Judy Alter's Blog, page 315

Back to school

Sweet Lily B. (Lily B. Clayton Elementary), Jacob's schoolWe went to meet Jacob's new first-grade teacher tonight, and I was drawn back in years . I don't remember visiting classrooms before the first day of school, nor do I remember that the classrooms were so thoroughly prepared for my children. Jacob's desk is assigned, with his name on it and a ruler of some sort; his name is on the "behavior board"--when I pointed that out to him, he said, "I know, I know." There was a packet on the desk with information to be filled out, and an important part of the whole event was for parents to indicate how the child woud be picked up. That was why I was there--so the teacher would recognize me when I came to get Jacob. But it was all so ready and so tailored to each individual child--I was truly impressed. Jacob was excited. He will have at least two good buddies in his class this year, and it's nice that it's a different mix from last year--he'll make new friends.
There was a "social hour" in the cafeteria and I found myself in a whole new part of the school that never existed when my youngest, Jacob's mother, went there--classrooms and the cafeteria. The cafeteria I remember was where the school library is now...and where they seem to be having big-time foundation problems or something. There have been backhoes and all sorts of equipment working at the school for a month or so and huge areas are still marked off with danger tape--not a good way to begin the year.
But sitting in the cafeteria, watching my daughter "work the room," hugging this one and that, I was again grateful that part of raising children is long behind me. Jordan is going to be active in PTA this year (or is it PTO these days?) and they'll attend all the events. I'll go only when Jacob is performing in one capacity or another. And I'm glad, nay delighted, I don't have to do any more school carnivals and the like.When they have their neighborhood walk in September I'll sit on my porch and wave. I think all that is a benefit of aging.
After the meet-and-greet, we went with two other families to the Neighborhood Grill for dinner--the children had their own table and were delighted and wild. Fun times, but I was glad to be home. As we left, one of the dads said, "I bet everyone in there was glad to see us leave." I agreed.
Gosh! Am I getting curmudgeonly? Don't want to do that!

Those subtle blends of flavors

I'm reading A Brew to Kill, a Coffeehouse Mystery by Cleo Coyle and enjoying it much. But I am awed and baffled first by the art of the barista--who knew how much training, talent, and finesse it takes to pull coffee?--and second by the acuteness of heroine Claire Cosi's taste buds.In one sip of coffee, which she savors long and slow, she finds subtle blends of fruit, almond, chocolate, woodsy flavors, whatever--things I never think of when I drink coffee. It's just coffee to me, but I'm not an aficionado. Claire's ex-husband brings home a new bean from  South America, and the author is at pains to dissect the flavors.
Confession: I don't like Starbuck coffee; to me, it's bitter. I don't like strong coffee. I drink decaf, because caffeine hypes me up too much, something I am quite capable of doing on my own without outside help. I only drink one cup of coffee a day. Occasionally I prefer green tea, wish I'd drink it more often because it's so good for you.
Separating out coffee flavors is like letting fine wine roll around on your tongue. I'm afraid that art is missing in me. Another confession: I drink box wine a lot of the time. It's cheap, and some of it is not bad. When I arrive in Austin, my son-in-law always takes a picture of the box, posts it on Facebook, and writes, "Gaga's back in town." As those who know me are aware, I enjoy a glass of chardonnay, and I like it oakey. I don't get much more specific than that, so I'm mystified when people talk about fruity--okay, sometimes I think I get that but I'm never sure. Move on to specific fruits and I'm lost.
I can detect a thin, really cheap chardonnay or a sour one--but my oenophile daughter and her husband scoff at what I consider a nice bottle of wine. And I run from a Reisling or Muscatel--or anything sweet. These days pinot grigio seems to be the white wine of choice, but I stick to chardonnay and I was comforted to read on the internet that the appeal of chardonnay is its complexity. See, I'm not a simpleton.
Would someone run out and get me a bottle of  Kendall Jackson, please?

My Lonely Only

Sophie, chewing on a Bully Stick--best treat everWhen I lost my 12-year-old Aussie, Scooby, a week and a half ago, I was sure I'd get another dog immediately. Sophie, the 15-month Bordoodle, needed a pal. My children, particularly my oldest son, tried to talk reason. "Let Sophie have a while being the only dog. See how she does." No, I argued, she'll be bored and lonely. She won't get any exercise. She loved him.
True enough, Sophie was sort of quiet and depressed. I washed Scooby's bed cover and put the bed in the guest room, intending to take it out to the apartment for visiting dogs. I'd find her taking her toys and lying there during the day, though she's quit doing that now. But she was clearly lonely.
One night I thought she looked particulary sad, and I began to investigate rescue dogs on the web. Found a beautiful red Aussie but she was six months old (I can't train another dog!) and she needed work. In other words, she was a herder; she needed all that exercise. Then I found a lovely mini-Aussie named Bluebelle. She was available through the Mini Aussie Rescue Service, and I swear I filled out lengthier, more complicated forms that I did when I adopted four children. They warned they did't reply immediately.
Meantime Sophie began to adjust. She enjoyed having the run of the house--okay, I close off the playroom because there are just too many stuffed toys, Lego parts, etc., and I close off my closet because she takes the arch supports out of my shoes and destroys them. Hey, she's still partly a baby. And I have discovered two instances where what I thought was impeccable housetraining broke down, but maybe I didn't pay attention to her messages.
Still, lots of the time she would lie at my feet while I worked. I put all her toys in a basket in my office and she would choose one or two and dart off with them. She knows when I turn off the computer and light at night and chooses that time to bring me a toy to fight over. She gets lots of love, when she comes out of her crate, when she comes in from outside, when she begs by my desk. "This is working," I told myself.
We--the dogs and I--developed a three o'clock nap habit this summer (about to change with Jacob going back to school). But this afternoon, I got lost in the book I was reading and realized it was four and I didn't know where Sophie was. She had curled up in her crate and gone to sleep. "Mom, don't you know it's nap time?"
Today the MARS people wrote to say that Bluebelle had gone to a new home and was I still interested. I thanked them, said how happy I was for Bluebelle, and said I was rethinking the whole thing, would they please keep my application on file. It really is easier having one dog. I'm just not sure about the future.

A banner day, some dumb mishaps, and a minor family tragedy

If you follow me on Facebook, you already know my big news! Trouble in a Big Box, my third Kelly O'Connell Mystery, went live today on Kindle, Nook, and various other digital platforms. I'm really excited and hope when you read it you can't tell that three-fourths through the manuscript, I was still wondering who done it. And then it all fell into place--I'm pleased with the result (is that too much self confidence?). I had to argue with my editor over the title--although my publisher is in Kentucky, my editor is in Wales and she didn't know the term "big box." (For some reason I have a hard time typing that--it comes out Bix Box every time!) She thought Kelly was going to come home and find a big box of some kind at her doorstep. I assured her people in this country would know it refers to a Big Box store moving into Kelly's beloved Fairmount neighborhood. Shortly after I wrote this, fiction became truth when a WalMart moved into a residential neighborhood adjacent to Fairmount--over neighborhood objections.
I laugh when I remember a few years ago I thought if I could just get one mystery in print, I'd be happy--now I have three, with two more scheduled.
The print copy of this one will be available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Turquoise Morning Press in about three weeks, and I can't wait to hold it in my hand.
Maybe I was giddy with excitement, but I sure have done a couple of dumb things lately. Yesterday I could NOT find the remote to the kitchen TV. I looked in cupboards, drawers, the bowl of onions and fruit I keep on the counter--nada. Found it in my purse. This sent Jacob--and his parents--into hysterics. He wanted to know what would have happened if I put it in the refrigerator. Then today I cooked some plums for a yummy salad dressing. Directions were to drain the cooking liquid into a bowl, then mash as much of the solids as possible through a sieve. Somehow I lifted up the sieve, drained the liquid through it--without the bowl under it. Plum juice everywhere. I captured as much as I could, mushed up the solids and put the whole thing in the dressing. Hope my lunch guests tomorrow don't mind a bit of peel. It's also all over my T-shirt, but my mom taught me to remove fruit stains--pour boiling water through them. It works every time!
I did have a bit of good fortune today when I went to pick up some pants left at the cleaners for alteration. They weren't ready but they handed me two shirts--I've been missing one of them over a year--and it was a favorite!
Our minor family tragedy: My grandchildren all went to the Midway at the Stock Show and Rodeo in January 2011. One of the games rewarded kids with their own goldfish--and the man must have wanted to get rid of the fish, because each of my seven went home with a fish. Most (fish, not grandchildren) died almost immediately, but Jacob's lived on. He called it Fishy Cory (or Cory Fishy, not sure). Cory died today. RIP. I must say Jacob's aunts and uncles have been less than sympathetic, texting outrageous messages, promising to get him a ferret, even suggesting that the grandmother might like to have the ferret--no thank you! Jordan tells me that Jacob is sad. When she and Christian went to Mexico earlier this month, I was responsible for feeding Fishy twice--and I lived in terror I'd find him belly up. I'm sorry he died, but relieved he didn't die on my watch.

One of those days

Some days the gods seem determined to test your mettle. This has been one of those days. Woke early, because I knew I had to rush in the morning; up at 6:30, out the door at 7:45 to the VW dealership to leave my car--expensive repairs!--and pick up a loaner. Got a haircut, went to Central Market, and all seemed well, though the house was teeming with people when I came home--Socorro was cleaning, painters were scraping and sanding, Greg came to mow but couldn't do the back yard because of the painters, a/c repairman came for yearly check (not cheap either). And then Socorro said the bathtub wouldn't drain. After she left and I looked I got the full impact of what she was saying--two to three inches of filthy, brown standing water. Called the plumber--they promised to make me next on the list. Plumber was here by three, but what I thought would be short and sweet was not. Two hours and one more plumber later they said they'd be back tomorrow. Never did get to the VW dealership so I still have the loaner--a nice new bug, but not near as nice as my convertible.
So tomorrow I have to rush up to VW at nine, to be home by nine-thirty for the plumber. Meantime I can flush the two commodes and use the bathroom sinks. I cannot use the kitchen sink, bathtub, or washing machine--somehow they're all hooked together. Because of whatever blockage, when I washed the cleaning rags Socorro had used, the draining water backed up in the tub. (I really should have put my hearing aids in so I could better understand this explanation).
Things I don't  understand: if I made the VW appt. a week ago and got there at eight o'clock, why was it one o'clock before they worked on my car? And five o'clock before they called to say I had a headlight out (had taken the car in for window repair). If the painters are so neat and careful, why do plumbers leave a gate open and unlocked (dog hazard), leave parts on the bathroom floor (another dog hazard) and track leaves in all over? They're  really nice guys, and I'm grateful, but I'm struck by the difference.
I thought I was so exhuasted I would skip Jordan's potluck but after a short nap, I put Sophie out--she poor thing had spent way too much of this confusing day in her crate. Put on makeup, a clean shirt, grabbed my corn and bean salad and went to Jordan's, watching dark storm clouds. Jordan showed me on her phone that a big storm was headed our way and said I was not to drive home until it was over. Of course I began to fret about Sophie, though she is not scared of storms as Scooby was. Made myself a take-home supper plate and came back through a nice, steady but gentle rain. Apparently in other parts of town there were hail and high winds. I was greeted by a very wet dog.
Tomorrow night I have  company coming for supper, and I've planned a nice antipasto light meal--but honest, I need a functioning kitchen to do it!
I think I'll just burrow under the covers early and forget the world till morning. Supposed to rain again tomorrow. Praise be! Love the rain, hate the plumbing and car problems.

A mother/daughter evening

The Hapkido KidJacob is taking Hapkido, a branch of the martial arts, and here shows off his brand new uniform. He said to me, "I know a lot more moves than you do." A safe bet--I don't know any. I countered with "I know more yoga than you," and he said, "Yeah, but I can still beat you up, but I would never do that." Such a sweet boy. He was waiting for his dad to pick him up, so his mom and I could have a girls' evening.
Having blogged about best friends last night and how my daughters are probably my best friends, it's only appropriate to report on our girls' evening. Jordan and I enjoyed a long delayed dinner at Winslow's Wine Cafe tonight. To top it off, she had a $40 gift certificate which helped the bill considerably. We had crab cakes, salad (split one order of both) and two glasses of wine each. Really good food. The wine loosened our tongues, and we had real heart-to-heart talk. No one in the immediate family needs to worry--what we said about everyone was all good. Others might worry, however--just kidding. But it was nice to share confidences and concerns without having to worry about who else was in the room. We made some decisions, like what snacks I'll feed Jacob after school--he'd gotten in the habit of helping himself to too many granola bars. Sure they're healthy, but they're not sugar free. But the best part was to feel that we are on the same page, we can share confidences, and we're friends beyond our mother/daughter relationship. We laughed about all the ills she says I gave her--anxiety, tummy troubles, etc., all things that might be passed on genetically but, hey! She's adopted.
My conclusion at the end of a lovely evening? There's nothing like a daughter. She undertands how I think, shares my joys and concerns and shares hers with me, gently chastises me when I must be better behaved and let go of some anger--or save it to vent to her alone.
Now I'm going to start lobbying for my older daughter, Megan, to come for a weekend so the three of us can have some shared time--down and dirty, full of love and happiness.
I am so blessed.

Do you have a BFF?

My thirteen-year-old granddaughter has a BFF--best friend forever, though I think this is about the third one, so take the forever part with a bit of caution. I don't know that, when I was a teenager or even younger, we added the word forever. During late elementary school and high school I had two best friends, though I shared each with another girl--a situation that did not always bring out the best in any of the three of us. Today I have a nice friendly relationship with one of the girls with whom I shared a BF.
I got to thinking about best friends today. I have many many dear friends, people I hold close to my heart. But best friends? Well, maybe a handful, each of whom fits into a different niche in my life, as I hope I do for them. Barbara, one of my high school BFs, remains close today, someone with whom I share the past and memories but also family life and the way we love it, a certain quirky sense of humor, an interest in cooking. Strangely, when one of us writes, it's often about a topic that's on the other one's mind. We seem to be in sync.
And then there's Elizabeth, much younger, who was once my student, then my teacher, and now my good friend. I find the changing roles fascinating. And Betty, who I've known fifteen years or more--we try to eat out togther once a week and catch up, and she has declared herself Aunt Betty to Jacob, who loves her. And the two Jeans--friends from days at TCU. Our paths have now diverged, but I share some things with Jean and some with Jeannie and the three of us remain close. I certainly count them as among my best friends. And Sue, who has adopted me as her Fort Worth mom because her own mom is so far away in Canada. See, once I begin naming names, I run the risk of leaving out someone important. No, I don't have any one BF, let alone BFF--I know relationships shift and change, but I am blessed to have these women in my life.
And when it comes right down to it, maybe my best friends, above all, are my daughters, Megan and Jordan, and my daughters-in-law, Melanie and Lisa. They love me unconditionally (I think) but don't hesitate to keep me in line when necessary--from clothing to cooking to attitude.
Henry Adams wrote, "One friend in a lifetime is much; two are many; three are hardly possible." Sorry, Henry, I disagree. It is possible to have many best friends throughout life--but I'm leery of that addition of the word "forever."

OCD--do you suffer from it?

Compulsive behavior, or, less gently put, obsessive compulsive disorder. Who, me? Leave dirty dishes in the sink overnight? Never. Leave home in the morning with the bed unmade. Not my mother's daughter! My obsessive behavior carries over into lots of areas of my life. The other day three things were on my errand list on an already crowded day--buy printer paper, buy some back-up of the cosmetics I like, and get the car washed. There was absolutely no reason all had to be done that day. I had enough printer paper for the weekend; I probably had enough make-up and eye shadow for a month; and the car, while dirty, would run just fine if I didn't get it washed. Did they all get done that day? You bet--except the car, because the rear window on the driver's side suddenly refused to go up, so driving through an automatic car wash was not a good idea. I made an appointment to have it fixed this week and will get them to wash it when they fix the window.
But compulsiveness carries over into my writing. I was on a roll last week of writing 2000 words a day, come hell, high water, or my grandchild. I did that for four days, though I have doubts about the wisdom of writing to a certain word count. You may pad, write junk, anything to get those words down--and later have to delete half of them. Still, since I write short, one of my big worries is always that I won't make the minimum for a cozy novel--I aim for 70,000 words but often fall short. Anyway, after feeding my compulsion for four days I hit a wall. During a long, sleepless night, I worked out where the plot was going and got up early in the morning feeling elated, compulsively made notes. And haven't written a thing since--almost five days. Life gets in the way even of compulsiveness--the illness and death of my dog, a trip to visit one son and his family, company for dinner, a talk to prepare. But tonight my mind is on the 2,000 words I'll write tomorrow.

Scooby stories and Sophie's adjustment

I have been overwhelmed with the sympathy and concern from Facebook friends--and others--on my loss of Scooby. As I've answered a few individual emails, Scooby stories have come flooding back into my mind. My friend Jeannie said  she was sure he was running through fields, chasing rabbits. I had to remind her he was the squirrel-chasing pro. He'd lie in the driveway, but when he saw us drive up, he'd run off after a squirrel, real or imaginary, as if to say, "Look, Ma, I'm doing my job." The time he got out just as kids were arriving for school across the street--I was terrified he'd dart out in the street with all those crazy-driving moms or scare some small child. When I discovered him and called he pranced up to the front door with the air of "Did you want me, Mom?" Scooby had a good berth, and he knew it--he'd had some bad ones before in his life. Another time I saw him across the street, sniffing the garbage. Instinctively I called to him--wrong thing to do. He came bounding toward me. Thank heaven, the car that was going by was going slow and had good brakes. Once a friend was determined to show me he'd sit on the front porch enjoying the companionship, without a leash. She didn't know Scooby like I did--when an innocent neighbor, walking a dog, came along across the street, he was gone in a leap and a bound. When I first got him, I hired a dog trainer. I asked when Scoob would calm down and, because of the Aussie breed, the trainer said, "Oh, when he's about ten." He was spot on.
Since Sophie will be an only dog, at least for a while, I'm praticing making her more house friendly. She's spent a lot of her life in the yard with Scooby, but now the yard is boring for her. Let her have the run of the house last night, and she chewed a pine cone from a basket by the fireplace, then discovered the good authentic Indian basket that holds her overflow oys and tipped it over to get at them. I'm just grateful she didn't chew the basket This morning I took her into the bathroom while I showered--she proved a hindrance. Wanted to lick the water off me while I dried, then lick off the lotion. And later I gave her the cardboard cylinder from an empty roll of paper towels. She carried it around proudly until she began to destroy it--then she was furtive, as though she'd found a forbidden fruit. Colin says she's still a puppy--but she's 15 months old. Do I really have to wait until she's two?
Colin is much against my getting a new dog, argues that Sophie would enjoy being an only dog (did he always wish to be an only child?), and I should socialize her. I'm trying, I'm trying, and it's true--she does crave human companionship.
Difficult days of adjustment ahead, but I do appreciate all the love and support for me and for both dogs. And let me add that Scooby had the kindest, best care ever from Dr.John Minnerly and the staff at university Animal Hospital. They went overboard in caring for both Scooby and me. My gratitude toward them know no bounds.

Quality of life issues

Scooby in better days--a beautiful and sweet dogMy twelve-year-old Aussie had been gradually improving since his latest attack of idiopathic vestibular disease. The high point came maybe last Tuesday when he went down the stairs to the backyard (two steps) by himself without falling. He's been walking to and from his bed without falling on my hardwood floors. I cheered and called the vet, who also cheered. But the last couple of days, all the progress has slowly faded away, and this morning he wouldn't get up--I lifted his hind quarters, but he fell three times between his bed and the bedroom door. I finally got him outside, using a towel for a sling to hold up his back end and, yes, he fell down those steps. I stopped by the vet's on my way home from the grocery, and Dr. John Minnerly (my new hero at University Animal Hospital) said he did not like the news at all.
A little after noon, I brought Sophie in and called to Scooby to come get his food. He didn't come, so after a long while, I went out to his dog house and banged on it. All I could see was his back end. I got down and crawled onto the porch of the doghouse to look inside. He lay on his side, panting heavily, and resisted all my pleas to come out, so I tried dragging the back legs. Didn't work. So I crawled in and got his collar and pulled him out. He offered to bite me--Scooby would never really bite, but he'll put his teeth aroiund my wrist to say, "Stop what you're doing." I had to pull him out twice before he finally came out, stood up, and staggered over to his food--which he ate all of. By the time I went inside with Sophie, my heart was beating like a trip-hammer. Called the vet, who also panicked, and said he'd be right over. Long story short, he and his technician decided--and I heartily agree--that Scooby would be better off in their clinic over the weekend. I don't want him to have a catastrophe while the vet is closed, so that I have to go to the ER Clinic. And Dr. Minnerly and his staff know and love Scooby. They'll watch him and monitor his condition.
I have really mixed feelings here. The last thing I said to Dr. Minerly was, "Think about quality of life issues." How miserable is Scooby, trembling every time he tries to go up or down stairs, safe only in his doghouse or his bed, afraid of falling all the time? Christian asked me that tonight, and I said, "He's so scared. But what is he scared about? Pain? Death? We're all scared about those." I have no idea how to help Scooby best. He's been the most loving, wonderful dog I've ever had but now it's like I can't reach him. He reminds me of an old man who's had a stroke--probably doesn't see or hear well, his back legs don't work, and he gets confused. And yet he enjoys love and attention--and his food--and he makes weak attempts to play with Sophie.
Sophie is a bit devastated. She doesn't understand why she was outside alone for two hours tonight while I went to dinner. She misses him.
What a mess. Excuse me while I reach for another Kleenex.