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.

 

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.

Taking a break

I don’t have a difficult schedule, but I can keep myself busy all morning at my computer with emails, business details, Facebook (time suck), phone calls and the like. It’s all business, I tell myself, and some days I think I should just quit writing new material and focus on marketing the ten mysteries in print plus a lot of reprints—and selling the now-orphaned historical novel about Chicago in the Golden Age. In the afternoons, I nap, Jacob arrives, we do homework, etc. After supper I try to work but again, I can again easily distract myself with small chores. So I avoid writing. But I have that half-finished novel that I keep going back to sporadically, never much satisfied with the results.

There is also too much else going on in my life—workmen in and out all day. Most of them are a blessing and a joy, including the contractor who checks to make sure I get my morning tea and sometimes carries my lunch for me and the tile men who are the most polite and cheerful people—and are doing a beautiful job.

Then there’s an underlying worry about mobility—my left hip hurts, my legs are unsteady especially in the morning or if I don’t eat breakfast they get shaky about eleven. I am worried about going into grocery stores and such alone, though I had a pleasant dinner out with a friend last night and did beautifully walking on my own. Another doctor’s appointment next week for another test and I guess we’ll see what goes from there. But it’s a constant concern, even if it’s not always on the surface. I have to relearn my self-confidence—I’ve done it before and can do it again—but I think it gets harder as you age.

So I’ve decided I need a break from routine, a change of environment, and yes, probably even a change of faces (nobody is to take this personally). This weekend I will be with Megan, my older daughter, and her family, while my temporary tenant moves into the house to take care of Sophie and the house.

Yes, I will take my computer, but I will put most thoughts of work aside. I’ve loaded the iPad with books I’ve been meaning to read, and Megan says they have no plans—we’ll just hang around the house. They have salmon from a recent Alaska trip and have promised me some. Son-in-law Brandon has already posted on Facebook a picture of the box wine I drink, with the caption, “Preparations have been made.” I’m going to rest, relax, try not to worry, and enjoy the company of a branch of the family I don’t see nearly often enough.

So don’t look for me on Judy’s Stew. See you Monday night when I report in.

Rain, blessed rain--and have you walked in my moccasins?

We are getting a lot of rain, the kind we need--slow and steady. Sometimes it dumps, and sometimes it's only a drizzle, but it's an all-day rain, predicted to get heavier overnight. We need it badly, and my yard and porch plants are soaking iti up with gratitude. And even though I find the thought of going outside depressing, I think the rain is peaceful and soothing. The dismal cast of the day hasn't dampened my spirits.
I've been feeling the effects of stress lately--lack of appetite, stomach troubles (I've probably chronicled those more than you want to know), trouble sleeping. When I mentioned the other night that maybe my stomach troubles weren't a bug but simply stress, my son-in-law looked at me incredulously. "Stress!" he exclaimed. "What have you got to be stressed about?" I laughed and said, "I can stress about being stressed." But it struck me that this is a man who knows me well and yet is amazed that I am stressed. I suppose he sees a worry-free life compared to his, He is building his career, supporting a family, raising a child, while I'm retired, I write at my own pace, I spend time with my grandchld, I cook a lot for friends, I don't seem stressed for money. What he doesn't see is that I have deadlines for my writing and work piles on my desk. Since I'm compulsive about doing things when they present themselves to me, I set my own deadlines and struggle to meet them. Time with Jacob is a blessing but not stress-free--like all six-year-olds he can be loving, lots of fun, but he can also be stubborn and difficult. Yesterday when he wanted to do something he blurted out, "I promise I'll treat you nicely"--a good recognition that he isn't always nice to me. Cooking for friends is wonderful fun for me--but it too is stressful, and I did three large (eight people) dinner parties last week. And yes, I'm more comfortable than a lot of retired single women living on a fixed income--but it's because I'm careful and I worry about money. I don't buy a lot that I would like to, and when I splurge, my conscience bothers me.
But what struck me most is that it reminded me of that old saying my mom used to quote, "Never judge a man until you've walked a mile in his moccasins." We never know what lies behind the facade we see in others, and it behooves us to listen with compassion and care. Hard lesson to learn.