A ho-hum day

 

Pearl Jam--still a big deal, thirty years later

Do you ever have days that you look back on and wonder what you did? That was sort of mine today. What I call a ho-hum day. Didn’t sleep well last night—you know how three o’clock-in-the-morning-thoughts can look so dramatically awful and the next morning you wonder what ever was the matter with you? At three, I thought I was having a heart attack; at five, I decided since I hadn’t yet died, I should go back to sleep. At seven I decided it was just a muscle spasm, and I scrapped plans to email my doctor first thing. Then Sophie, once fed, let me sleep until nine o’clock. Once up and around, I was fine, but it’s amazing how short the morning is when I don’t get to my desk until 9:30!

Email takes up so much of my time these days because there’s so much I don’t want to miss, what with the Paxton trial in Texas and Kevin McCarthy’s foolish announcement of an impeachment investigation. There’s some really interesting commentary online, but there is also a lot of alarmist nonsense. I guess my contacts have winnowed themselves, but I don’t get much from the “other” side of politics. But my own side can be silly enough—twenty-four hours after McCarthy’s announcement, posts are still headlining, “Breaking News!” when by then it’s old news. It never was news really anyway.

There are some news columns I read religiously every day. Probably the most important is Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American. A professor of history, Richardson so aptly blends today’s events with the historical trail behind them. It’s eye-opening. Then there’s Gabe Fleisher’s Wake Up from Politics—I’m impressed because Fleisher has been doing his column for ten years, and he’s only now a junior at George Mason University (I think that’s right) in DC. I’m not as enamored of his column as I was—in his attempt to be even handed, I think he bends a bit far to the right. But that may be me. A new compilation of news I’ve recently started reading is atAdvocacy News which is openly liberal, pulls no punches, and sometimes makes me laugh out loud. We all need a good laugh these days.

Despite a late start and reading all my “morning stuff,” I did get some new words down on my first draft of “Missing Irene.” It’s fun to be back with Irene and Henny and the folks, though strangely this time I find Irene is sinking into the background. Main characters are Henny and Chance (If you haven’t read the books, this will not mean much to you). But it’s fun for me.

I’m feeling old tonight, and it’s all because of entertainers and bands. A few days ago Mark Wahlberg was pouring tequila at Joe T.’s. I had not a clue who Wahlberg was, but all three Burtons were excited about going, though Jordan and Christian eventually decided against it. But Jacob picked up his girlfriend and headed there, only to be confronted by a long line. And the guy who said he’d hold a table couldn’t. So they left and had supper at—wait for it—Chipotle for a change. I could not believe, however, that for two nights running our dinnertime conversation was about this Wahlberg person whoever he is, was, whatever.

So tonight, Jacob is laboring over his essay for his college application—he just brought me the opening paragraph, and I was favorably impressed, which he pronounced “awesome.” But his parents were invited to a Pearl Jam concert. Okay, I’ve heard of Pearl Jam but have no interest in them. Saw a picture of what I guess is the lead singer and thought he looked sweaty and dirty and his outfit was, to say the least, unremarkable. To Jordan and Christian, those are the musicians of their youth. Christian said to me this morning, with real awe, “Those guys must be at least in their sixties.” It was not the time to remind him he’s in his fifties, not that far behind them. Christian is a media junkie—movies, bands, etc. He knows them all. Me? I’m still back there with Joan Baez, Neil Diamond, Joan Collins, and their ilk. I don’t even get Asleep at the Wheel.

My activity tonight was to make a turkey/bacon/avocado sandwich (got to say that was good) and then wolf it down so I wouldn’t be eating while tuning in to a neighborhood association zoom meeting. Got my nose out of joint and signed out early. So next on my agenda: reading a manuscript that a friend of a friend sent. Yes, it takes time, but that’s what I have lots of. And helping wannabe writers is my way of paying it forward.

Jacob just came in wearing a hoodie which astonished me, but when I asked, he said, “It’s raining. It’s been raining for a while.” And I missed it! Hope you got rain, wherever you are.

The Monday Blues

 

How will Irene, accustomed to Chicago, do in Texas?
And what trouble will she find?
I'm working on it.

After several futile tries to sleep in late—Sophie was not cooperating—I finally got up and going. This is lazy talk, but I always welcome a day when I’m not going anywhere and don’t have to wash my hair in the morning. Added bonus: no kitchen to clean up, dishes to put away because no one ate dinner here last night. I am usually anxious to get to my computer and see what the email brings. Sometimes I think it’s a hangover from that TV show, “The Millionaire.” A little part of me still expects to find something wonderful in the morning’s email, not necessarily a million dollars, but something wonderful.

It was after nine before I got to my desk--and my computer told me the temperature was a chilly 53. Confession: I turned on the heat, just for a bit to take the chill out of the air. I have those wall-hung, compartmentalized heating and a/c units so it’s not a big deal to switch briefly to heat. And none of that smell we used to get when we turned on the heat for the first time in the fall. I thought low fifties justified a bit of heat.

This morning I worked like a house afire, writing new portions and editing some existing words on the Irene and Texas manuscript. Felt foolishly proud of myself. In the late morning I boiled some eggs, thinking I’d make an egg salad sandwich and have two eggs left for Jordan who eats a hardboiled egg for breakfast. She buys them already boiled and shelled, which I insist is an invitation for bacteria. I did a Central Market order today—bless Jacob for picking it up—but they didn’t have already boiled eggs. She’ll just have to shell the ones I did for her.

But all of a sudden, I realized I wasn’t hungry. In fact, egg salad didn’t sound good to me. I had skipped my morning cottage cheese, so I thought I’d have that. But weariness washed over me, and I wasn’t sure I could stay upright long enough to put away the eggs and things I’d gotten out and close up the cottage so Soph and I could nap. I managed to do it, ate a little cottage cheese, and crawled into bed. I am fairly certain the problem was that I forgot to take my lactaid pills last night before I ate, of all things, sour cream enchiladas. A good reminder that my sometimes-fleeting lactose intolerance hasn’t yet fled. After two-plus hours sleep, I was back “at myself.” Probably would have slept longer, but the yard guys came, and Sophie as always was compelled to defend us with fierce and constant barking. I got up and ate more cottage cheese—my go-to comfort food. And yes, I took the lactaid.

Due to Jacob’s golf and my miscalculation, it was almost eight before we had supper, and I was ravenous. Cleaned my plate. Christian fixed chicken piccata, which is one of his best dishes—he gets a really good lemon sauce--and I had made a bean salad. But I’d found a new potato recipe and wanted to try it. It basically called for cutting small red potatoes in half scoring them, and then cooking, cut side down, in butter, Parmesan, and seasonings. But instead of small, I got those teeny-tiny potatoes—that size problem is one of the hazards of curbside pickup. I long to go to a grocery and pick my own vegetables! Anyway, despite all the laughs, we each had four tiny halves, and it proved enough. I couldn’t see that they were all that better than ordinary potatoes.

So I’ve now spent the evening being a good citizen. I am reading essays for Story Circle Network’s Lifewriting competition, essays about starting over. It’s so hard to be objective, because the women who write these pieces really put their hearts into telling what to them is a life-changing story. You’d be surprised—or maybe you wouldn’t—at how many of the stories begin with divorce as the trigger for life changes. As judges, we were warned against scoring too generously, but I fear that’s where I fall.

I did several of those and moved on to formatting letters to registered voters on behalf of Beto for governor. It’s important, and I’m glad to do it, but it is mind-numbing work. The campaign provides the basic letter and the addresses. I must fill in, in my own words, why I think voting is especially important in this cycle. I found the campaign formatting left something to be fixed, but I have finally worked out a system and can do them fairly rapidly. I suspect I did half my bunch. Now I need to find people with better handwriting than mine to address the envelopes. I have my eye on Jordan and Christian.

Whoosh! What a day! I’m tired!