Taking a day out

 

I read the other day that if you drink chardonnay (I do), you are becoming your mother. If you put ice in your chardonnay (I don’t), you are your mother. In truth, if someone told me I was becoming my mother, I would take it as a great compliment.

Today I became my mother. When I was young, Mom had migraines, and she would periodically take to her bed for a day. If someone said, “How is your mother?” or “I hope your mother is better,” I would cheerfully respond, “Oh, she’ll be all right tomorrow.” And she always was. Her days out were always one-day affairs.

I took a day out today. I didn’t sleep well last night and woke determined to feed Sophie and go back to bed. So I got up three times to deal with Sophie matters and ultimately slept until 9:30, unheard of for me., But by 11:30, I was exhausted and my bed was calling to me. Sophie and I essentially slept the day away. I have a friend who calls these “pajama days,” and says we all need one every so often.

Tonight, it is 8:30 and my bed is calling again, but Soph has other ideas. But I still don’t feel I’ve got all my sleep out. There’s been a lot of stress in our household/compound (two households=a compound?) what with the death of Christian’s mom, the planning for various memorial services, my brother’s illness, and the illness of various friends, including the death of one longtime friend. As someone said to me today, the only bright spot is that Sophie is happy, healthy, and active.

Who knows why I was so tired today—maybe it was nothing more than something I ate yesterday. At any rate, like my mother, I will be better tomorrow.

Jean came for supper tonight. I had planned a lovely supper—white bean soup with pickled celery and an Italian panzanella (bread) salad. Instead, she picked up supper at Jason’s Deli—a loaded baked potato for me and a Mediterranean salad for her. They were good, but my supper would have been better. Oh well tomorrow is another day.

See you tomorrow.

 

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.