Halloween has come and gone

Like the buildup to Christmas and other major holidays, the run-up to Halloween is too long and protracted –all those cooking shows and ads and store displays and then, poof! It’s over. At least that’s how I felt about it this year. We anticipated the event with hamburgers and pumpkin carving—about ten of us. And I ended the evening at my desk with two carved pumpkins glowing at me from the deck. I notice tonight that they’re gone—presumably to the front porch.

Yesterday, the day, I was isolated from the festivities, including the approximately 1300 children who came trick or treating. My cottage proved ideal—no one found it to trick or treat except grown girls who came begging a glass of wine. And I was back here in solitary quiet, enjoying it.

I am not usually such a curmudgeon. Usually go to Jay and Susan’s for a bowl of stew and to watch them hand out treats. No kidding—we get about 1300 tricksters on our block. Most are small, sweet, and oh so polite. In the next block over, Medstar brings handicapped children and allows them a rare chance to participate. I’m proud to live in a neighborhood that welcomes so many and such diverse children.

But last night I was not myself. All day I had noticed that I tended to fall asleep over the keyboard—in fact, I had noticed it a few mornings during last week and of course my brain immediately went to brain tumor. When Jordan said to me last night that I looked like I was about to fall asleep, I said that was because that was how I felt. She suggested—being oh so reasonable—that perhaps I was overtired. Since I slept 10.5 hours last night I suspect she was right. I still fell asleep a bit this morning but nothing like yesterday.  Maybe cumulative tired, like six months of it, has caught up with me.

But now it’s over, and I think we can settle down to a few peaceful days—If Jordan doesn’t invite half the world for another function which she has yet to dream up. I am not falling asleep over the keyboard but I am weary tonight.

I did wish at 3 a..m. this morning I’d had my camera at hand. I was in bed, thinking those black three-o’clock-in-the-morning thoughts about things that didn’t really need to be worried about. I decided to go to the restroom to sort of break the cycle, but I forgot to turn on the bedside light. When I came back I could barely make out that there was something large, black, and rumpled in the doorway between the bedroom and kitchen. Sophie never bothers towels, but that was what it looked like. As I inched toward the light, half of mass moved several feet. Sophie had gotten her color caught in the afghan that covers her chair and was doomed to drag the blanket with her wherever she went. She gave me the most pitiful look that said, “Help me, please” I scooted into the kitchen, got scissors and freed her.

It was one of life’s little lessons—don’t fret and stew over things that are not here yet, if ever, but help your dog. Priorities.

An Award Turns Into An Adventure

Last night my daughters and I set off with an Uber driver for the Will Rogers Medallion Award Banquet at the iconic Cattlemen’s Restaurant in the Stockyards District. Helping me in and out of an SUV these days is a bit problematic but I have found Uber drivers almost always helpful and cheerful. We arrived safely and my chair and I rode a small platform the six steps up to the main level—only to be told that event was down a set of about 20 stairs. The manager assured me he had strong staff who could carry me safely down the stairs. I hesitated. The girls said, “Think of it as an adventure, Mom.”

Let the adventure begin! And it wasn’t nearly as unsettling as I expected. The four young men kept my chair almost upright and they moved in concert with steady assurance. I felt like Cleopatra or some other ancient queen. Perhaps I should  have waved my hand in benign blessing to the crowd below.

Downstairs we found a few good friends and acquaintances, wine, and dinner seats in that order. Then we waited for dinner …and waited…and chatted and laughed …and waited. A pleasant couple from Arizona across the table chatted. Then one of the largest men I’ve ever seen slid (sort of) into the chair next to Jordan and his equally large wife fitted herself in on the other side. (We guesstimate he was 400 llb.) Fighting off hysterical laughter, Megan came around and   moved me a few inches the other way, giving Jordan a bit more space. But periodically I asked Jordan why she was hovering over me, and we all laughed. I was not amused however that the gentleman (?) never apologized, asked Jordan if she was all right or in any other way acknowledged that his size caused a problem for others.

Dinner arrived and I ran smack into my new dining restrictions. Green beans oozed butter Megan reported the dinner rolls were already glazed with butter, and I voted against olive oil as a substitute for sour cream on my potato, I will have to do some solid research on dairy substitutes. By the time it came to a really nice-looking filet, done just the way I like it, I was through. 

The awards presentation went smoothly. Charles Williams, the man in charge of the whole event, was knowledgeable and precise, saying just enough about each entrant without inviting them to respond and thereby drawing out the evening. At intermission we thanked him and fled homeward, but I brought with me a lovely bit of recognition: the silver medallion in the cookbook class for Texas Is Chili Country.

Brazen Hussies Friday

           
I belong to a small but oh so significant writers group that holds Brazen Hussies Friday every week. I‘m not sure of the official requirements, but I do know that every Friday, we celebrate the good things we’ve accomplished or that randomly came our way during the past week. Some of us have to be coaxed; others are indeed truly brazen and we all cheer for them because the more brazen you are the more you get done.

I am somewhere in the middle—often having things to brag about but never feeling they measure up to the brags of others in the group; after just a couple of weeks, you learn to recognize brazen hussies by their bragging styles.

I think the custom is great because it encourages looking back on your work and assessing it. This week was one of medium accomplishment for me. The biggest was that I survived, with my sanity relative untouched, a whole week of computers glitches. The technician I was dealing with was patient and finally got it fixed.

Beyond that I edited the November issue of our neighborhood newsletter and got it off my desk, blogged occasionally when the computer would permit, finished and evaluated the book I was reading for the Sarton award,

My bad for the week: when you are told you are lactose intolerant that means even a little cream cheese tucked away in sushi. Lesson learned the hard way.

On Mondays this same group plans the week—each of us outline our goals for the week, which is great because it forces you to look at your work pile and prioritize. It will be a reading week for me, and I have to look at due dates—first up will be a friend’s manuscript for which he needs a blurb yesterday, then the next Sarton book (last in my pile), and then a book loaned to me too long ago by a friend. I’ll take some rain please to go with all that reading.If I get really efficient I’ll tackle the cooking magazines that have been on the corner of my desk forever

As I write I’m watching a Halloween cooking show—they come up with some disgusting things. Glad I already had breakfast. A meatloaf fashioned too look like a grimy, grungy foot?

Not quite the restaurant experience I wanted

Betty and I are longtime fans of Tokyo Café, a Japanese sushi house/restaurant that burned a couple of years ago. This seems to be my Phoenix week but the café re-opened a couple of nights ago, risen from its own ashes. She and I both know better—don’t go for two weeks when a restaurant opens or re-opens to great hoopla.  But we ignored our wiser selves and dragged poor Jacob into our folly.

Tokyo Café was always a quiet place with no wait and very little noise. Not tonight—we got there at six and were seated at seven, with Jacob moaning about how hungry he was. I finally said I’d endure the wait a lot better with wine and gave Betty my credit card. She’s not aggressive and was in line at the bar for a good whole but the magic worked as I hoped—we got a table while she was getting wine. She came back breathless, having spent $29 on two glasses of wine (I was astounded too though it was good wine).

Jacob ordered edamame as I knew he would, and Betty surprised me by ordering stir-fried rice. I came for sushi, and sushi I would have—but who knew it all had cream cheese in it. My Philadelphia roll was good but married by my conscience working about the cream cheese and wishing I had remember to specify soy wrap instead of seaweed. So I was a little hungry when I got home. Betty loved her rice, but Jacob as not enthusiastic abbot the edamame—stir-fried in a soy sauce and he didn’t like the “brown stuff.”

Jacob was a charmer tonight. When I asked if he’d carry my purse, he said, “No, Juju. I have t get you in and out of the car.” And he did. He and Betty had high old discussions, most of which I couldn’t hear because the pace was so noisy.

All in all, it was not our best dining adventure and not a good advertisement for a restaurant that we really like. Wait a couple of weeks and try it—you’ll have a different and better experience than we did.

And us? We’ve been compiling a list of easily accessible spots. See you around.

Limp dishrag and other excuses

No blog tonight. I feel like a limp dishrag that someone just wrung out.  I went ‘to the doctor this afternoon and walked much farther with the walker than I am used to. Everyone praised how strong I’m getting, etc., and it would have been music to my ears—except I was concentrating on walking and the pain in my left hip—which has miraculously disappeared again right now. It comes and goes but with no regularity or predictability.

Doctor’s report confirmed what I suspected: I am in excellent health, but I’m lactose intolerant. There go my bowls of cottage cheese for breakfast, my cheese slices on a ham sandwich, my bowls of yogurt. Ice cream is not a problem, and no I won’t substitute tofu, well beaten, for sour cream. I am using almond-free milk with my cereal and it’s fine. This is going to be a learning process, as I find what I can tolerate and what I can’t.

Tonight I really wanted the meatloaf plate from the Grill, so we picked it up and brought it home. Didn’t taste nearly as good as I anticipated but I imagine it will make a good sandwich tomorrow.

To add to my list of semi-disasters, my computer has acted wonky all week and required frequent calls to TCU’s support staff, but I am beginning to suspect what one friend suggested is true—it’s time for a new computer.

I’m off to read a good book and stare at the rapidly changing sunset. No dramatic streaks of red and gold \tonight but patches of a soft rosy pink set against patches of light blue sky—a delicate sunset, calming to the soul.

Phoenix Rising

Sunday night's blog on Monday morning.

Jordan and Christian cooked a real “company meal” tonight for Jay and Susan to thank them for all they did to help us through the great hailstorm and the massive move that followed—and for always being ready to help, especially with Jay’s truck.

Susan talked about how much she likes looking out and seeing my cottage ablaze with lights in the evening, and indeed it is like living in a compound. But tonight, was her first look at the main house since Jordan and Christian have moved in, arranged their furniture (much different from mine), and made it their own.

We dined on some fine English china that my mom and an aunt began collecting for me when I was in high schools—Golden Grapevine, with an elaborate gold pattern (no, not dishwasher safe). With it Jordan used the gold flatware I had to go with the Imari china I since gave to one of the other kids. Jordan had also found wine glasses with gold patterns, and she was excited to set this elegant table.

The menu was roulade—layered flattened pork tenderloin, topped with flattened chicken breast meat and then prosciutto—sort of like making a turducken at Thanksgiving only much easier. In between the layers you put a sauce of chopped parsley and basil, anchovies, and oils. Roll the whole thing up, brown it, and bake. It’s an elegant dish but complicated to prepare, and Christian did an excellent job. Jordan served goat cheese mashed potatoes and a wonderful green salad as accompaniments—and oven-fried a few slices of potato for me since goat cheese is not on my diet list—nor is the decadent chocolate cream pie she served for dessert.

Susan at one point said it was like seeing new rise out of the remnants of the old, like Phoenix rising, and she’s right. The old, thank goodness, has not been gotten rid of but simply moved off center stage, while the new—Jordan and Christian’s makeover of my house—moves on to center stage.

Susan asked if that thought made me said, and I said not at all. I think tonight was the fourth time I’ve been in the house since I moved out, and I haven’t missed it. Nor does it make me feel sad to see it with different furniture and a different look and feel. I retreat to the cottage, which looks and feels like my house always did. They have their space, and I have mine, and it is time for the order to change.

A sad note to my post about the white dog: the dog at Animal Control is not our white dog. It’s an owner surrender and has never nursed a litter of pups. So we don’t know where our white dog is, and we can only wish her godspeed where life takes her next.

I knew I shouldn’t have given her a name.

The Saga of the White Dog

This is in some ways a cautionary tale, though I don’t know that any of us could have done anything else. It’s also a story without an ending, and that gives me hope.

In my neighborhood, Berkeley Place, neighbors not only look out for each other, we look out for everyone’s pets. See a loose dog? Probably Fido escaped from his yard and his owners don’t realize it. Put it on the Berkeley Buzz, our email? Did your dog or cat get out? Put it on the Buzz—chances are someone will either return your pet or report that they have it secured for you to pick up.

The white dog first appeared on the Buzz a couple of weeks ago, spotted in the eastern part of the neighborhood, minding her own business.  Next day, different location. And the next. There’d be a day without a sighting and the small network following her would get anxious. Then she’d appear in the wee early hours following an early-morning walker.

She was wily, coolly rejecting all friendly approaches. One neighbor said he couldn’t even get close enough to use a catch rope.

Everybody had a theory about her. It seemed to me she was moving purposefully, whereas most stray wander aimlessly from tree to bush. Generally, strays don’t hang around the same neighborhood day after day, though we did have one dog it took a month to catch. The white dog stayed, and speculation began that she had hidden a litter of puppies nearby. In the picture above, it looks to me like she’s recently nurse.

Once she was spotted diving into low bushes in front of a house. After she emerged someone searched the bushes. No sign of puppies.

Neighbor John Holmes was active in the effort to capture the dog, and he reported one day that he was trying to coax her to him when a woman he didn’t recognize drove by and assured him she had Animal Control on the line at that moment. Not what John or any of us wanted to hear—if she did have puppies and was taken to the pound, disaster would occur. Besides, John said if she was feral, they would just put her down. There was no need to involve Animal Control unless she was a menace to people or other animals, and she clearly was not.  When he called Animal Control, they would neither deny nor confirm that they had her. There were no more sightings.

Yesterday a neighbor known for her active rescue work reported Animal Control had only one dog that fit her description, and she was sure it was “our” white dog. Today the dog would have gone off her three-day hold as a stray. Robin has promised to try to keep track of that happens next—adoptable list, “desperate” list, sick list. Her Berkeley fans will stand by “our” white dog.

You think I could call her Lucy?

How Blessed I am October 21, 2016 Every once in a while I stop whatever I’m doing to just stare around my cottage and think about how blessed I am. Even when the renovation was underway I never thought I’d live in such a cool space. It is, I told a neighbor tonight, like living in a Manhattan loft but without the major traffic-vehicles and people—hazards. It somehow makes me feel sophisticated to think I live in 600 square feet—and such a cool 600 feet. Cozy, comfortable but without kitsch or cute. I am thoroughly besotted of my own life situation. And that includes the many friends who come to visit, my children who are often around and if not in constant touch. And tonight another pleasant experience emphasized how lucky I am. The neighbors director behind us, Jason and Amy Brown, had invited us for dinner, but Jordan felt during the move she had to reschedule—twice. Then Jordan began to worry about taking me to their house which doesn/t have easy access, let alone access to restroom facilities. It was finally decided that Amy would bring the dinner here—and she did with grace and style. The Browns have two boys—Sam, Jacob’s age, and Alex, now in 2nd grade I believe, so the three boys had a grand time playing tetherball and flip in the driveway. We decided though that Alex was a little bored with flip—it’s a fifth grade thing. Funniest moment of the evening: Jacob mixed up child abuse and child obesity. He and Sam both knew the words but not the meaning, so I had to explain. That of course led Jacob to enumerate the times he’d been a victim of child abuse at my hands—well, there was the time I used the cussword, “Damn,” in talking to him. Even he admitted that was not a serious fall from grace. Meanwhile the adults sat around the patio table, under the trees, on an absolutely perfect night. Amy’s meal was just right for the situation—thin slices of Manchego and pear with crackers, a bowl of olives, and a bowl of marinated almonds. She explained it was a Spanish meal. Her entrée was wonderful, rich lentil soup served with hunks of baguette—perfect dinner for a fall evening, when the air turns a bit cool as soon as the sun goes down. We talked neighborhood news—Jason is president of the property owners’ association. And we talked about children and education and our wonderful local Lily B. school. And Zika virus. Did you know that daytime mosquitoes have Zika, while night-time ones have West Nile? Our topics ranged far and wide. It’s always stimulating to talk with people you don’t see often—sometimes I feel when I see old friends we’ve already said everything to each other that needs to be said. We steered clear of politics though everyone had a good laugh—at ?

October 21, 2016

Every once in a while I stop whatever I’m doing to just stare around my cottage and think about how blessed I am. Even when the renovation was underway I never thought I’d live in such a cool space. It is, I told a neighbor tonight, like living in a Manhattan loft but without the major traffic-vehicles and people—hazards. It somehow makes me feel sophisticated to think I live in 600 square feet—and such a cool 600 feet. Cozy, comfortable but without kitsch or cute. I am thoroughly besotted of my own life situation.

And that includes the many friends who come to visit, my children who are often around and if not in constant touch. And tonight another pleasant experience emphasized how lucky I am. The neighbors director behind us, Jason and Amy Brown, had invited us for dinner, but Jordan felt during the move she had to reschedule—twice. Then Jordan began to worry about taking me to their house which doesn/t have easy access, let alone access to restroom facilities. It was finally decided that Amy would bring the dinner here—and she did with grace and style.

The Browns have two boys—Sam, Jacob’s age, and Alex, now in 2^nd grade I believe, so the three boys had a grand time playing tetherball and flip in the driveway. We decided though that Alex was a little bored with flip—it’s a fifth grade thing. Funniest moment of the evening: Jacob mixed up child abuse and child obesity. He and Sam both knew the words but not the meaning, so I had to explain. That of course led Jacob to enumerate the times he’d been a victim of child abuse at my hands—well, there was the time I used the cussword, “Damn,” in talking to him. Even he admitted that was not a serious fall from grace.

Meanwhile the adults sat around the patio table, under the trees, on an absolutely perfect night. Amy’s meal was just right for the situation—thin slices of Manchego and pear with crackers, a bowl of olives, and a bowl of marinated almonds. She explained it was a Spanish meal. Her entrée was wonderful, rich lentil soup served with hunks of baguette—perfect dinner for a fall evening, when the air turns a bit cool as soon as the sun goes down.

We talked neighborhood news—Jason is president of the property owners’ association. And we talked about children and education and our wonderful local Lily B. school. And Zika virus. Did you know that daytime mosquitoes have Zika, while night-time ones have West Nile? Our topics ranged far and wide. It’s always stimulating to talk with people you don’t see often—sometimes I feel when I see old friends we’ve already said everything to each other that needs to be said. We steered clear of politics though everyone had a good laugh—at my expense—over the picture of me in front of Chicago’s Trump Tower.

Good neighbors, good food, a delightfully pleasant setting—who could ask for more?

Time Change, Computer Woes, and Where did My Energy Go?

There’s something nostalgic, sweet but sad, about the waning twilight as we approach the shift back to Central Standard Time. The air seems to take on a golden glow, as if mimicking fall colors, and the sunlight is less harsh than summer’s direct rays. I for one would stay with daylight savings all the time. I dread the early darkness.

My record so far this week: full days with a working computer: 0; partial days with a working computer: 2; days without a computer: 2. Not a good record for a writer, nor is it good for my peace of mind. Being compulsive, I always have a to-do list—and information for getting it done is locked in my computer. Everything from today’s grocery list to my calendar and notes for a thousand projects. Writing last night’s blog this morning because the computer refused to put down letters last night. And when I tried to type the word “Time” (above), it instead merrily told me it was 8:41. I have p in frustration.

Highlight of the day: an hour telephone consultation with a TCU tech who took over my computer, got rid of a bunch of malware and generally got me back in working order. It’s a delight to work on the computer without fearing it will do something weird in a minute. So much to do from the weeklong backup

At ten o’clock last night Jordan was out blowing leaves off the patio. Watering olants and arranging five small lit skeleton heads outside my window for my viewing pleasure. I was collapsed at my desk in fatigue. I read a post from a neighborhood mom who had three kids with three simultaneous practices and her husband was out of town. She took it all in stride. I remember those days when I didn’t get out of the car until ten and then spent the next two hours doing chores. I hate to admit this but it’s apparently true that energy and enthusiasm (for some things) generally diminish with age.

Today, however, is already a much better day because my computer works and because it's a lovely sunny day. Looking forward to the weekend.

A Day…or Two…Out of my Life

My computer quit cold turkey Sunday night. I had gone to do dishes; when I tried to log back in, it kept telling me my pass code was incorrect—I knew it wasn’t. But there went everything I planned to do not only that night but for the next day. Because I pretty much live my life at my computer, I was devastated.

Next morning I threw myself into the world of computer repair. My computer guru son-in-law threw up his hands—he’s a Mac consultant and said I needed a pc guy. So I called the Geek Squad. Now there’s a big business model! Wow, are they streamlined. They would make a house call for $249 a week later. “I’m a writer,” I wailed. “I can’t go a week without a computer.” For sympathy I got a flip, “Sorry!” I made an appointment, hung up and called Staples. For about $50 less, they sent a technician out that day (I am not yet mobile enough to take a computer to the store and was willing to pay the extra for a house call.) I cancelled the Geek Squad.

Tyler arrived about 2 p.m. Monday and stayed until maybe until 5:30, then left taking my computer with him because he needed hardware from his shop. Promised to be back that night, said the next day he came back but the cottage was dark and the gate closed. He brought the computer back about eleven yesterday morning.

I had taken advantage of the enforced hiatus to read a cozy mystery, something that often feels like a waste of time but really isn’t—I learn for my own work from every book I read. This time, it was Ellen Byron’s Body on the Bayou.

Being a compulsive personality has its downsides. I was obsessed with the growing list of things I needed to do once I had access to the information on my computer—everything from the grocery list to a blog. Yesterday, with the computer back, I dug in, and I have pretty much worked since. But the computer, which now is behaving beautifully, has not always cooperated—dancing type, refusal to accept a password, etc. I think I’ve seen this before-when a computer has been to the computer “hospital” it takes it a while to settle down and get to work. I hope tonight we’ve reached that point.

I’m writing this with one eye on the third debate. Hillary must never know who she will be debating—in spite of predictions that it could get ugly, Trump is thoughtful, subdued. He nods and shakes his head a lot, and she does the eye roll. A study in controlled emotions—sort of unexpected.