Weekend wallop

 

Sophie telling me she wants her dinner.
She did not care if I was sick or not.
"Give me food!"

Life walloped me this weekend. I woke up in the early hours of Saturday with stomach pains. Except that the pain was on the wrong side and I no longer have an appendix, I’d have sworn it was appendicitis. I dragged around the cottage and finally the pain subsided. About noon I was on my computer with Colin, who had remote control, trying to figure out why I cannot access the Central Market website (I hope they appreciate what a dedicated customer I am to go to all this trouble—talking to a tech the other day I joked I could just start shopping elsewhere; she didn’t think it was funny.) Anyway, I suddenly told Colin I had to go to bed. Lethargic would cover it.

This morning, capricious as that connection is, I could order from Central Market—but I didn’t need anything. Mid-day I couldn’t get in again, but Colin and I figured something out: if I turn the computer off and reboot, I can get into Central Market and Act Blue, the Democratic donation website—which is really what I was looking for this afternoon. I wanted to send money to Ralph Warnock—if you have extra pennies, do support him. His re-election to the Senate is one hope for codifying Roe vs Wade so that women can make their own decisions about their bodies.

Back to my wallop: I spent much of the rest of the day and evening dozing. Got up about four, went back to bed at six; got up at nine, went back to bed at eleven. I worried that I would be wakeful in the night but not so at all. My problem though was Sophie. She is used to being outside in the evenings, but I never leave her out if I’m not up and around the cottage where I can keep an eye on her. Besides, it was too cold last night, but she didn’t know that.

We had several discussions, some sweet and loving, some with raised voice and loud barking. Whether she understands it or not, I always try to use that parenting technique that says make it clear you love the child (or dog) but not the behavior. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. I think in the end she was a bit cowed. When I got up at nine, she was hesitant to come to me until I proved my good intentions.

I had cancelled the supper for Jean—will cook it tonight. And I had intended to turn the TCU football game on because she is a fan. As it was, I just got up in time to see that they’d won. There was too much media hype around this game—reporters trying to inflame the intense feeling that surround the firing of Gary Patterson, some predicting he’d trash his former team. That didn’t happen. And I read that he covered his UT colors with a gray jacket and told some team members he’d be there if they go to playoffs. I’m not such a non-fan that I don’t rejoice in TCU’s winning streak, but I still think the entire episode around the firing of Patterson is a blot on TCU’s history.

This morning, back “at myself,” I’ve written a letter to the Star-Telegram editor because I was so offended at a “teaser” email that had six or eight headlines, all of them either praising the Republican victory in Texas or dumping on Democrats. I was particularly offended by Nicole Russell’s offensive suggestion that Beto just go away. He won’t, and I’m glad. But what journalism has become offends me—from such strong partisan bias to the attempt to get more drama than usual going about the TCU/UT football game. The Star-Telegram won’t listen, but I feel better for having expressed myself. These days I feel journalists make no effort to distinguish between straight, unbiased reporting and opinion.

I’m also trying to enlist help for chores—seasoning a cast iron pan which I can do but it intimidates me; photographing some mobility devices that I want to sell cheap and clear out some space in my bedroom and installing outdoor lights that throw tiny bits of red and green on the white wall across the patio. The lights I’ve had for several years no longer work.

Tonight’s menu, which was to have been last night’s dinner, brought more accolades from Jean than I expected. Turkey burger slides that she liked better than I did. It was a recipe I’d made before. Called for a cup of Monterey Jack shredded; I knew there was some in my cheese drawer so didn’t order it. Wrong! It was Mozarella and it expired last July. Got to clean that drawer more often! But we both liked the pinto bean salad (I might add a bit more lime juice to the leftovers) and the creamy cucumber salad with dill. Living at Trinity Terrace, Jean eats upscale restaurant-style meals most nights and says she is tired of dishes with sauces and creams and the like. So she appreciated the down-home food tonight.

And I call that a wrap. I’m still a bit sleepy from yesterday and doubt I’ll last as late as usual. A bit of reading, and I’m off to sleep. Got to get with Irene tomorrow.

 

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!