Saga of a grandmother--and a neat recipe

It's been a while since I cooked a big dinner on a weeknight for family and then got a six-year-old ready for bed, with full directions on what to do the next three mornings. But Jacob is with me for three nights--his parents are off to Mexico to celebrate his father's big 40 birthday. I will send him to day camp (right across the street from me) tomorrow and Thursday, with full instructions about packing lunches, what time he has to be there, all that good stuff. Sheesh! You'd think I've never done this before. Friday, his paternal grandparents will take him for the weekend. I'm actually excited about having him for three days and have arranged a full social schedule--tomorrow night I'll fix spaghetti for friends (much younger) who have a four-year-old who Jacob adores. And an 18-month old, which means we have to clean up all the tiny Leggos, etc. Thursday night my good friend and Jacob's Aunt Betty will come by and we'll go out for dinner. Jacob has chosen Mexican. But that night we also have to pack, bathe, etc.
I don't use the crockpot as much as I should but early (really early!) this morning I followed a recipe (which turned out to be more complicated than I thought) and put pork chops on to cook all day. A trick I learned: when they're through cooking, strain the broth off and put the solid things (minus bay leaves but mostly sliced onion) in the blender and puree. Then add to the broth and thicken with cornstarch. The onions gave the gravy a sweet taste. Had lots left over so I froze it for a soup base this winter.
But I also fixed Louella's Rice, of which Christian ate three helpings and declared he'd rather have that than birthday cake. Simplest recipe in the world. Mix:
1 can cream of celery soup
1 cup minute rice
1 cup sour cream
1 cup grated sharp cheddar
1 4 oz. can green chiles
Bake @ 350 until bubbly
In between all those chores, I had breakfast with a friend, wrote 2,000 words, did my yoga routine, partially carried a 55 lb. dog up and down the two steps to the yard twice--and got a much-needed nap. What happened to the simple life, living alone and peacefully writing?
I am worried about Scooby. He keeps his balance pretty well in the back yard because he can get traction on the ground. But his legs splay out on my hardwood floors, and I have to hoist his back end up. And he is terrified of those steps--begins to shake when he gets near them. It's a week and a half since his "incident" and they tell me it will get better. He is better, but not nearly as much as I'd hoped. Yet obviously tonight, he wanted to come in--did not want to be left out. And he plays with the little dog when he's outside. Not ready to call it quits.

Political humor--or is it?

I'm having a hard time reconciling my sense of respect and my sense of humor. I have a great deal of respect for Barack Obama, both as President and a man. I have a friend who says adamantly he respects the office but not the man. I was about to argue, when I realized that's exactly how I feel about George W. Bush. I understand he's a nice guy--genial, laid-back, good company. In fact, that was my impression when I shook hands with him during his governor days. Laura Bush was crisply efficient, well dressed, properly cordial; he looked like he'd grabbed that plaid shirt out of the dryer, and when he offered his hand it was with almost sheepish duck of the head. But his presidency ruined any leeeway I was about to give him.
Now we have Mitt Romney, and I would like to respect the man. Anyone who puts himself out there to run for president deserves respect. But his increasing gaffes make it hard, especially after his tour abroad. The hardest thing for me, however, is that some of the cartoons and comments on Facebook are so darned hysterical, I can't help laughing out loud. I try to follow with common sense. I don't take seriously much from the page, "I love it when I wake up and Obama is president." I do take seriously a column from somone like Paul Krugman. But even the stuff from the "Dogs Against Romney" page is funny, though Seamus' trip on the roof of the car is now a stale joke. The slogan, "Mitt the Twit" is almost irresistible, and I love "Mittens" as a nickname--it has such a dimunitive quality about it.Then there's the picture of Queen Elizabeth, looking stern as only she can, with bubble words, "I am getting quite tired of you, Mr. Romney." Never happened, but the idea is great. Or Jay Leno's comment that the reason Romney is having a hard time picking a v-p candidate is that he's never hired from within this country before. Or the picture of the Obamas at a casual supper somewhere on the campaign trail--they're laughing naturally, heartily and you almost want to laugh with them. But the bubble words say, "And he wanted an apology!" You know that's not what they're laughing about, but it's still funny. I don't repost those things unless I just can't help myself.
But you know what? I don't see Governor Romney laughing much if at all. A tight, forced smile, yes; genuine laughter, no. Maybe someone should tell him that a new study indicates that being able to laugh at yourself is a sign of a healthy personality and sense of humor. Or should we tell him laughter is the best medicine?
In the long run, maybe the most apt saying is "He laughs best who laughs last."

Scooby's home!

Sophie welcomes Scooby home. Well, she had to check, didn't she?

This morning my neighbor, Greg, went with me to pick up Scooby at the vet, and I was grateful for his help. Scoob is much better but had to be lifted into the car. His back legs give out all the time, though he is now walking. When he's not nervous or excited, he does pretty well. The vet tech said he's learned the trick of people with poor balance--walk close to a wall. I laughed and said I do that all the time. When I repeated that story to my friend Jeannie, she said she had this vision of Scooby and me going single file next to a wall.
The truth is not so funny. Scooby is on his way to recovery, and the vet tells me he will continue to get better. But he's far from there. He falls a lot. When I put his food out, he fell and rolled over just taking the one step down from his doghouse. When I wanted to bring him in, I tried to help, but he avoided me and made it down the step but was clearly afraid to try the steps into the house. When he finally came close enough for me to put a leash on him, he went up the steps willingly--and went splat in the doorway. I soothed and petted and said, "Hey, you did it. That's what matters." He fell four or five times between the back door and his bed, and I had to lean down and hoist his back end up--hardwood floors are clearly not easy for him.
He is disoriented and acts for all the world like he's had a stroke, but they assure me it's an inner ear thing--the second bout he's had. The vet says he may never have another one, but just in case I'm loaded with tranquilizers, anti-nausea pills, and anti-motion sickness pills. If it happens on a weekend, my hope is to nurse him through until my vet is open--no more emergency clinic, though I'm grateful for their care. It was, however, the most expensive care ever--12 hours cost over three times what five days of boarding at the regular vet did. And more important my vet knows the history and the dog. I am so grateful to University Animal Hospital.
Sophie is glad to have her buddy home again, but I think she knows he's fragile. I didn't see her jump on his back end one time--her favorite way to get him to play with her--and she didn't bark at him the way she often does to taunt him.
In time we'll be back to normal, but it will take a while. 100+ temperatures this week won't help. But I'm optimistic and grateful.

I am getting old--and a book and a video to recommend

Yesterday I had a surprise visit from a girl who had lived with us during her senior year in high school. Her family, longtime friends, were moving out of town, and she didn't want to change schools. Imagine my shock when she told me she's fifty-four years old, with two children in their late twenties. Her baby sister Jennifer, whom I never knew as well, was with her. Something came up about a school both my Megan and Jennifer had attended, but I added, "She's lots older than you." Jennifer, it turns out, is four years older than Megan, has three children, one of whom is married. Clearly the world has gotten away from me.
Jeanine, the older girl, and I had a good time reminiscing about her year with us. I was flattered when she told me that because she lived with me she eats lots of things she never otherwise would--like tongue. Good heavens! I'm the only adult I know who deliberately orders and enjoys tongue--good for her. One story we laughed over had to do with the single pediatrician who routinely appeared in our driveay at dinner time--he knew a place for him would appear at the table. One night, Jeanine fumed, "Does he always have to come on the night we're having salmon croquettes?" She was still fuming about it, in a good-hearted way, yesterday, when she said, "He ate all what would have been the leftovers, and I loved making them into sandwiches the next day." Spurred me on--I'm going ot fix croquettes this weekend.
They only stayed fifteen or twenty minutes--just passing through on their way to San Antonio but headed most immediately to Uncle Julio's because Jennifer wanted the real "sofa pillow" sopapillas, not those semi-flat huge things most Mexican restaurants serve these days. Such glimpses of the past, with all its good times, are to be treasured. They make you forget some of the bad times.
****
Want a good, light weekend romance? Read Ruth Hartman's  Grin and Barrett, about two dentists wanting the same office location. Their  battle takes a different turn when sparks of a romantic kind fly. Praised as sassy and funny, the book has been described as a good old-fashioned romance and a delightful read. Find it on Amazon at http://tinyurl.com/d8roznx.
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Author Julie Doner took a full year Dance and Social Justice course at Brock University, during which she, along with six other untrained dancers, created a movement piece using violence against women as their stimulus. It's been posted on youtube, and I would encourage you all to take a moment and watch it, and share it with other women in your lives. Some of the statistics are pretty haunting.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xf0avZkucpQ&feature=youtu.be

Yoga in two parts

Yesterdy morning I did about half my yoga routine and had to stop, for reasons totally unrelated to yoga. I finally finished the routine about six last night, and I'm wondering if a divided routine does you as much good as a complete one. But that's sort of how my week has gone.
Monday is usually my stay-at-home-and-get-lots-done day, but this Monday I was out the door early to transfer Scooby to his own vet--not only did it take a chunk of time, it set a less-than-efficient tone for my day. Scooby is still dozing and snoozing--eating, drinking, peeing and pooping but he has to be carried to the appropriate place for the last two, although he does stand to do them. No way I can carry a 55 lb. dog up and down even the two stairs to the backyard. I went to see him last night, and he struggled to get up for me, so maybe visiting is not a good idea, though I did stay and love on him. They say sometimes it takes a week for the disorientation to go away--much as I love Scooby, dollar signs are swimming in my brain.
Then Tuesday and Wednesday were routine doctor appointments for me (if you can ever call having your eyes dilated routine!). Both were just checkups, but they broke the rhythm of my days.
And then there were pleasant dinners with friends, occasions I wouldn't miss though once again they took me from my computer. I'm not sure I can justify calling myself a writer.
Finally yesterday I got to stay home all afternoon and evening at my desk--editing someone else's manuscript. Years ago when I started editing, I marked up hard copy, sent it to the author, whose responsibility it was to create a new manuscript incorporating my suggestions and return it. I had to compare the two versions, make sure no new errors crept in next to the corrections--that happened a lot. Well, today we have "Track Changes" which makes it so much easier--and so much harder. I am forever getting tangled up in that program--deleting things I don't mean to, creating little blue "fix this" lines that are unfixable as far as I can tell. This time, somehow I lost all the formatting on the manuscript. Fortunately the managing editor of Turquoise Morning Pres is a lot smarter than I am and could tell me what to do. Now, I hope, I'm on the home stretch--and a bonus: I've learned to make marginal comments.
I'm itching to finish this manuscript--but first there's the post office, the bank, the cleaners, early voting, and lunch with a friend. Sigh. But I've done my yoga.
I'm a writer--honest, I am!

Dogs and Men

Jacob and Sophie

My wonderful birthday weekend included a two-day visit to my younger son's new home and special time with his famly amd ended with a lovely gathering at my house, of neighbors and people I care about, put together by Jordan and my neighbor Jay (who baked a scrumptious cake). We were also celebrating his wife, Susan's birthday. So I was surrounded by wonderful people and thoroughly enjoyed the evening.
But it ended on a sour note after everyone but Jay and Susan and her dad had left. I went to put my dogs out--they'd been in because of the heat--and my big dog couldn't stand. His back legs kept splaying out from under him. Jay carried him outside, by which time the poor dog was shaking visibly. Long story short, Jay and I, with Scooby, ended up at the emergency animal care clinic about 8:45. Their probable diagnosis was toxicity--he'd gotten hold of something. I couldn't believe that but we waited for blood work results, which eventually were all good--no organs damaged. While we waited, Jay lay on the floor and loved on Scooby who finally began demanding affection and kissing him lavishly. Jay is what I call "a dog person," and it clearly showed last night--he really cared about Scooby. Meanwhile Jay also joked, poked fun at me, and was, in a word, outrageous. When the doctor came in with lab results, Jay was on the floor demonstrating a yoga pose. We left the dog to be "stabilized" with fluids, lasix, steroids, etc. On the way home, I said to Jay that I knew he kept cutting up to keep me from dissolving in a puddle, and he admitted there was usually a method to his madness. But I can't say enough for his kindness and attentiveness--I offered to go in my car so he didn't have to wait, but he wouldn't hear of it. He was right, of course, that I was on the verge of tears, and he steered me in a better direction. Other than loyal and loving children, there's nothing better than a good neighbor, and I am fortunate.
This morning I got Scooby from the emergency clinic--he was a bit better--and took him to my vet, who says he thinks it's a recurrence of his idiopathic vestiubular disease (it's like meuniere's disease in humans) and we'd just have to let him lie low for a couple of days. So Scooby is snoozing away at the vet's, and I am encouraged. He's an old dog, and I know one day one of these episodes will be the last, but he'd been enjoying life so much I couldn't face it last night. Another neighbor, Greg, had just commented Friday that Sophie, the little dog, has added years to Scooby's life. Friday the two of them were playing and  mock growling all around Greg's feet while he was trimming bushes. Nope, that dog isn't ready to go--and I'm not ready to lose him.
Today I felt the hangover of the trauma. It had even been an act of something on my part to transfer Scooby from vet to vet alone, so I was wiped out and not much good at anything. Sophie, bless her, put the icing on the cake this afternoon. I went to bring her in for her mid-day meal and a nap while it was hot, but she wouldn't come and obviously had something in her mouth she didn't want to relinquish. Finally she darted in the open door and made a beeline for the study, where I could corner her. But if I went to one side of the desk, she scooted under it to the other--and so it went. We were at a stalemate, in spite of my stern commands to "Drop it!" She finally did, and a pitiful baby bird gave a weak flutter. I put Sophie in her crate, gathered a handful of paper towels and disposed of the bird, and decided I really really needed a nap.
Tomorrow, I'm certain, will be a better day--and maybe I'll get some work done. But meantime, I entered into another senior year with great joy.

Writing: and the angst goes on

I am 30,000 words into my work-in-progress, but the remaining 40,000 loom before me like a great chasm. I'm not sure who's behind all the bad stuff that's going on in the novel, and I've got one character who is so enigmatic I don't know if she's one of the good guys or bad, a victim, a martyr, or--maybe--a heroine. Hey, I like that idea. Kelly seems to be waiting for things to happen, but she has to be pro-active if she's to be the protagonist. I have scads of notes, but no outline--that's not my style. My mentor/beta reader/good friend/whatever-he-is has read the first 10,000 words--I gave them to him when I was desperate, but now I've moved on beyond that, changed a major plot element, and made lots of other changes. We're to have lunch next week, and he'll give me his comments--always sharp and incisive, written out so that I can study them. But it's changed so much I now think I was hasty--or panicked--in giving the first bit to him. I keep remembering the words of a fellow mystery writer that the point of a first draft is simply to get to the end.
Last night I read sixty fives pages of Polly Iyer's Murder Deja Vu. (A note of explanation: Polly is a friend; I've never met her, but she's a fellow member of Sisters in Crime and fairly active on the Guppies sub-list; we've exchanged Facebook comments, and I definitely feel she's a friend.) The tension in the opening pages of this novel was terrific, and I was mesmerized, only put it down because I knew I had to be up early. The story has a much harder edge than what I write, and for a few minutes I beat myself up because I don't write like that. But then I explained to myself, with fair success, that each of us write what we write, the way we do it. I suspect it has something to do with the way we see the world. That may make me a Pollyanna type, but so be it. I started out as a  young-adult author way back when and later so tired of agents reading adult manuscripts and telling me they thought they were for the y/a audience. But another friend, commenting on a post on "Judy's Stew" wrote "You made me care about your characters, so you are doing something right. Buck up!" So I will.
But not tonight and not this weekend. I'm taking a brief holiday. Sunday is my birthday, and I'll spend the weeked surrounded by family and friends. I'll read a lot, while grandchildren swim, and put all thoughts of Kelly O'Connell and her unsolved mystery out of my mind. Monday, when I get back to work, I will check the first round of edits on another author's manuscript that I'm editing. So maybe after a break, I'll go back with renewed enthusiasm.
The motto for all writers is, I suspect, "Persevere." There's a lot of advice out there, but that one word seems to sum it up.
Happy weekend everyone.

The gathering storm

Recently I've read a couple of novels set during what Winston Churchill called the gathering storm in England--1939, with Hitler marching across Europe and Neville Chamberlain believing that appeasement would work. Give them Sudentenland, and they'll leave England alone, a policy which Churchill loudly denounced. The first novel, Mr. Churchill's Secretary, by Susan Elia MacNeal, opened my eyes to the situation in England. With the German threat hanging over the country, the IRA was determined to do the German's work for them--bring England to its knees by bombing railroad stations and the like. Their intricate plots were completely separate from Germany and Hitler. And there was great resentment of the US for not entering the fray.This novel is basically a cozy mystery and while I enjoyed the plot, I was much more interested in the historical background, which did include blitzes and quite a few scenes with Churchill. One thread is the limited opportunities for women--Maggie Hope graduated at the top of her class from a prestigious American women's university and is as well trained as England's sharpest intelligence minds, but she is only qualified to be a typist. By a fluke, she becomes the one to take Churchill's dictation and eventually has an opportunity to use her considerable intelligence skills.
The second book, which I just finished, is more of a puzzle. It's Francine Matthews' Jack 1939, set a bit earlier in 1939, before Germany took Poland and began bombing London. Jack is twenty-two-year-old JFK suffering from a severe but undiagnosed illness (probably the Bright's disease later diagnosed). He goes to England, where Joe Kennedy is America's ambassador, to wander Europe doing research for his senior thesis at Harvard, using a diplomatic passport.
This is a suspene thriller in every sense of the term. We know the hero--Jack, who is is sick all the time, often feverish, unable to hold food down, medicating himself, thin and frail. We know the heroine if there is one--Diana Playfair (I looked on Google and she doesn't seem to be a historical character). We know the villains--Reinhard Heydrich, the obbergruppenfuhrer, chief of Hitler's main security office and a thoroughly merciless man (historical figure) along with Hans Obst (apparently fictional), an equally merciless killer skiled with a knife. And we know the prize--an address book listing those who donated to the Sisters of Clemency, a charity which funneled funds to aid the Nazis in defeating Roosevelt in the American election--a list which includes Joe Kennedy. (Complicated enough for you?) Most of the above is historical but what bothered me in this novel was sorting the historical from the fictional, some of which seems improbable. Jack skitters across Europe, Obst at his heels, passing through checkpoints and closed borders and escaping death by a hair's breadth. Suspense at its best but, to me, bothersome. Jack does go from wanting to get the address book to save the famly reputation to wanting to get it for the cause of America--a touch of Camelot to come?
Joe Kennedy is as you would expect--authoritarian, dictatorial, self-centered. Rose, whom I always greatly admired, comes across as less admirable--a social-climbing, self-centered, self-indulgent woman who is distant from her children, even when Jack may be dying. Jack is not much of a surprise--intelligent, foolhardy, an eye for the skirts, enjoying a good drink. But then, he expected to die at any time anyway--why not in an adventure rather than a hospital bed? It's hard to give up Camelot.
But these books have piqued my interest in the pre-WWII years, and I want to read more.

A public apology and a bit of angst

My oldest son, Colin, has demanded a public apology. For years, I've been using low-fat products--cake mixes, sour cream, cottage cheese, mayonnaise, you name it--over his loud objections. When he still lived at home, I would hide the packaging from him whenever possible. Lately I've begun to suspect low-fat is not what it's cracked up to be, and I've heard that when they take the fat out they put more carbs in. Self defeating for watching your weight. Then, on Facebook, I saw a quote that really caught my attention (forgive the language--it's not mine): When you  see the word low-fat, think shit-storm of chemicals. Made sense to me, so I called Colin to apologize. He said he semi-accepted my apology but needed a full, public apology on Judy's Stew. So here you have it, my darling son!
This morning I woke up at five in full despair over the novel I'm working on. It is going nowhere; it's a bunch of strung together episdoes; it has way too much dialogue and not enough action (ever a danger in first-person narration). Maybe I should abandon it--this is my second try at the fourth Kelly O'Connell novel, and I still have the aborted first attempt. I went back to sleep and woke at six-forty-five, feeling much better about the world and my manuscript, with a plan in mind. I'd read what I have, looking for holes, places I could embellish, things I needed to cut out. Of course, first, there was a quick run to the grocery, Greg to do the yard, the dog groomer--excited about having the groomer come to the house so poor old Scooby doesn't have to scramble into the back of a VW bug.
Now I'm up to the beginning of Chapter Six--this was not a quick read-through but a careful consideration as well as proofing. You know what? It's not great literature, but it's not as bad as I feared. As my friend Fred advises, I 'll persevere.

Th value of trivia in blogs

A friend wrote me today, apparently after having read by blog last night. She said she enjoys  the informal blogs she follows, those that give a sense of people's daily lives. When she used to read newspaper columns, she felt she was being lectured to. Well that's all the encouragement I needed, so here goes a trivia, "what I did today" blog.
By three this afternoon, I had gotten my household running including watering porch plants--I think I am drowning two planters of cactus and vow to ignore them. I had been to the grocery and put away what I bought, created a kitchen garden, made ham salad, done my yoga, and written 2,000 words on the current novel. Yes, I  deserved a nap--and had a good one.
Elizabeth, my long-time friend, once student and now yoga guru, came for supper since her husband is at Comic Con in San Diego. I promised her eggs and bacon--instead I froze the bacon, and we had a green salad with lime/cilantro dressing and scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, diced tomatoes, and chopped scallions--with white wine, of course. She brought some delicious mocha-chocolate morsels made with coconut oil--and the coconut taste was pronounced. So good! We had a good visit talking about everything from the effect of attitude on health to a cat that is peeing on her bed. Didn't solve the world's problems, but as she said, "We could, if anyone would listen to us." As she left, she said, "It's never just bacon and eggs at your house."
I've thought a lot about the way parents schedule children this weekend. Jordan is out of town on business (Jamaica, poor girl) so Christian is the single parent, and Jacob had a busy social schedule. What ended up being a play date last night, a birthday party this afternoon, and a play date from 6:30 to 8:30 this evening. Tomorrow he has a birthday party at 11:00--don't know what those parents were thinking. That's church time. Since Christian won't be meeting me at church, I'm going to stay home and pickle some veggies--but I'll go to church via the radio. But poor Christian--not a moment to call his own. I'm of the school that kids should be left on their own, and that's what I often do with Jacob. Problem is, when left on his own, he plants himself in front of the TV. I'm seriously thinking of rationing it. It's not a problem this summer, because he's not here much. But in the fall when school starts and he's here every afternoon, I'm going to make some rules. Hmmm--haven't thought of what the rules are though.
Meanwhile Christian is going to bring us supper from Maid-Rite tomorrow night. Looking forward to that pork tenderloin sandwich.
Now I'm going back to the book I"m reading: Jack 1939. It's based on the fictional premise that FDR made a young JFK his spy in Europe as Hitler was trying to buy the U.S. election and defeat FDR.  JFK had a diplomatic passport because his father was Ambassador to England--and a Hitler sympathizer. Wish I knew more about the history of the era so I could tell if this is far-fetched or not.