Leap Day, bird watching, and a color scheme

Jacob, distracted from his book, by
the birds overhead

I seem to forget every four years that Leap Day is a big deal. I read posts today from people who were going to make it a day for good deeds (applaud that one) and folks who were going to count it as an extra free day with no obligation to work. I fit into the latter category, because I did a lot of this and that and not much else today. Cleaned up odds and ends on my desk, which included going through three cooking magazines to be sure I had culled all the recipes I wanted. Also tried to deal with my late cousin’s estate—almost two years after her death I find she owes 2015 taxes on $228. Long story. I have written to a CPA in Canada because I know zilch about filing a Canadian income tax…and I doubt my accountant wants to take it on.

Jacob took his book out on the deck to read this afternoon—a book he’s really liking about a boy with a disfigured face. But he was distracted by the birds—from his description I suspect they were crows. No wonder my deck table needs cleaning so badly.

For those of you who’ve seen the cover of The Gilded Cage on the net, I discovered something horrible today—it doesn’t say Gilded; it says Guilded. Yikes. Trying to repair damage now, but I guess since no one else has mentioned it, it’s not a huge catastrophe.

The weaving that will set the cottage color scheme.
Uncle Bob would be so pleased if he were here.

Almost every weekday afternoon Jordan and I plot and plan about our upcoming moves…and the focus of her attention is on getting my cottage arranged to my satisfaction. Tonight we resolved on a color scheme that will go with the rug I want to take. I have put off having a badly worn couch and wing chair (my mom’s) reupholstered because I was unsure of fabric. So now that’s solved. And Jordan figured out that the colors were perfectly picked up by a weaving done by a late and dear friend. A productive day.

Tonight, serious reading.

 

 

 

I seem to forget every four years that Leap Day is a big deal. I read posts today from people who were going to make it a day for good deeds (applaud that one) and folks who were going to count it as an extra free day with no obligation to work. I fit into the latter category, because I did a lot of this and that and not much else today. Cleaned up odds and ends on my desk, which included going through three cooking magazines to be sure I had culled all the recipes I wanted. Also tried to deal with my late cousin’s estate—almost two years after her death I find she owes 2015 taxes on $228. Long story. I have written to a CPA in Canada because I know zilch about filing a Canadian income tax…and I doubt my accountant wants to take it on.

Jacob took his book out on the deck to read this afternoon—a book he’s really liking about a boy with a disfigured face. But he was distracted by the birds—from his description I suspect they were crows. No wonder my deck table needs cleaning so badly.

For those of you who’ve seen the cover of The Gilded Cage on the net, I discovered something horrible today—it doesn’t say Gilded; it says Guilded. Yikes. Trying to repair damage now, but I guess since no one else has mentioned it, it’s not a huge catastrophe.

Almost every weekday afternoon Jordan and I plot and plan about our upcoming moves…and the focus of her attention is on getting my cottage arranged to my satisfaction. Tonight we resolved on a color scheme that will go with the rug I want to take. I have put off having a badly worn couch and wing chair (my mom’s) reupholstered because I was unsure of fabric. So now that’s solved. And Jordan figured out that the colors were perfectly picked up by a weaving done by a late and dear friend. A productive day.

Tonight, serious reading.

Church and the marathon … and an excerpt

The Cowtown Marathon runners went down my street, right in front of my house, this morning. I’m just about at the halfway point. In the long ago, I was enough involved in competitive racing to recognize good form when I see it, so it was fun to watch the early runners, a little after eight this morning. I haven’t heard about a winner or winning time but it’s usually 2 hours plus, so those early easy runners were well on their way to becoming early finishers. It’s also fun to watch the styles—I saw one man who ran stiffly upright, and I thought he’d tire before long; the easy runners are relaxed, giving themselves into their pace.

A group had set up a cheering stand, complete with boom box, across the street from me, in front of the school. They clapped and cheered and yelled for each runner. Eventually they must have seen the runner they were looking for because they packed up and left. A neighbor a couple of blocks over had emailed to ask if it was okay if she left juice for her husband on my steps—she did, and it’s gone tonight. I saw a FB picture of him at the finish line—his 32^nd Cowtown.

By the time Jordan came to get me for church, we had slow runners, some walkers, some groups. She stewed and worried about how to get here and finally didn’t do it the way I would have at all but I kept my mouth shut. We tried to avoid the runners by taking a side street, only to find out that the marathon planners had outfoxed us and routed the runners down a cross street. So we sat and waited for a break to cross the street. Made it to church in plenty of time, and by the time we came home, after lunch, there were no runners. I remember the day when the last marathoner would straggle in about four or five in the afternoon.

After church we had brunch at the small Park Hill Café near my house. Really good—I had quiche and wonderful hash browns—you got a complimentary mimosa which I had about half of and gave the other half to Christian. It’s a café where I like to eat lunch, and I was at first dismayed I couldn’t get my half pimiento sandwich. And they never did bring that small mint/dark chocolate bar they serve with lunch. Still it was fun.

Tonight I’m back to working on my writing projects. And have a big announcement: want to read an excerpt from The Gilded Cage, my April 18 novel about Chicago in the late 19^th Century. Go here:

http://www.judyalter.com/b/GildedCageExcerpt.pdf

 

Oops--a cooking mistake, and the value of haircuts

Since my dinner plans cancelled I decided to have creamed tuna on toast tonight, which sent one of my sons-in-law into paroxysms and would have sent the other if he knew about it. But to me it’s comfort food. Except tonight I opened the wrong can—I order salmon and tuna from a cannery in Oregon, and unless you read the label carefully, they look alike. I didn’t read carefully enough and inadvertently made myself creamed salmon. Not bad. A little more fishy, and it needed something to spark it up—even though I doused it liberally with white wine. Not a major oops, and Jacob had already had his pizza bites (see me frown), so it wasn’t a big deal.

The only other news from this front is that a haircut always makes a girl feel better. Sophie and I both had haircuts and shampoos this week—she feels so silky and soft when she’s clean. I can’t say the same is true for me.

Sophie has taken to sleeping, briefly, on my bed. She jumps up, puts her face in my face for loving, then curls at the foot of the bed. Sometimes she stays awhile, sometimes not. I’ve discovered when she goes crazy in the middle of the night and jumps at my bed for attention, all I have to do is pat the bed. She jumps up, comes for loving, curls up at the foot of the bed. When I woke at 8:15 (sinfully late), she was on the dog bed by my bed and stayed there, sound asleep, until after nine.

Jacob did a 5K (3.1 miles) in 25 minutes at the Cowtown Marathon this morning. The running club paid off, and most of the kids from his school finished in good time. HIs mom power-walked the same course in 55 minutes. I'm proud of both of them.

You can tell it’s been an exciting day around here.

Nostalgia and the Cowtown Marathon

The Cowtown Marathon this weekend will bring back a lot of memories for me. My late friend, Charles Ogilvie, who ran in that race well into his eighties and took me to many carbo-loading dinners, used to say it began in my living room, and I think it did. My ex was part of a group from the Institute for Human Fitness, and several men met weekly on Sunday afternoons to discuss programming. The Institute, a part of what was then the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine, had a program to promote health through fitness and preventive medicine, rather than treating illness. What happened to that approach is sad and a bit stupid, but it’s a story for another day.

At the time Joel (my ex) and I had a friend, Anne, living with us. While the men talked fitness, Anne and I were out in the kitchen whipping up the richest desserts we could imagine. I particularly remember her Italian Cream Cake. And the men ate like there was no tomorrow. Fitness?

At any rate they came up with the plan of a marathon. This was back in the late 1970s—do the math: this is the 37^th running. It took months of planning, endless committee meeting, countless volunteers—I was coordinator of publicity and worked with my dear friend Melinda Mason from the Star-Telegram. I’m not sure why they chose a date in late February, but they did.

The night before the first race, we were sitting in our bedroom when we heard it—sleet! Joel spoke eloquently, “Shit! I didn’t want sleet.” Next morning the ground was covered with ice, snow and sleet. He left way early, and the four kids and I followed cautiously, not quite so early. What I can’t believe to this day is that I turned the kids loose in the Stockyards District while their dad and I worked—Jordan must have been really young at the time, but I guess she had her siblings to look after her. Still, I would no more do that today than I’d run a marathon myself. The kids loved it, looked forward to it each year, and have told me since there was always a huge group of kids they hung out with—yeah, where Marine Creek passes under buildings in dark tunnels and rocks anyone could trip on. I don’t like to think about it.

Having abandoned my parental responsibilities, I had a ball, talking on radio stations, taking care of this and that detail, arranging trophies, who knows what? At the end of the day, all four kids magically reappeared and all was well. It was one of the highlights of my year.

Joel never ran until the last year of our marriage which was really frayed by that time, so I didn’t get the joy of welcoming him across the finish line. After we divorced, I worked one or two races, but it wasn’t the same, and I gave it up.

This Sunday the full marathon will go by my house, and I’ll watch the runners, judging their style and timing, and my thoughts will be far back in the distant past.

Jordan will power walk the 5K, and Jacob will run it though he’s made it plain he won’t stay with his mom. He wants to run with his buddies. I’m not sure he even knows what role the grandfather he never knew had in starting the race. But I know, and I remember, and I offer a silent salute.

Pestilence and predators

Don’t you hate it when people say in ominous tones that there’s stomach flu or virus or something else going around? I do and always tell myself it can go around all it wants but I’m not getting it. Usually I don’t but, as you may know, I did get the current pestilence, a stomach virus, last weekend. I’m recovered—about 95% back to normal—but the long tail survives.

Jacob had running club after school today but instead one of the dads brought him home directly from school. He said he felt like he was going to throw up and his stomach hurt bad (his grammar, not mine). He really did look pitiful. Now, tonight, I get word that he’s thrown up and will be spending the day with me tomorrow. I’m glad I got out of the house tonight for the first time in almost a week. Will ask a friend to do my grocery shopping tomorrow.

I went to dinner with Betty, our usual Wednesday night gig, and she said she had been sooo sick. Turns out she got sick last Thursday night and still isn’t 100% back to normal—no interest in food and can’t eat all of whatever’s on her plate. Last Wed. night we ate at a new restaurant and both had salmon burgers. I decided that salmon was the culprit, although I felt all weekend like I had a virus. Jordan said tonight I can’t leap to that conclusion because a lot of people have whatever it is. But I’m not going back to that restaurant.

In addition to the woozies, I have two new worries about which I’m almost obsessive. The first is not really new. I’ve heard a lot about dog fighting which apparently thrives on the east side of my city, but I never worried about 30-lb. Sophie. That is until I read that dog fight villains use cats and small dogs as bait. So now I’m very cautious about leaving her out. She, of course, doesn’t understand and looks at me as if to say, “You want me to come in why?”

My other worry began this week when I read on Facebook of two incidents of apparent attempted kidnapping of children by sex traffickers. Now, okay, it was Facebook and I understand that but it still sent a chill up my spine to read that a woman tried to grab a three-year-old from her mother’s arms and said, “Say goodbye to mommy.” So now I have to worry about my grandchildren as well as my dog. It keeps a soul busy. I’ve threatened to get handcuffs that Jacob and I can wear to the grocery store.

What a world we live in—pestilence and predators!

Saying you're sorry

No, this is not a lecture on the virtues of apologizing, though we hear that all the time. This is more in line with my post of last night about learning not to beat yourself up for something that isn’t your fault.

I’ve been posting several book manuscripts to Amazon in the last week or two—okay, not that many, but it seems like several to me. This is new territory for me, but since I’m now an indie publisher—Alter Ego Publishing—it’s important that I learn how to do this the right way. As a consequence, I’ve had lots of correspondence with the lovely young (I assume she’s young because she’s so technically smart) woman who formats manuscripts for me. I on the other hand am in my late seventies and a newcomer to all this web stuff.

I clearly remember writing Sunday and saying, “Sorry for the Sunday bother.” Today, I found I’d apparently sent her the wrong file, and we may have to start all over again on one book. I apologized. And then it dawned on me, she might well be tired of hearing me say I’m sorry. She’s always gracious about it and applauds my small victories, but even I think you can overdo apologies.

With me, I think it’s a need to have people like me, to not seem a bother. I know I am a nurturer by nature, but is that driven by a deeper need for approval, even affection? I’m not sure. I just know it’s been part of my nature for years. I apologize when I don’t have to, I accept blame for things that aren’t my fault. All in an effort to be pleasant.

I am learning to stand up for my opinions, even my politics, in discussions. I have a friend who never contradicts or crosses her husband, and I want to shout at her, “Stand up for yourself.” But the kind of apology I’m talking about is different. I’m not a milquetoast, and often I defer to others because the argument is not worth the effort. I can tell when someone is talking from a determined one-sided point of view and not willing to listen. That’s not it.

I’m talking more tonight about always apologizing, even if you’re not wrong. My new resolve is to simply say, “I made a mistake” and move on from there. It’s all a part of self-esteem. Why did I have to get so old to learn these lessons?

Meeting life with joy, or why do we blame ourselves?

Did you see the video of the 106-year-old woman dancing at the White House with the president and first lady? She was gleeful and so spry, said she’d always wanted to come to the White House and more recently to meet the Obamas. Now she was there in honor of Black History Month. Obviously, both the president and first lady delighted in her company, and one thing I must say to all his critics, from videos we see of him with the beyond-elderly and the very young, he is a man of compassion, grace, and love for humanity.

I on the other hand spent too much of the day having a pity party. It is now four days since I had the stomach virus, and the music lingers on. Saturday I felt great, last night with eight people for supper, I lost my starch—my neighbor came over to pull the barbecue, and Jordan, Susan, and Subie did the dishes. I ate but not much. This morning I woke feeling awful, got myself together once I got up and had a good and productive morning. But this afternoon and evening, my starch has gone again. One thing I know about a virus—it can linger and make you very tired.

But I also spent the day beating myself up mentally for giving in. I should, I thought, find the joy in life. It was all my fault for letting stomach issues get in my way. I should rise above. I also thought at times it was a sign of aging. I decided irrationally that my blog chronicle of the year would be of the year I aged—when in truth I’ve done so much else and really had a good year (I’m counting the year from my July birthday to the next, so it’s more than half over). Yes, I’ve had some health problems, and yes, I’ve probably lost some mobility but I’m working on improving it. And I don’t think my brain or my attitude have aged, so I’m going to ride out this pesky pestilence and stop blaming myself. I think it’s a trap we all fall into—blaming ourselves for things beyond our control.

Don’t mean to give the idea that I have the TV on all day, but sometimes I do most of the day with the sound muted, and tonight The Biggest Loser is on. I may not be in good shape, but I’m closer than some of the contestants. They are an inspiration to make me work harder at staying healthy and active. My resolve: back to Yoga. And stop feeling guilty.

Tomorrow is a new day.

My Circadian rhythms are out of whack

My Circadian rhythms—those almost 24-hour patterns that control all animal and plant life—out of whack, and I suspect I know why. After I slept the clock around Friday night, I couldn’t go to sleep last night. I’m sure I dozed but I watched much of the night go by. Having a restless nine-year-old in the bed didn’t help. This morning I said to him that I didn’t sleep well last night, and he said, “Neither did I.” I said, “Of course you did. I watched you all night.” He grinned and said, “Just kidding.” I’m about to offer him my side of the bed, which he seems to edge toward. Actually he prefers the middle. Once I turned over, looked at him and saw that his face was “in my face,” with his head buried in the pillows. If I hadn’t felt his regular breathing, I’d have worried about him suffocating.

In the long dark hours of a sleepless night, which doesn’t happen to me often, I’m capable of the most bizarre thoughts—like, “I’m having another TIA” or “This is an omen—something bad is going to happen.” I thought my foot was swelling again, and I’d have to go to the ER. All kinds of fears can raise their ugly heads at three in the morning. I tried relaxation, deep breathing, every technique I knew. I read a question somewhere, probably on Facebook, that asked, “What is it with people who fall right asleep? Don’t they have thoughts?” I outlined a new book, which may eventually lead to something but it falls wide of the mark now; I solved some of the problems in my friends’ lives—which I’d never have the nerve to tell them. I thought of all those emails I should have sent yesterday—they took me five minutes total when I finally did them this morning. I got leg cramps; I had to pee an inordinate number of times; I twisted and turned from back to side and fought off that encroaching child who once gave me such a good whack on the arm I was sure I’d have a bruise. Finally, at 7:30, I gave up, got up, and started my day.

My mom was quite cavalier about sleepless nights when I was a child. I remember complaining that I couldn’t go to sleep because I itched all over. “That,” she said serenely, “is a sign you’re about to go to sleep.” If I complained that I hadn’t slept at all, she’d say, “You did. It just seems like you didn’t.” I did have a few, brief, weird dreams last night and sometimes saw messages and words that made no sense—origin of my fear that I was having a TIA.

This morning, all was sunshine. I went about my routine, fed Jacob, did some work at my computer, did some kitchen work. Okay, don’t look at all the unfolded laundry by the washing machine.

Now I’m sleepy. Jacob has gone to brunch with his parents, and Sophie is curled up in her chair. Company coming at 5:30. I may not be ready, because I’m going to take a long nap (I hope).

P.S. Nice nap. Crockpot barbecue was good. And two important dinner guests are shown above. The younger one is serving as a seeing-eye dog for my friend; the older one is retired. Sophie loves these boys!

Barbecue, silly accidents, and a new day

Taking a break while making crockpot barbecue that I’ll let simmer all night and maybe all day tomorrow. (Blessing my onion goggles—thank you, Megan.) I am a new person today and do not wish to repeat yesterday. Slept 11-1/2 hours last night, although not without interruptions—once when Sophie needed to go out (she’s not used to me going to be at 8:30) and once when she decided we were under attack from a squirrel or rat (imaginary, I hope) in the attic. By then it was about three in the morning, and I thought, “I’m better! I feel good.” Such a relief.

I worked at my desk all morning getting the neighborhood newsletter in shape and did three loads of laundry—the family room looks like laundry central with all the unfolded things. I washed my bed clothes, as I figure a just-over-a-virus person should do. The quilt, however, was too bulky for me to handle in one hand with the cane in the other. I decided dragging it would be the answer, but sometimes it hung up. I finally looked behind me and realized Sophie was walking on it, following me (talk about a Velcro dog). After that I didn’t look in my wake and was astonished when I picked up the comforter and several items from my purse fell out. I had knocked the purse off its chair and left a trail of objects behind me, in addition to rolling up the kitchen rug (convenient for tripping). When Jordan came I told her that story, and she laughed aloud.

So I told her that yesterday I drank a little wine trying to quiet my increased tremor. “It didn’t work, and I spilled wine in your shoes.” She had left a pair of shoes by the living room buffet. She laughed again. One of the things I love about her is that she sees the humor in these things.

Jordan has been setting up for a party for 80 she’s co-hosting tonight, but she made time to help me. We put the clean linen back on the bed—I cannot lift that heavy mattress to get the bottom sheet fitted. That was all the help I really needed, but bless her, she finished the bed, set the table for eight, and did other stuff until she said, “There. Your house is ready for a party tomorrow night.” That girl takes such good care of me.

So does Sophie. When I napped this afternoon, she slept at the foot of the bed. Once, when I lay very still, she reached over a paw and moved my leg. I raised my head and asked, “Yes?” Reassured that I was okay, she went back to sleep.

Tonight Jacob and I had bacon and scrambled eggs for supper. By eight, he was hungry, so had a bowl of cereal. I’m slowly coaching him to fix such things for himself, but the first time he did he used almost all of a small bottle of milk. Tonight I told him, “You’re not floating a battleship here. You’re just getting a little milk on the cereal.” He found a baseball card he had to have on ebay for $18.75. Told him I don’t do ebay, so he found it on Amazon—for $85.00. I should have quit while I was ahead. I told him I’d consider it by his June birthday—counting on him finding a dozen other things by then.

Back to my barbecue.

Taking a day off from the world

I suppose it does everyone good to take a day off from the world, but today was pretty miserable. I woke at five this morning with the clear thought, “I don’t feel well.” Stomach issues (any further information would be TMI). Finally, at seven I knew I had to cancel the day—which meant my cleaning lady (I wanted to sleep in peace and quiet), a long overdue haircut, a trip to the grocery (Amy, my miraculous “travel assistant”) went for me, and lunch with a friend.

I spent the morning getting up and down from bed—I’d do a little work and go back to bed for an hour or so. About 11:30 I had a cup of tea, and at one—a banana and a glass of water. Sophie lay at the foot of my bed, and when I heard a stomach growl, I couldn’t tell if it was hers or mine.

Jacob came in about three and asked, “Are you really throwing up? I never saw an old person throw up.” Such a helpful kid.

Now I’ve been up a hour and a half and it’s time to go back to bed. Jacob has gone to play with a friend, and Jordan has sanitized the house, made me huge glasses of water, and gone to set up for a party they’re co-hosting tomorrow night. My bed is beckoning.

I expect to be a new person by tomorrow morning. Not sure about doing crockpot barbecue for eight Sunday.