless your heart, one and all.

Dentists, anxiety, and escapism

 

I h

If I as a carrot-top at twelve ....

ad a nine o’clock appointment with an endodontist today. Groan—everyone knows what that means. It was double jeopardy because I am so self-indulgent about my sleep these days. Sophie got me up at 6:45, but on a normal day, I would have gone back to sleep for an hour or more. Today I didn’t dare.

I confess that I am dental phobic, but I think if you are my age and you had much dental work done as a youngster, you probably feel the same way. When I was twelve or around there, I had multiple cavities—and today I still sport some gold crowns from those days. Our dentist was a shirt-tail relative, Uncle Walt. When I was grown, I came to love Uncle Walt but when I was young, he frightened me—he was taciturn which is something I hadn’t encountered before. And the drill in those days was loud and slow and clumsy. Dentistry has come a long way. But my memories have not kept pace.

When I called for this appointment, I was asked if I wanted a consultation or a procedure. No brainer there—a consultation. I wanted to check out my options. I liked the dentist a lot immediately. He was open, friendly, understanding—and unbending.

Dr. Yeltsin: Did someone tell you that you might need a root canal?

Me: Yes, but I’m hoping you’ll tell me I don’t.

Dr. Yeltsin: You do.

He answered my questions: he only works one chair at a time, so when he was working on me, I would be his only patient. I could call for a brief time out any time I felt I had to. Given no complications, it would take no more than thirty minutes. All good.

Before I got to his office, I was a basket case of nerves. I truly thought Jordan would have to shovel me into the car. But it’s like they say with anxiety patients—you can be a trembling mass of jelly inside, but on the outside, you are calm and collected. The whole thing got me to thinking, again, about my anxiety. It’s not that I’m afraid of pain—through an extreme hip condition, a torn rotator cuff, chronic kidney disease, and who knows what else, I have demonstrated a tolerance for pain and discomfort that has led my kids to scold me. But what I am afraid of is fear.

I am afraid of being afraid.

If I could walk into the dentist’s office without a qualm, I’d be great. But I can’t. Instead I feel a strange disconnection from reality, almost as though I will faint. Sometimes my stomach rebels, as it did today, and I fear embarrassing but urgent need for the bathroom. It’s a whole set of physical symptoms I cannot control.

Tonight there was a thread on a writers’ listserv that I follow about not being able to write during trauma. Authors wrote about their inability to write while a close relative was dying or some other great trauma was upsetting their lives. Knock on wood I’ve not had that kind of great trauma, except perhaps divorce which left me alone with four children, or, of course, the death of my parents. But I have instead found writing a refuge in troubled times.

Writing fiction allows me to escape into the world of my characters, away from the world that is troubling me. For instance, Kelly of the Kelly O’Connell Mystery Series has a husband she loves, two daughters she adores, a close circle of friends, and a good career as a real estate broker and renovation expert. Would that my life was so perfect. But even when Kelly must deal with death and deceit, I find her world comforting. I like the people. I am comfortable with them. They have an insular world without root canals and heart monitors and a lot of daily “stuff” that bothers me.

Granted, that’s sort of a superficial view. Today’s world has so much trauma—pandemic, Ukraine, an appalling divisiveness that has taken hold of our country. It’s maybe trivial to say I can escape into my fictional worlds, but the truth is when I wake at three in the morning worrying about Ukraine President Zelensky and the assassination attempts he has survived, I go to Irene’s culinary world in Chicago. That diva can be really distracting.

Is that ignoring the seriousness of our world? I don’t think so. I speak out often and clearly about my political and moral beliefs. But at three in the morning, I also look out for myself.

Ladies night, some good food, and some anxiety

Cheese grits dinner

It was definitely ladies’ night for my girls and me last night. Megan, in Austin, and Jordan, sitting at my elbow and always reaching for the mouse, walked me through  a Zoom call. It took quite a bit of doing since I was sideways on the screen—we finally went to the account granddaughter Maddie had opened for me and figured out how to rotate the camera. Hurray! I am now right side up. This was important because I am to be on a panel for the Boerne Book Festival October 3, and I figured sideways did not lead to productive discussion.

Then later in October, I am looking forward to attending, remotely, the Bouchercon mystery con. I have only been to one Bouchercon but always wanted to go again. Even last year when it was in Dallas, travel was difficult enough for me that I didn’t try it. So this year, I can attend remotely. Looking forward to putting faces to a lot of familiar names.

After the Zoom call, Jordan and I had a ladies night dinner—yes, we left Christian and Jacob to fend for themselves with leftovers while we dined on scallops au gratin (scallops were on sale at Central Market) and an artichoke that we split. I had Reese’s hollandaise in the fridge—I know, I know I should make my own, but I’ve not been really successful at that in recent times. Anyway, it was delicious, though the gratin was a bit liquid. Got to work on that.

Seems to be a food-oriented period for us. Tonight we had a meatless dish (unless you count chicken bouillon)—cheese grits (with lots of butter and extra cheese) topped by spicy black beans, thinly sliced radishes, diced green onion, and avocado slices. Each person got a lime wedge to squeeze over the dinner. I announced I thought it was one of my favorite meals, and Christian replied that it wasn’t a favorite of his. Then he realized he’d caught himself, and repeated several times that it was just fine, we’d had it before, he liked it—but it’s not his favorite meal. I resisted asking if his favorite is steak and baked potatoes, but I’m betting that’s it.

This is sort of a ho-hum week—until tomorrow when Saving Irene launches. But yesterday I spent the day on small stuff—straightening out a bill, fixing an email problem, that kind of busy-ness. Today I wrote 450 words—not a great deal, but they were words hard come by. I was working on a lesson for the online chef class, this about why until recently there were so few female and black chefs in major kitchens. Hard to put succinctly without bias, but I think I managed. Later this week I will tackle the Black half of the post which is even trickier—it really will encompass all persons of color, but Black Americans make up the majority and that’s where I’ll focus. And try to be politically correct.

If any one wants to learn more about chefs, the class is “Writing the Professional or Amateur Chef,” and you can find out more at https://www.rwakissofdeath.org/coffin-classes. I learned so much about the culinary world researching for this, and I’m hoping some foodies like me will want to take the class. The irony for me is that I did the research after I finished Saving Irene with its wannabe French chef. I’m not sure if I’d have changed anything in the novel or not.

All during quarantining I’ve practiced a kind of blatant optimism that must have grated on my friends’ nerves. Now I find myself experiencing some of the anxiety that I have read so many others have dealt with all along. I think it’s anxiety about the election. I am so convinced that it must go one way and so terrified of the results if it goes the other. I asked Jordan tonight how she felt about moving to Scotland, which sort of startled her.

Sweet dreams everyone. Put your anxiety in the closet and forbit I to come out until morning.

 

The ongoing saga of my car

Thidaughter, s was when I first started to drive again

after two years away from the wheel

As many of you may know, I drive a 2004 VW Beetle convertible that I adore. It’s my “I’m-not-your-typical-grandmother” car, and I adore zipping around in it—or I did. For almost two years, when I had so much trouble with my hip and the surgery, the car sat—first outside my cottage and then outside my son’s house in Tomball, where I thought they would drive it. They didn’t, and when I finally was able to drive again, I had to do a lot of expensive repairs.

I had such a sense of release and freedom. I drove with a joy and confidence I never had before. Lately though that confidence has been replaced by uncertainty and a slight tendency toward panic. Long story short, I’m not enjoying driving much, and it’s a real dilemma for me. For one thing, it’s a pain when I am alone to get the walker and then me into the car and reverse the procedure whenever I get where I am going. And Jordan doesn’t want me to get in or out alone. She’s afraid I’ll fall or get mugged. So lately it’s been easier just not to drive.

But cars don’t do well just sitting. I’ve had to have the battery jumped twice, mostly because I didn’t park it in such a way that Christian could get a car next to it to use jumper cables. Garages have those handy little things they carry around and don’t need cables. Jacob has been good about going out to start it, but it still doesn’t last long. So today, Christian jumped it—we had parked deliberately the last time we started it—and Jordan and I drove to get gas and to get eggs and milk at Braum’s.

My beloved daughter turned into a back-seat driver. “The gas station is on the left”—I know that. I’ve lived in this neighborhood over fifty years. “Slow down. There are people walking in the street”—I see them and am being careful. As I drove in the driveway, “Wait for the gate to open”—I’ve been driving in this driveway with that gate for about twenty years. “Why won’t your windows go all the way up?” Because the door is still open. Sheesh! I can see the handwriting on the wall, the point at which my kids will think I should no longer drive, though after my two-year hiatus, each one had to drive with me to check me out, and each one had different objections. Truth is, I’m a  pretty good side-street driver, not so much on busy streets, and not at all on freeways..

Christian was quite stern with me: I will have to drive it frequently; we can’t keep jumping it. And I can do that, albeit it’s a bit of a pain. Next dilemma: my driver‘s license comes up in July, and at my age I will have to appear in person and take the test, the thought of which gives me the nervous willies. Sometimes they require that you wear your hearing aids and not drive after dark—I’m okay with that. I would like to keep my license, if for no other reason than in another year Jacob will have his learner’s permit, and I can let him drive as long as I am in the car as a licensed driver. I’d probably give him the car, but he doesn’t much like it, and Christian supported him by saying, “It’s not a very masculine car.” What kind of nonsense is that? When I drove it a lot, women came up to me to say, “My husband would kill for that car.”

So here I sit, pondering all these variables. At least, it’s not a decision I have to make tomorrow, and it’s a good distraction from worrying about the corona virus.

The perils of anticipation

This morning I was out of bed by eight—okay, it is Saturday, and I am retired—and in short order had my hair washed, bed made, clothes changed, ready for the day. All this haste was in anticipation of the late-morning arrival of Colin and his family. But somehow, I had a nagging feeling that they weren’t coming. They were driving from skiing in Colorado home to Tomball, outside Houston and would stop for a brief visit.

Sure enough, he called. He was coughing and has red eyes (probably allergies) and fourteen-year-old Morgan did not feel well. He left it up to me, and I reluctantly told them to skip the visit. I’m pretty much staying in and not taking chances.

So all my anticipation collapsed like a punctured balloon.

Still, that was joyful anticipation. I’ve had a couple of bouts lately with anticipation that was more like dread or, at the least, apprehension. In other words, I can work myself into a snit because I’m anticipating an event. It’s called chronic anxiety.

Much as I loved my recent  weekend in San Antonio, I suffered agonies of anticipation. Would I have to speak in public? How would the book signing go? Would Jordan be able to disinfect everything on the Vonlane bus and in the hotel? Would we be exposed to the novel corona virus? If nothing presents itself, I can dredge up bizarre possibilities to worry about—like bus accidents and hotel fires. Even as those things go through my mind, I know I’m being ridiculous.

Of course, once Jordan, Jacob, and I were on the bus, I was at ease. And in San Antonio, I loved the life was going on as usual (it may not be now), people were crowding the streets, laughing and singing. The neon-lit carriages  paraded through the streets. Jacob said it reminded him of New Orleans. We ate in wonderful restaurants, the meeting went well, my book was a success. The hotel was interesting and comfortable. And as usual, I wondered why I had worried.

But I came home and did it all over again, anticipating the talk I was to give Thursday morning at the Arlington Women’s Club. I invented excuses why I couldn’t go, I rehearsed my talk and convinced myself I would freeze in the middle of it. I was sure I’d talk too fast, too slow, too loud, too soft. In the car, I told Subie if she saw me panic, she should distract me with a question. She asked what question, and I said I didn’t care, just break the spell.

Once I was onstage and into my talk, I actually enjoyed myself. Theladies laughed and clapped and responded. Every once in a while I’d look at Subie, and her grin reassured me. I lost my train of thought for one brief nanosecond but got right back on track. And instead of seeming interminable, my talk seemed short—I was at the end almost before I knew it.

This reaction to speaking is nothing new. I spent many years talking to groups, conferences, workshops, and each time I suffered agonies of anticipation over a speech that went fine. I had a good friend who was a natural, entertaining, off-the-cuff speaker, and when I complained, he always said, “But you do it so well.”

It seems I can’t convince my mind to quit anticipating and accept that the event will go fine. I think I’m doing a bit of that right now with this virus threat. No sense wringing my hands as long as we’re all well and taking precautions.

Yes, I am pretty much cottage-bound, and it’s a strange feeling. Sometimes, unconsciously, I think of myself as ill or fragile and then I have to remind myself that I am perfectly fine—it’s the world around me that’s fragile.

The mind, at least mine, is a strange thing, capable of playing all kinds of tricks on us.

I am a wimp driver, or the saga of my groceries

Maybe I was not destined to get groceries from Central Market this week, or at least not easily. I called Friday to place an order and requested five o’clock pick-up. Never got a notice that my groceries were ready, so I checked. Seems I forgot to finish submitting it. So I submitted, with noon pickup Saturday to avoid the storms. But noon Saturday the storms were not gone—instead we had a tornado watch. So I called to ask if they could keep my groceries until Sunday. I’ve got to say every time I call, they are polite, cheerful, and agreeable. So I said 10:30 Sunday morning

Come Sunday I remembered our Texas blue laws and called. No, they could not let me have wine until noon. So just before noon I headed down the zoo road, my usual back way to half the world. Wrong move! It was impassable—they weren’t even letting cars turn onto that road but were ushering them on a back road behind the zoo. After waiting forever at a stop sign behind a monster truck, I came to a place where I could scoot into a driveway and turn around,

I went the long way, headed this time for the road behind the Log Cabin Village and through the park. But the Colonial golf tournament, which has another name these days, begins tomorrow, and all roads were blocked off. I knew that University would be a mess between the zoo and golf people. I contemplated my options, the best of which was not appealing—to turn left onto University and go to Vickery.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a good driver. I learned to drive in Chicago and spent one summer commuting from the south side to Evanston via the crowded Outer Drive. But anxiety came with age. When I returned to driving, after a two-year absence due to health, I put anxiety behind me and was fairly fearless. But lately I’ve reverted to my back-road ways—I don’t do freeways and heavy traffics bothers me. I like to know where I’m going and have my route planned out.

Suddenly, I anticipated getting disoriented. That old panicky feeling came back. I cut to the right, turned right on University, made a left onto Park Hill and came home. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob were headed to lunch, and I asked them to get my groceries after their lunch, which they did. So after five missed tries, I got two bags of groceries and three bottles of wine.

Tonight, lamb meatballs, tzatziki sauce, corn salad, and green salad, as we head into a long and busy week.

Rainy day stuff

It was a dark and stormy night—oh, no, I mean morning. By 9:30 the sky was almost dark as night, thunder rumbled, lightning flashed—and sweet Sophie followed me around mournfully with accusing eyes as though I had deliberately let this happen. No amount of, “It’ll be all right, Soph” seemed to help. The actual heavy storm, with a downpour, passed rather quickly, and we are left with a drizzly, dull day.

The chickens don’t like rainy weather any better than Sophie does, but they are much more vocal in their protests. My goodness, they’re noisy this morning.

Once I was sure the worst of it was over, I went to pick up my Central Market groceries. To my surprise, Jordan didn’t caution me not to go or to be careful on slippery roads or any of those things, but I was extra cautious, always watching to see that the other guy didn’t slip and slide instead of stopping.

As I drove away, a sleek black dog, medium in size, darted across the street and into our front yard, where it turned in circles and looked both scared and puzzled. It is too much trouble for me and my walker to get out of the car, let alone chase a dog across lawns, so I called Jordan and stopped to put the dog on the neighborhood email. Christian didn’t get out in time to see it, and it dawned on me it might be the neighbor’s half-grown lab. They didn’t respond to a call. I wish I knew so I won’t worry about that dog all day.

Was able to help reunite a dog and its family later in the day, through the same neighborhood email. I’d love if it were the same dog, but I don’t think so. The one I saw was black; the one that was found (on a busy street) was brown with a white paw.

Today was to have been our neighborhood-wide garage sale, postponed until next week way in advance because of the almost hundred per cent chance of rain. The annual zoo run was also on today’s calendar, which meant I would have to avoid my favorite shortcut when I went to Central Market. But with the weather, I went ahead and took the zoo road. Still don’t know if the race was cancelled or simply over by the time I got there, but there are few things more discouraging than empty race stations in the drizzle.

Saying for the day comes from TODAY show host Carson Daly, talking about his lifelong battle with anxiety: “If you took chalk on a chalkboard and made a mess, that was the noise in my brain. That was the anxiety,” he said. “And being on [his new medication] is like someone took an eraser and just erased it.” I don’t know what medication has made such a difference, but I am delighted for him. I too have battled anxiety much of my adult life but am no longer on medication. I think his description of the chalkboard is the most apt I’ve ever heard, and I would hope all those who poohpooh anxiety as “all in your head” will read and heed it.

No anxiety here today. I have a good book, and it’s a perfect day for a nap. A good friend coming for an early glass of wine this evening. My kind of Saturday. Stay dry and cozy, friends (actually the temperature has dropped quite a bit).

Watch night and other matters

I’m sure the sale of Tums has gone up dramatically in the last twenty-four hours. I’ve heard from more people and seen more posts on Facebook about the anxiety this election has produced. One meme said last night was like a combination of Christmas Eve and the night before a colonoscopy, and I thought that was pretty apt.

I waited too long to make watch party arrangements and then got cold feet about going out. I’m in a hermit mood, still in the pjs I’ve worn all day. In spite of a neighbor’s nice offer to take me down the street to the Wine Haus, where there is no TV, I’ve elected to stay home alone. Perhaps Jacob will come out and watch the returns with me later. But for the time being, I’m keeping the TV muted. I don’t want to hear all those early predictions. I’m waiting for solid results—and praying a lot. Two years ago, for the presidential election, I went to sleep and left a good friend and Jordan in my living room watching. When I woke in the morning, they were both there again, and when they told me trump had won, I went back to bed, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.

Meanwhile, I spent some time shopping online today and am so proud that I really whittled down my Christmas gift list. I try to give something to each of the fifteen family members, not big but something I hope they’ll like, and then there are assorted friends I am close to. A little creative online searching, and I think I came up with some good choices. I will have to have many of my family gifts wrapped to be delivered when we’re all together for Thanksgiving, since this is an Alter “off” year when the kids all celebrate with their spouse’s families.

Sophie provided a little diversion from the election-day tension today. She had a spa day a week or so ago and came home sporting that triangular scarf around her neck. Knowing that it would just get dirty, I suggested Jordan take it off one night when she was loving on Sophie. She eased it over the dog’s head, and Sophie backed off and literally glared at her. Jordan began apologizing, saying, “Mom told me to do it.” Finally, she put the scarf back on, and Sophie seemed satisfied.

This morning, there was a repeat performance with Zenaida who cleans my cottage for me. She sweet-talked Sophie and eased the scarf over her head. Soph immediately grabbed it in her teeth and began a game of tug o’ war. When Zenaida tried to ease her mouth open to get the scarf, Sophie gave her baleful looks. Finally, we decided to just let her carry it in her teeth until she tired of it.

She didn’t tire. Scarf in her mouth, she barked demandingly at Zenaida, who restored the scarf to its proper place around Sophie’s neck. And then my spoiled dog trotted away, perfectly satisfied. She won another round with those silly humans.

Down in the dumps and scolding myself

Sitting at my desk and gazing out the window at the garden, I see the stark contrast between last year and this year. Last year we had a lush and lovely yard, at least the half near the main house. This year, we have abundant and leggy ground cover in the back half, by my patio, but the grass has not done well and there are great bare patches. Is it because last year it was new grass, not strong enough now to endure three dogs peeing on it—I admit I’m not happy with that theory. The other thing, of course, is the extreme heat. And last year, the deck was full of abundantly blooming flowering plants—a bougainvillea, hydrangea and hibiscus. This year, most of the blooming plants are on the front porch where they are somewhat sheltered from the heat by a partial roof. The ones left are struggling and look—well, the word for it is crisp. It’s this blasted hot summer we’re having. The lettuce, long turned to brown stalks, and the basil, drooping beyond recovery, need to be torn up and discarded. When even basil doesn’t flourish, you know it’s bad.

I guess maybe I’m not in a good mood tonight, and perhaps the heat magnifies my discontent. I have so much to be thankful for that I am ashamed to say all those blessings sometimes cause me stress. My birthday was wonderful—but stressful. Being the center of attention and yet confined to my seated walker was a new experience. The trip to Tomball was wonderful—but stressful. I’m at a crossroads with my career, not sure what I want to do next, exploring. Being an impatient soul, I want something to leap out of the woodwork at me and say, “Write this!” Some days I think I did best as a student when there was a clear assignment.

Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are going on vacation soon. I lived alone in the house for probably twenty years and did fine, but now I’m used to Jordan coming out morning and night, just to pop in, and to Jacob occasionally wandering out to visit. I will feel abandoned, isolated—or maybe I am just telling myself that. But I am busily filling my social calendar for the time they will be gone. I know I’ll be fine once they’re gone—it’s the anticipation.

I am not an easy traveler. I think anxiety pretty much covers it, so excited as I am about our upcoming Great Lakes cruise, I am also apprehensive. I will be traveling with the family travelmaster, Jordan, superstar travel agent, and I know she takes care of every detail, planning ahead, and will take excellent care of me. But doubts beset me—how steep is the ramp up to the ship, boat or whatever we’re going on?  What about seasickness, apparently possible even on the Great Lakes. I have more than once been accused of bringing my bridges up close, so I can jump them, and I guess that’s what I’m doing now.

The logical part of my mind scoffs at all this and lectures me sternly on how petty my problems are. I have friends who are facing medical uncertainties, one woman I care about who rather suddenly finds herself in hospice care and with at best a short lifespan left. How dare I grouse about my problems, most of which grow out of the blending of many happy advantages with my natural disposition toward anxiety. No panic attacks this time—just a slightly queasy stomach.

The best I can do is be stern with myself, whack those anxieties right out of my life, and carry on with a smile. It may take me a day or two. Meanwhile. I am reading in search of a new topic, reading focusing on some interesting (and spunky) women of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Friends, thanks for listening. I’ll be back “at myself” in a day or two. Hang on with me, please. Have a good evening.

A mid-week, mid-day adventure

Who expects an adventure on a Wednesday, in the middle of the day? Not me, but I had one today. It began last week when a friend I’d not known well but had seen and visited with here and there over the years called and said she’d had a knee replacement in the fall, knew what being housebound was like, and she wanted to come take me to lunch. Thoughtful and kind, and I readily agreed, looking forward to a visit.

When she picked me up, she asked what kind of food I wanted. We settled on Mexican, and she asked if I was up for an adventure—lunch in a new place that was some distance away. Next thing I knew we were driving down a two-lane, curving country road surrounded by trees and brush—we were on Silver Creek Drive, on the far side of Lake Worth. I kept thinking surely a Mexican restaurant was not going to suddenly pop up on this stretch of road with few houses and nothing else. It didn’t.

By the time we reached our destination, we were in the suburb of Lakeside. LaChoza, in a small strip center, was surprisingly modern and well decorated We were early so service was prompt—I had spinach enchiladas and my host had a plate lunch. Good food, typical Tex-Mex but well done.

We visited, filling in gaps we never knew about each other—careers, husbands, children, all those details that flesh out the life of a person. She who had been one dimensional for me—a photographer at events and a friend at occasional chance happenings—took on several more dimension.

When she dropped me at home she said what fun it was and we’d do it again. But I’m not sure she’ll want to tackle my 1920s skinny driveway again!

An adventure of another sort that was less fun: I tried walking with a cane for the second time today. I thought it was a rank failure. I am awkward, uncertain, afraid, and in a hurry to get it over with. Ellen, the therapist, keeps telling me to slow down and that it will take time. I keep telling her that in recent years I was never confident walking, even with a cane, before my hip gave out. She will come for one more week, and then her assignment will run out.

I’m enough of a realist to know that without assistance and encouragement, I won’t practice with the cane—besides she says not to try it alone (she is a worrywart who is more terrified than I am of my falling—I guess she doesn’t want to undo all her work). Not sure what the next step is, but I know there is a next step. And I’ll take it, however reluctantly.

Beating myself up over a shoe

From this......

To this

I did trade the boot for a brace this morning, but it turned out not to be a direct trade-off. I am to wear the brace an hour or so at a time until I am used to it, gradually spending more time in the brace than the boot. Nor is it a simple procedure to fit it—the brace is clear plastic, molded after my foot. But still the technician put my foot in it and marked here and there where she could trim it. In response to her suggestion of a larger shoes, I took two pair—new OrthoFeet in a Mary Jane style and a pair of Croc lined slippers.

The brace goes inside the shoes—a bit of a trick to get it on, but I imagine it will work out as I break the shoe in—literally. But she trimmed until she had the right combination of fit and protection. Then she checked to see that I was even, and then I walked between parallel bars. I felt like a kid who had passed an exam in school—she said I did a perfect heel-toe walk, which should prevent tripping, and my ankle did not offer to collapse to either side.

Alas the Croc did not work as well. I had taken it because it’s wide and boxy, but she pointed out it has no give, whereas the OrthoFeet shoe is stretchy. We tried and tried, but it would accommodate the brace. Meantime, I who have always avoided Crocs was loving the left shoe that I wear with the boot. Crocs were too stiff and hard—they hurt my feet. But with the lining, it’s comfortable and I think a better height so I’m more even. All of this should alleviate the pain in my left hip.

By the time I got to the prosthesis office this morning, I had worked myself into one of my anxiety attacks. I was afraid of walking between the parallel bars, which turned out to be a piece of cake. I was sure I’d never walk unassisted again. I berated myself for being lazy and a coward because I don’t walk more—and major confession, I don’t often do the exercises that the physical therapist recommended. That’s unlike me, because I have faithfully done exercises, walked, done yoga whatever. I convinced myself that I was useless, lazy, lacking ambition.

I realize tonight, of course, what I was doing to myself—sending all those negative messages. On the other hand, regaining my earlier physical strength and balance compares to my thinking on my career: at 78, I am neither as ambitious nor as determined as I once was and probably that’s okay.

It’s been a long, difficult day, with my morning anxiety and in the evening several urgent trips to the bathroom. I really thought at noon I didn’t feel well…and slept for two-and-half hours this afternoon. Jordan’s friends were here when I got up, and one said to me, “Are you all right? You don’t look like yourself.” I explained it away with allergies that made my eye run but then I started the negative messages all over again. Listening to an account of another friend’s bout with West Nile didn’t help either.

I hope it was a better day for you. I’m putting this one to bed and plan to wake in the morning a new person.

Courage

Perhaps only anxiety sufferers will understand this, but I read somewhere that you should do something every day that scares you. That leaves me a long list of possible. Yesterday, as I reported, I met an old/new friend for lunch. It took a bit of courage, and I could so easily have opted out, pleading a migraine (no, I don’t have them) or a stomach issue (yeah, sometimes) but I didn’t. Scariest part for me was that I rarely go places alone these days but I did it, I hope with some grace.

Today I went to the nursery with neighbor/good friend Greg, having warned him I was unsteady on my feet. Again, I could have sent him with a shopping list but following my conviction that one way to combat anxiety was to get out in the world, I went. I was the most ungraceful person you ever saw getting into his jeep—but I did it. I worried if they had places I could sit if my back gave out. “We’ll figure something out,” he said. Greg takes life as it comes, with none of my anticipatory worrying.

I left my cane in the car because it falls out of the carts at the nursery—just held on to Greg. We got a cart for me to push and went through the nursery, with him saying, “Follow me this way.” I’m sure other customers thought how awful of him to let that old lady push the cart and order her around.  But I did follow him, we got everything on my list (no basil), and my back didn’t bother me. As the checkout a helpful employee tried to take my cart, and I said, “No, it’s my cane.” “Just trying to get it out of the way,” he said. I replied, “Well, then you’d have to get me out of the way because I’d be flat on the ground.”

The whole trip was fun, we got all the herbs I wanted and some other plants so my porches are in good shape. I sat on the front porch and then the deck while Greg planted and had a thoroughly pleasant morning. So two days in a row I’ve made myself do things I dreaded and had a great time both days.

Tonight I’m exhausted. Jordan arrived late afternoon, rearranged all the books, and moved them back into bookcases in the sunroom. I sorted as best I could and mostly watched. Then she realized I hadn’t looked at the bookshelves flanking the fireplace, so nothing would do but we check them. She works under the deadline of the book dealer who’s coming Friday—and probably won’t take even a tenth of the books. I have orders to sort one more carton and one bookshelf before tomorrow afternoon. She is so organized and so full of energy—I’m grateful beyond measure, but I’m sometimes a little tired.

Life is looking good.

Down in the dumps

This blog is sometimes where I work out problems that are bothering me, so here goes: I’m doing to dump about my dumps. A blue day in which I felt sorry for myself for no good reason. I have so much to treasure in life—a loving and supportive family, creative work that keeps me happy, a new book out, lots of friends, a loveable dog, a comfortable house and exciting plans for its future. So what’s bothering me? My lifetime enemy, anxiety.

I decided tonight that the problem is that I spend too much time home alone. On that note I decided to take my daughter up at the last minute on an invitation to supper. But I woke from a nap feeling blurpy, stayed home, ate leftover chicken. While I often enjoy my aloneness and quiet, I am also a person who feed on people, is energized by them. So why do I stay home?

Because it’s easier. Home is familiar, with paths I can follow from room to room. Outside my home, I’ve gotten insecure about walking (actually my walking is better—I’m doing my exercises). I scheme and connive so that I rarely go someplace alone but always have an arm to lean on. I have even hired a wonderful travel companion—we go to the grocery together. It’s called drawing the circle tighter, and I need to push back that circle.

Even at home, I’m most comfortable at my desk, so I tend to ignore things that should be done around the house. As a result of that and other things—downsizing and storm damage—my house is pretty much a mess. And I’m used to having people come in and exclaim about how warm and welcoming it is. Today I did laundry, watered plants—but I need to sort the last nine boxes of books, fill the shelves of my new filing cabinet, and restock the laundry area—items from it are all over the kitchen alcove and it looks awful. I can’t rely on Jordan to do all that.

This week I have several opportunities to push back the circle, and I am by gosh going to take advantage of them. I’m to meet a Facebook friend for lunch Tuesday—I’ve known him a long time, not sure we’ve ever actually met though we may have. So easy to send a message saying I can’t make it, but I’m not going to do that. If I have to call the restaurant and ask someone to help me in, so be it. I’m actually looking forward to lunch.

Wednesday I’m to go to the nursery plant shopping with Greg who keeps my yard. If I have to cling to him until he gets me a basket to push, so be it. And if I have to say I need to sit, I’ll sit (too long on my feet and my low back screams at me).

I’ll go to dinner with friends Tuesday and Wednesday and try my best not to cling. I am going to get out of the house. And when I’m home, I’m going to forsake the refuge of my desk—that’s what it’s become—and dig in.

Watch my dust!

Pushing out the circle

I seem to be writing about anxiety a lot in the last few days but that’s because I’ve felt its looming presence in my life. One of the things I learned years ago is that you can draw the circle tighter about you or you can gradually push that circle wider. Today was a widen the circle day, but it wasn’t easy.

The second Tuesday of every month I meet a wonderful group of book ladies for breakfast at the nearby Old Neighborhood Grill. This morning I woke in high anxiety over the thought of going to the Grill alone—having Amy F. as a “travel companion” has spoiled me—and weakened me. I know today was like other days in my past—do it today or you may never do it again.

Often when I wake with disquieting thoughts I find it helpful to turn on the TV while I brush my teeth, wash my hair, and get ready for the day. The news takes me out of myself in a good way, and that’s what I did today. Then I set out for the Grill, so late that a friend called and asked if she could get me. By then I was determined.

Parked in the farthest handicapped spot and had a moment of heightened anxiety—couldn’t let go of the pole that held the handicapped sign. And then I took a step and I was off and fine.  It was what I’ve always said—if you could turn your mind off and just act. Enjoyed breakfast and fellowship, and when we were ready to leave my good friend stayed close by ready to offer an arm if I needed it but let me do on my own what I could.

Tuesday nights Jacob and I often meet neighbors at the Grill. He’s had so much baseball lately that he hasn’t been able to go, but we went tonight. For a lot of complicated reasons we walked down the driveway to the garage instead of my usual route out the back door. I haven’t been down that driveway since I fell a year ago, but a nine-year-old hand in mine is a great comfort. Fun dinner, and then Jacob elected to walk home with Mary Dulle. Perfect timing—I parked the car in the garage and was halfway to the gate when they came along. So for me, it was a day of pushing back boundaries.

It was also, as many days will be, a day of business, and I don’t mean writing. Lewis came by and we figured out some insurance paperwork; the bank sent me a list of things they needed, and I spent a good bit of time compiling them; the floor company came to begin work and will be here for two days. I see light at the end of that tunnel, but we still have no building permit for the remodeling. I see all this taking up a lot of time in the future.

But it was a good day, one of accomplishment, and I’m upbeat tonight. Oh—with the gout menu eliminating many favorites—meatloaf (beef), pork cutlet (fried), I had a turkey burger for supper. Good but not something I’d want every week. Deluged today with gout advice—ordered tart cherry pills and will eat more citrus (can’t stand grapefruit). Ate tuna but with a guilty conscience. Someone said some things are triggers for one person but not another, so now I’m trying to think what unusual I might have eaten. Someone said asparagus--tell me it’s not so!

Learning to meditate

 Meditation is supposed to help you relax, and Lord knows I need that. I’ve had a bad couple of days, and my physical therapist told me every muscle in my body was tense. So I decided meditation was one of the keys.

The other day I was in the living room with Jordan having a happy hour glass of wine. She left, and I just sat there, thinking this would be a good time to meditate. But instead of the deep spiritual revelation I wanted, my mind wandered to what to cook for this weekend, what computer chores I needed to do, what could I do about the downsizing mess in my house. We’re told in prayer not so much to talk to the Lord, especially asking things of him, but to be silent and let him talk to us. Well, he seems to talk to me about food and grandchildren and the nitty gritty of everyday life. Clearly, my mind is on the mundane when I am searching for revelation.

Years ago a psychologist taught me to consciously relax every muscle in my body, thinking clearly about the muscles in my scalp all the way down to my toes. Then, with eyes closed, I could meditate. I remember the relaxation part really helped, but I don’t remember much about the meditation except that one day it came to me, clear as a bell, that I shouldn’t take the solo trip to Singapore that friends had proposed. I do take that kind of revelation seriously…and it has saved me from some uncomfortable situations. Recently I couldn’t wrap my head around a teaching opportunity, and it occurred to me it was because I shouldn’t do it. I declined.

But somehow I want something deeper, and maybe I’m looking for too much. I want great insight into the nature of the world and my place in it. I want more insight into my faith and the nature of spirituality. And it doesn’t happen.

Do you really suppose God meant me to cook and focus on everyday chores? I’d like to think there’s something more.

 

Anticipation

I made these in the early sixties when I was dirt poor.
Jordan isn't sure she wants to give them up.

Probably the worst part about anxiety is worrying about what’s coming next. We hear lots of advice about live in the moment, and I try, believe me I do. But I never seem to get there. I once had a fling with a man who often said to me, “Go on. Bring that bridge right on up here and jump it.” That’s me—jumping bridges before I get to them. Tonight I’m worrying about going back to physical therapy for the first time in months, though I know they’ll come out and help me walk in.

More worrisome is the downsizing of my house. I woke in a panic about six this morning thinking about all the things I have squirreled away in various drawers and cupboards in this house. I truly think I’ve downsized each time I moved (which was often there for a while), but I have drawers full of socks I never wear, an attic crammed with I don’t know what—I think my notes (two file drawers full) for my Ph.D. exams are still up there, plus boxes of old linens nobody would use today and the children’s save boxes. Somewhere Jamie has a T-shirt I got when he was about three that says, “Kiss me. I’m Greek.” That’s the trouble—so many things—furniture and on down to little things—have sentimental attachments.

Today Jordan, Christian and Jacob got my Christmas things out of the attic. I proved more hard-hearted than she did. When I said, “We can get rid of those,” she complained, “I remember them from my childhood.”

What comforted me in the early hours this morning is that this can be a gradual transition. It’s not like selling a house when you close and have to be out in 48 hours. I was so comforted, I went back to sleep for two and a half hours.

Meantime, my two nine-year-old gentleman guests slept the clock around, from 10:30 to 10:30. I finally asked Jordan via text if I should wake them (the parents were good and went to church-I didn’t want to venture out in the cold rain and the sleeping boys were a good excuse). As soon as I went to do that, they were awake, so I served waffles.

Tonight my only concern is that I left a turkey wing on my plate on my desk when I went to get Sophie the dinner she was demanding. She ate the whole major portion, though I had eaten most of the meat. So far, no distress, but I am watching carefully.

Eating Green Noodles on a Sunday night

Doesn’t that sound like a poem title? It’s not quite that picturesque. My temporary tenant is a vegetarian, so I was going to make a family favorite—green (spinach) noodles with lemon butter, artichoke hearts, mushrooms, scallions, and a bit of pesto. She came home from church with an excruciating backache, went to bed, and hasn’t been heard from since. So I ate green noodles, alone, at my desk, and found them quite satisfying. Besides, I have lots left for lunch, dinner, whatever tomorrow.

I inadvertently invited my old friend, anxiety, back this morning. Slept better than in a long time last night (and later in the morning), got up feeling great, walking without hesitation, no pain, etc. Got as ready for the day as I ever do when staying home and sat at my computer. As time went by, I could feel myself getting more anxious. Don’t know if it’s because I thought about how happy I am at home and how, yes, I fear a bit going into the world alone—like the grocery store. Or maybe it was simply because I hadn’t eaten. About ten, I took action and fixed two poached eggs on cheese and toast plus took my medications—slowly made a difference. But I had two reactions and one is not pretty—sometimes we deliberately sandbag ourselves; feeling great, I was—oh, I don’t know—perhaps thinking that wasn’t right and I invited anxiety back. But two I knew how to deal with it.

The rest of the day was fine—I got a lot done, felt frustrated on projects that stymied me, cleared off my desk including going through three cooking magazines, and now I’m getting ready to read. Two human visitors—Chandry and a friend came in briefly she went to bed. But Sophie and I have been content and visited.

Speaking of Sophie, I have a guest blog up today at Writers and Other Animals about dogs and their intuition. I often wonder how Sophie knows some of the things she does, and I used that intuition in the plot of Murder at Peacock Mansion, due out in early November. Stop by and see if you agree: http://writersandotheranimals.blogspot.com/

Meltdown!

I had a meltdown yesterday, something I rarely have and even more rarely admit to. But this was sort of an eye-opening experience for me—and a reassurance of what I forgot yesterday: this too shall pass.

I didn’t sleep well the night before and woke feeling sick to my stomach in the wee hours—when everything is much worse. Nothing like three o’clock in the morning blues. Yesterday I had no appetite, nothing appealed; I was exhausted; I was depressed, convinced that it was aging, and I would never again have the energy or ambition that I once enjoyed. At first I attributed it to perhaps an extra glass of wine out at dinner the night before and too much rich food—a cheese tray and a fried crab cake with aioli sauce. The best of the cheese was a brie with fig jam—yep, rich.

But when the malaise and stomach instability was still with me last night, I decided it was more. In retrospect, I think the stress of remodeling played into it, along perhaps with dehydration. Then I told myself over-analyzing was destructive, and I would be better today. Not sure myself believed me. Didn’t sleep well again last night—hip and back pain, leg cramps, insomnia. But my stomach seemed to have settled down. Cottage cheese, my comfort food, didn’t work for dinner but I eventually ate half a peach and a piece of chocolate.

Today I was much better—most importantly, my attitude was better. Stomach better but still no interested in food—tea with honey for breakfast, peanut butter toast for lunch. Tonight I thought a nice lean loin pork chop sounded good so I defrosted it—turned out I defrosted a quarter pound of ground pork. Had some lemon/chive pasta in the cupboard and had it with butter and parmesan—plus a banana, to combat the leg cramps I had last night.

So tonight I am convinced I will be “back at myself” tomorrow, with an appetite and an ambition to write and, barring back pain, my usual energy which, okay, isn’t what it was twenty years ago.

So what did I learn? This too shall pass is really true. No, I can’t do what I did twenty years ago. And, yes, I have to pay attention to my body—hydration, diet, wine consumption, sleep.

I am blessed with children who care. Jordan tried talking me through the depths, she practically poured lemon water down my throat, she called to see how I felt. My oldest son from Tomball called twice last night and once again tonight. How can I stay down in the dumps with such loving care?

I’m back to knowing that I am blessed and a bit embarrassed that I gave in to a meltdown so easily. But as son Colin said to me, “We all have days like that.” Probably true, so if this confession helps someone else, I’ll be glad.

Whining again

Like many of us, my mood waxes and wanes (maybe with the moon), though I hope casual friends don’t sense it. Good friends do, and Betty kept giving me pep talks last night about not expecting to get back to the real me too quickly after the bout with the swollen foot (still swollen a bit) and the fall in the restaurant parking lot. She even brought my garbage cart up because she said I shouldn’t have to do it. One problem with me: I could succumb to that kind of pampering easily. But her reassurances that my funk wasn’t permanent were an enormous help, and I went to sleep last night determined to be happier and more confident today. It worked. I certainly walked better than I had all week.

I’m not sure what caused my funk beyond the lingering foot problems. Monday I was tied in knots when I went to a funeral at a church where I’m unfamiliar with both the building and the worship, but I had a good friend to sort of keep me on an even keel—she too knows me well enough to recognize when I’m tentative, and she cheerfully held out a hand when I stumbled in my self-confidence. Yesterday, when I was in the deepest funk, I stayed home, glued to my computer except for supper. And that may be a part of my problem—I like people around me. Today, however, was another event I dread—a dental cleaning. I need to back off and say I love the hygienist, she never hurts me, she’s cheerful and funny (and thinks I’m funny), and if I’m tentative she’ll walk me back and forth to my car. I came away with a clean bill of dental health—except for those blasted blueberry stains. She laughed aloud when I said blueberries were in season: “As if I couldn’t tell,” she said. I think a childhood fear of the dentist office lingers. Dental technology is so changed and improved, but it’s hard to erase those early memories.

Other people go to funerals and dentists without getting their panties all in a wad, or maybe they fight internal battles that I don’t see. But I wish anxiety would just go away, and then I think of all the people, even in my small world, whose problems are so much greater. I think I should just gut up and forget it.

I’m of two minds about anxiety—the more you think about overcoming it, the worse it gets; on the other hand, it takes a conscious effort to drag yourself to a more positive place. One thing I know: it waxes and wanes. I think it’s waning right now.

Tomorrow? A haircut,  always a cheering event.