A pajama day

 

Pajama days, I firmly believe, are good for the soul. I’d been planning this one for several days. Sophie appears to be on the mend, I had no obligations, social or otherwise—the only thing on my calendar was virtual church, and God understands if you don’t get out of your pjs. It’s what’s in your heart, not on your body.

So I was lazy. Slept late, ate leftovers, wrote a few emails, went to church, napped, and finished the Jessica Fletcher Murder, She Wrote mystery I’ve been reading. That Jessica, she sure is one smart sleuth. As I scrolled through Facebook for an idle bit, a friend kept posting links to songs by my favorite singers—Judy Collins, Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell. Lovely way to spend some time on a pajama day.

Tomorrow, I vow I will get back to serious work, but that’s a vow I’ve been making for several Mondays. Somehow life gets in the way—first it was the holidays, then Sophie. Tomorrow is not off to a good start because I have a routine doctor’s appointment at ten-thirty, right in the middle of my best working time. Tuesday, it’s a haircut but fortunately at lunchtime, and Friday another appointment, this with the podiatrist. Plus Thursday I plan to cook a big birthday dinner that may take me more than one day. Is it just at my age or does life always get in the way of the serious things you want to do?

Serious as I think the chaos in the House of Representatives is, I have been amused at the humor on the internet. Two of my favorites: a post that congratulates Kevin McCarthy on his quinceanera, and one that says, “It’s like selling your soul, only the check bounced.”

For my lazy day, I scrambled some eggs tonight—my go-to supper. Only this time I tried a fancy new method. I like soft scrambled, really soft, and this method promised “velvety” eggs. Of course, I cut the recipe in half and substituted ingredients—okay, I didn’t have cream, so I used buttermilk, not a successful substitution. My advice: go on scrambling the way you always do that works for you. That, however, is the fun of experimental cooking—you find some things that work, some that don’t.

My Megan from Austin is on her way to LA tonight for the big game, with her younger son Ford (older son Sawyer does not care one whit about football, which makes him a child after my own heart). Unfortunately there is a ninety-six percent chance of rain tomorrow in Santa Monica, with severe storms predicted for Tuesday. I’ll be glad when Megan and Ford are safely home again.

Last night at a dinner party, everyone was astounded when I said no, I probably wouldn’t watch the game, but I would check the score occasionally. Tonight Fort Worth is truly a purple city—lights on the Seventh Street bridge and several of the downtown buildings, streetlights in several area of town, houses decorated with purple and white (did they just take down red and green and replace?). I do have my TCU T-shirt all ready to wear tomorrow, so I’m at least a bit patriotic.

Here's to sweet, purple dreams tonight, a victory tomorrow night, and a good week as we truly move into 2023. My pajama day has refreshed me, and I am eager to head into the week and attack the projects on my desk. I wish for you the same positive attitude.

 

 

 

Tired, so tired—and bizarre news items

Ever since the holidays I’ve found my days eaten up with errands and doctors’ appointments, grocery store trips and household chores like laundry and kitchen things. I look around my house and see all the things that need to be done. Physical therapy twice a week also takes a chunk out of my week. And sorting papers for the tax return looms as a big chunk of time. The result of all this is that by Friday night I’m exhausted and ready to sleep all weekend, which of course I won’t do. At seven in the morning, I’ll be wide awake.

Every night I swear I’ll go to bed by ten—I have yet to make it before about 11:15. I seem to get a second wind in the evening, get lost in whatever I’m doing, and keep thinking that any minute I’ll go to bed. It won’t happen, especially tonight when I have Jacob who likes to stay up late on weekend.

His mom comes home from a travel agent “fam” trip to Costa Rica tomorrow night. His dad is going to a party, although reluctantly because he has to go alone. So I’ve promised to fix Jordan salmon—which Christian won’t eat. I’m loving getting back in the kitchen more, even if it does make my back scream at me.

I’ll be glad to have Jordan home for lots of reasons, among them the fact that she wants to pack up my Christmas decorations herself—she’s tired of my grocery sacks and has brought plastic bins—one is already full of all the greens I took down. I doubt the rest will fit in the second bin, but I’m ready to have Christmas off my dining table. I think it’s all the first baby steps toward our consolidation or merging households—as we sort, things inevitably get messy. And I, who used to swoop through the house, picking up empty coffee cups and other detritus that bothered me, don’t have the energy for that. I note things that need to be done and think, “Tomorrow.” Really welcome the three-day weekend coming up.

Lest this sound like whining, I’ll admit that bizarre news items have convinced me we live in an age of loons. There’s a legislator in Tennessee who want to inspect the privates of every child before they use a restroom to make sure they go into the correct one for their gender. Apparently he’s concerned about transgender transgressions. How many transgender school children do you know? And I’m quite sure that’s against the law. We spend hours teaching children and grandchildren about inappropriate touching, and then this nut job comes along. I’ve noticed that Republicans seem particularly concerned with our privates and what we do with them.

And now, in Texas, it’s legal to open-carry a weapon into a mental institution. How safe does that sound to you? We can’t do background checks but we can give mental patients a chance to snatch someone’s gun and open fire. Our Fort Worth Southwestern Exposition and Stock Show now also allows open carry with “certain restrictions,” though I never did see what those restrictions are. Sounds like a recipe for disaster, and one of the friends I had lunch with said sometimes she likes to go to the stock show but not this year. She has made a promise to herself not to enter any business that says “We welcome open carry” and to leave immediately if she finds herself in a business that allows it, signage or not. I so agree with her. It’s not that guns scare me—the people who parade them that scare me.

The same friend wondered aloud today if people were as crazy 500 years ago and concluded they probably were. We’re just seeing the 21^st-century spin on it. I’m not so sure.

Okay, I’m going to bed and wake up in a happier frame of mind. Everyone needs to kvetch once in a while.