Judy Alter's Blog, page 338

Oh, wat a beautiful morning!

Actually it was a beautiful morning, so cool I couldn't put the top down on my car. But what I really meant, with all due respect to Oklahoma, is "Oh, what a beautiful weekend." Last night I went to a reading and book signing--it pleases me that TCU Press is still publishing books I acquired (it may not please the current director as much, but he hasn't squawked). This was C.W.Smith's novel, Steplings, which I really think is good. We published four of Charlie's novels. Although I knew the passages he read, it was fun to hear it in his voice. Afterward went to dinner with Charlie, his wife and daughter and the guy who filmed his video trailer, plus his publicist who is a friend. We go way back and have lots of ties in common, so it was especially good to visit with Lisa Taylor.
Today I worked--ran some errands but was home by 9:30 and applied myself to the computer--sent out invitations to the next Bookish Frog event, roughed out a speech to book clubs, finished rereading what I've written on mystery #3 and even wrote about a thousand new words. Hooray for me.
Tonight I had dinner with Kathie and Rick, two dear friends, and an added bonus was that we went to Lucille's where they're having Lobsterama--all kinds of lobster dishes at reasonable prices. I had a whole Maine lobster with drawn butter and a salad with blue cheese dressing--but not the house blue cheese vinaigrette that I thought I was ordering. Kathie refused to fight with taking a lobster out of the shell and had a lobster roll, but Rick and I both had the whole thing. Somewhere along the way I learned to deal with lobster fairly easily, and I do love it. I would always order the whole thing just to get the claw meat--so succulent and sweet.
Tomorrow I'll meet Jordan at church and then we'll come home for chicken salad for lunch. Then I get to nap and work on the novel again. And I plan to experiment and fix myself a spinach souffle for supper. The real reason that I went out this morning was that I forgot to bu spinach.
My kind of weekend.

Banned books--and a bit of nostalgia

Although many have posted and written about this week being Banned Books Week, I feel I can't let it go by without mention. A fellow mystery writer posted today that she made it a practice to buy one book on the list each year and this year she bought The Hunger Games. My twelve-year-old granddaughter, a voracious reader, read that for goodness' sake. Shelf Awareness, the daily online column for booksellers that is a wonderful font of information, posted a list of the books most recently banned, with the comment that "You'd think it was a list of books for a reading group with interesting, eclectic taste." We all know Mark Twain's books have been banned many times, but here are the surprises to me: Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, Anne Frank: The  Diary of a Young Girl, Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson (a book that enthralled me), Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson, Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison. Okay, maybe I'm not too surprised that Morrison is on the list, and not surprised at all that Brave New World  by Aldous Huxley and The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger are also on the list, though both are classics. I'd be proud if my granddaughter read these books and talked to me about them.
Another list I read had to do with banned books made into movies: American Psycho, Lolita, A Clockwork Orange, Lord of the Flies and The Handmaid's Tale.
I wish I understaood more about who has the authority to bann these books--and are they banned locally or nationwide. Surely no one can tell an entire nation not to read Mark Twain!
My own brushes with censorship have been mild. My first young-adult novel, After Pa Was Shot, published way back in 1978, is set in East Texas around the turn of the 19th-20th centuries and is narrated by a 14-year-old girl. At that time, not all Jewish immigrants from Europe landed at Ellis Island. A good number entered the United States at Galveston, and many, often itinerant salesman, drifted north through the small towns of East Texas. In the novel, my narrator, Ellsbeth, becomes friends with a young Jewish girl of just such family background. In talking about the town's prejudice against the family, I used the word "kike," certainly not one I would use myself today, but it passed what to me is the tried and true test: it was appropriate to time and place.
A schoolteacher friend of mine said if her superintendent read the book, it would be banned from their library because of the word "kike." I couldn't believe it. I guess, however, the superintendent never got around to reading it for as far as I know the book is still on school shelves.
In the '90s, I wrote a young-adult book about horse-racing, Callie Shaw, Stableboy. I wanted to call it The Devil Amongst Us, because Callie's aunt cautions her that if horse racing comes to North Texas, "the devil will be amongst us." The book is based on the Arlington Downs Race Track, a major attration in the 1930s in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. The publisher flatly refused to use the title, saying no school library would purchase it. Practicality won, and we went with the fairly ordinary title instead of the one I thought had some flair. Censorship can get down to the nitty-picky.
My bit of nostalgia: my dad used to play the piano in the evenings. Neither he nor I could carry a tune in the proverbial bucket, but we had a wonderful time singing to his playing. His signature piece was "Red Wing," and I can still hear him singing, "Oh, the moon shines tonight on pretty Red Wing." I got to thinking today about other songs, and two popped up from long buried memory, "I dream of Jeannie with the long brown hair," and "Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me." Anyone remember those? Then I thought of "On the Banks of Bonnie Loch Lomond," and its line of "Oh, ye take the high road, and I'll take the low road/And I'll be in Scotland afore ye." A flood of wonderful memories.

The Broken Middle

There's been a lot of talk on one of the Sisters in Cime listservs about plotters and pantsers. Plotters outline books carefully, in detail, before they begin to write. Some have elaborate wall charts, with sticky notes that can be moved to show a scene belongs here, not there. Some even use computer programs tailored for that purpose. When I first started writing fiction for young adults, I always knew I'd have twelve chapters, so I'd number from one to twelve on a legal pad and jot down what happened in each chapter--just a brief note. I remember once driving somewhere with a friend and working on such an outline. When she said, "In Chapter whatever, such and such can happen," I said, "Hush, Joyce, it's my book."
These days I'm a pantser. I write by the seat of my pants. I have a general idea and a few notes of what's going to happen and how it's going to end, but I have no idea how I'm going to get from the beginning to that end that's in my mind--and may change by the time I get there. My general technique is to get that first line or two on the computer screen and see what happens. Often I go through that process each time I sit down to write--worry about what to say next, type a line or two, and I'm off, usually surprising myself at the directions things take. It's an instinct thing--and it can lead to problems.
It took me five years or more and many rewrites to get Skeleton in a Dead Space to the point that it was publishable; I maybe worked on the sequel, No Neighborhood for Old Women, for two years. Late last month I wrote the first chapter of the third, untitled book and then set it aside partly because I didn't know what to do next and partly because I had other things to do and no idea when--or if--the publisher wanted this third book.
But then, wham! There came a schedule. No Neighborhood for Old Women is under contract, in the hands of the editor, and will be out in April. And the third, untitled book is due in final form at the editor March 15, to be publishedin August. I began to write like a madwoman until one day it occurred to me I was so obsessed with word count that I wasn't paying attention to where the story was goiing.  So, not quite dead center--30,000 words into what should be about a 70,000-word novel--I am stuck.
My solution: something I usually do much earlier in the process and that is reread what I've got. This time I didn't take time and I may regret it, but now I'm rereading--slowly and carefully.
I did get a boost last night from dinner with a friend who is a historic preservationist. Since my protagonist is a realtor who specializes in rennovating historic properties, she needs to be knowledgeable about what you can and cannot do with such buildings, and my friend Carol gave me valuable information that will help me along.
But like so many writers, I'm feel the novel is broken in the middle. And this week I haven't had a full day at home to work on it. Wish me luck, please.

How the other half lives--sort of

Every once in a while it's fun to mingle with those who enjoy more luxuries snd privilege in life than most of us. Today, Betty and I took a longtime friend to lunch in Dallas. We chose Rise, an upscale restaurant specializing in souffles--savory souffles for entrees, wonderful dessert entrees. Rumor is that you never know who might be sitting at the table next to you, and I know of one person who confirmed a sighting of George and Laura Bush but then, they show up at Mexican hole-in -the-wall dives too. But I did not recognize anyone famous today--I did see a lot of carefully casual young women with manes of blonde hair, and I saw one woman order something to drink that came out of a large bottle that carbonated it as she refilled her glass--no idea what it was but it looked quite sophisticated.
I'm partial to souffles. My mom used to make them for Sunday supper, and I loved her spinach souffle--in fact, I finally found a recipe that I think approximates it and hope to make it soon. The classic story in the family is that my brother hated it as much as I loved it and remembers to this day having to sit at the dining table and stare at his souffle until he took three bites. Years later, Mom said to me, "Wasn't that an awful thing to do to a child?" I didn't order a souffle for an entree today, figuring it was more food than I needed.
The decor at Rise is French cluttered, with shelves filled with cookbooks (presumably Rise's and for sale) and crockery and small gift items, tables with colorful cloths and napkins, painted rattan chairs, and a marvelous chandelier of wine bottles. We elected to sit inside--too hot for the patio.
We each had the large Rise salad which, thank goodness, came in a small size--Betty and Mary Lu had it with a delicately smoked, still warm, sliced chicken; I never turn down smoked salmon and had that version though this was not the thinly sliced smoked salmon you think of as an appetizer--it was meaty, a filet, with a light smokey taste. The salads were brightened with chopped pecans, a bit of cheese (blue? if so very mild) and julienned Granny Smith apples, the latter a wonderful touch. For dessert we split a pumpkin souffle--as Betty said, tasted like the best pumpkin pie you ever ate but much lighter.
We arrived early and wandered into a frame shop that had art supplies for children--and a sale. I managed to get two Christmas presents, which made mef feel so accomplished you'd think I'd done all my Christmas shopping.
I was relieved of babysitting duties today, so back home I took care of odds and ends at my desk, had a good nap, and am now headed back to the Grill for a meatloaf dinner with neighbors. But then when I get home I intend to write my daily minimum of a thousand words. To get myself started, I pulled up the manuscript and wrote a few lines, so I could plunge in after dinner.
My days seemed filled with everything but writing this week, but I am managing to get a bit in every day. Someone asked me last night what my writing schedule is, and I nearly laughed aloud. Life, I explained, keeps getting in the way.

Are book signings dead?

You hear a lot of people, including booksellers, say that the traditional signing is dead, unless maybe you're Jimmy Carter or someone equally famous. I remember when he signed in Fort Worth and there were crowds around the block waiting in line. But like all authors I've had plenty of experience sitting at a table watching people walk by while studiously avoiding eye contact. I remember once sharing a signing table with a western writer who would shout out to people, "Hey, you there, you're wearing blue jeans. I bet you read westerns." I considered crawling under the table.
But let me tell you about a couple of wildly successful (in my terms) signings I had this weekend. My mystery, Skeleton in a Dead Space, hot off the press, is set in a well-known neighborhood in Fort Worth. Many residents of Fairmount patronize the Old Neighborhood Grill frequently, as do I, and the Grill is mentioned often in the novel.One press considering my novel said I had to get written permission from the owner of any business mentioned--gosh, glad I didn't end up there--but I mentioned that to Peter, owner of the Grill, and he jokingly signed his name in the air. But when I told him that the novel really was going to be published, by Turquoise Morning Press, he said, "You know, we've had some successful signings here." And so it was a done deal. Peter would provide the space; everything else was up to me. Since I'm with a small publisher, I had to buy the books (at discount, of course). I sent email invitations to a long list of people, I got a cash bank, and I prepared to handle the sales--actually my granddaughter and daughter did that for me.
I had a most unusual signing Saturday: seven o'clock in the morning. But Peter said  he had a lot of readers who come in early on Saturday morning with their books. So at seven my oldest son, two of my granddaughers, and I were at the Grill. Colin had gone out really early that morning and bought a beautiful bouquet, which drew attention to the table. A bit later my other son, my daughter and her husband, and two more grandchildren drifted in. It became a family party, which was great--the kids greeted some people they'd known all their lives and I got to introduce them to some who'd heard me talk about them a lot but never met them.
It's hard to get book publicity in the local paper, but that morning they published a nice feature on the bottom of the front page of the Living & Lifestyle section. Several people came because they had read the paper; some regulars at the grill bought books to take home to their wives; some people I'd never seen bought books because they saw the display. And many of my friends came. By ten o'clock, I had sold twenty-five books, and we wrapped it up.
Peter and I agreed that two signings would be good, the second Monday evening at 5:30. I didn't expect it to be as busy as Saturday morning but Jordan hustled me out the door to get there early--and there was a crowd waiting. For almost an hour, I signed books frantically, people stood in line--lots of friends, several people I'd never met before, a few from groups I'm scheduled to speak to. It was absolutely amazing. By a little before 8:00 I sold the last book I had--holding one back for myself. Between the two signings and a few independent sales, I sold 75 books if my math adds up right, and I think it does.
The Grill was a perfect place--people could come, get their book, and leave, or, as many did, come and stay to order a meal. Some were Grill regulars but others were new to the place I'm sure. So it benefited Peter--he picked up some new customers, drew some people in for meals--and it certainly benefited me.  Not every author may be so lucky as to have a good relationship with a local cafe, but this worked for me.
And it didn't turn off the local booksellers. I talked to the CMR at our nearby Barnes & Noble today, and he confessed he forgot about our conversation until he saw a small ad I took in the neighborhood newspaper about the signings at the Grill. Now he's looking into a signing at B&N. And tonight one woman said her book group in the Fairmount neighborhood is interested in reading it. I asked if they'd like me to come talk, and she was amazed. "Would you?" I assured her I'd love to and she took down my contact information. It's all like ripples spreading in a pond.

Counting My Blessings

Pictures are Sophie, resting from her strenuous play and in the second giving Jordan some love. Third is a not good picture of me at the signing, but it shows the lovely bouquet. This morning I sat on a comfortable patio couch watching three dogs play and listening to kids around the corner playing on a jungle gym. It dawned on me I should be in church, but I figured this was as good a way of counting my blessings and giving thanks as any. In fact, I spent the whole weekend counting my blessings.
Friday night both my sons came into town with their daughters, so I spent the weekend with three of my children (spouses all off doing other things) and four of my grandchildren. We missed the missing, and Jacob particularly missed his boy cousins, but he managed nicely being the only boy. We had dinner Friday night at The Star Cafe on West Exchange in Fort Worth, a family favorite owned by dear friends. Ate way too much--why do I order a bacon cheeseburger? Stayed up too late too. Had a great time.
Saturday morning Colin, Morgan, Edie and I were at the Old Neighborhood Grill at 7:10 (ten minutes late) for me to sign copies of Skeleton in a Dead Space. Would you believe there were already people there for the book? Jamie, Maddie, Jordan and Christian and Jacob all drifted in a bit later. Old friends came by, regulars at the Grill stopped--at least two men said they were buying for their wives--and several people came because they read a wonderful piece on the book (and me) in the morning paper. All in all it was a successful signing, both in terms of sales and of hugs gotten and given. Many people who came know my family, but I was proud to introduce them to the ones that have just heard me talk endlessly about them. And of course we all ate huge breakfasts.
I came home and sort of decompressed while the kids went to the Log Cabin Village--which was closed. By 12:30 we were all on the road to Frisco where we had a late lunch--Mexican food--and went to a third-grade football game where granddaughter Edie is a cheerleader. I am frankly appalled at kids that little playing football with all the protective gear but it was fun to watch Edie and the quarters were blessedly short. Home to Jamie's for a catch-as-catch-can supper and early to bed.
This morning Colin and Jamie left at something like 5 a.m. to do a sprint triathlon and the rest of us stumbled around. But I did spend most of the morning on the porch, with a book, watching dogs and kids. Sophie was the middle guy, between a chocolate lab (the sweetest, best behaved dog I have ever known) and a 5 lb. Morkie (maltese/yorkie) which made Sophie look huge and heavy-handed when she swatted her with a paw. My eyes got heavy and I finally turned off the Kindle and napped on the porch, only to have Jordan ask, "What are you doing?" and tell me she and Maddie, my oldest granddaughter, were fixing lunch. Soon after lunch and the return of the racers--neither of whom was happy with his performance--we were on the way home.
Jacob and I pretty much walked around each other the rest of the day--his folks had a reception to go to, and I had work to do. But he played with a new set of toys (garage sale this morning) and watched TV while I worked at my computer and took a nap. Only woke me once to explain that his two toys were on a trip and to love the dogs who also slept peacefully in my room. He really is, most of the time, an easy, sweet child.
So tonight I'm left with all those good memories of hugs and kisses and great grandchildren and caring children, and I am truly counting my blessings. It was a wonderful weekend--sure, the highlight was the book signing, but the cumulative experience was full of joyful contentment. I am indeed blessed.

Researching Fairmount

My Kelly O'Connell mysteries are set in Fairmount, a national historic district just blocks from my house. The photos above shows a typical row of houses and a restaurant on Magnolia Avenue (photos by Polly Hooper). Because I cut through the back streets all the time and eat in the neighborhood's restaurants, I'd tell you I know it well. But this morning I had a few questions in my mind, so I drove through Fairmount, paying particular attentiont to small businesses that line Magnolia Avenue, the major street that marks the neighborhood's northern boundary. And yes, I noticed new things, had new ideas. Then I came home and did some online research on Fairmount, national historic districts in general, and the League of Neighborhood Associations in Fort Worth. Learned some interesting things: at one square mile, Fairmount is the largest national historic district in the Southwest; listing on the National Registry of Historic Districts does not empower that registry to enforce restrictiosn, nor does listing on the state registry. Such power is handled locally. The Fairmount Neighborhood Association has guidelines but no rules; it encourages retaining original wooden windows and doors, columns and chimneys, for instance, and discourages painting brick not previously painted, use of metal or vinyl siding, and enclosing porches. Of course you can find some of those things done throughout the neighborhood, but in general folks abide by the guidelines. They're proud of their neighborhood.
All this works well for my plot in the current work-in-progress where a developer wants to put a big-box shopping center on Magnolia Avenue--you can imagine Kelly's reaction to that!
I'm 23,000 words into the first draft, have to turn in the completed final draft, at about 70,000 words, by March 15. That will be here sooner than I know.
Highlight of my day: giving the puppy a bath with Jacob's help. We both ended up giggling and sopping wet, while the poor puppy kept trying to climb out of the tub. She had gotten muddy this morning because the sprinkler system had been on earlier and left the ground wet. We toweled her off and tried to brush her, but as Jacob said, "This isn't working." Then he took her outside to play, emptied the outside water dish, and made more mud for her to roll in. Swell.
An evening of writing lies ahead: I'm looking forward to it.

All those pubs draw me back to Scotland

Colin and me at the Cawdor pub; Megan and me at the clearly labeled St. Michael's Inn, and the pub at Dores in the small inset. (I thought that's the right picture--turns out it's not and I don't know how to get rid of it; on fact, I'm not sure what it is. The picture of the Dores Inn is below.)
Many of us in Texas joke these days about where we'll move if Governor Perry is elected president. A Canadian friend is keepig her citizenship, just in case, and my oldest kids are hearing the call of the Carribbean where they once lived. I have always said I'd move to Scotland, but lately that has become an active daydream: to live in a small village, read, write, meet people at the local pub. Some of my kids urge me to do it, and Colin suggested six months here and six months there--which of course presents insurmountable problems with dogs and my house, as well as probably insurmountable expenses.I once said I had a specific town in mind but now I'm waffling. Dores would be appropriate because it's the site of the MacBain Clan Memorial Park. But I really saw nothing of Dores except the pub, where the people were very friendly. Then there's St. Michael's--again I like the pub and I have an impression of cobbled streets with houses very close together--I may be wrong. Cawdor was nice, with Cawdor castle not far away--but then again I only saw the pub, and while the food was great I didn't get a great sense of sociability. Either Dores or Cawdor would be close enough to Culloden to do some research and more and more the idea of a Scottish novel, multi-generational, is  forming in the back of my mind. As I read back over this, it sounds like all I did was go to the pubs--but that truly is all I saw of many villages, that and the local castle. I've ruled out Portree on the Isle of Skye--too cold and wet and windy and tourist-y. Of course, my six=moth say would be from May to November--or maybe April to October.
One good friend who loves Scotland said the idea sounded great, but she didn't think she could be away from her kids and grandkids that long. I'm not at all sure I could either, but they say they'd come to visit. There are all kinds of other reasons this is an impractical pipe dream--not only family, house, and dogs but I've never been an adventurous person, the kind who sets off on her own for faraway places. I hate to travel alone, and I hate too much solitude. I value highly the warm circle of friends and acquaintances I have here. And finally I don't know about going off like that my age--I was never agile, but I have surely gotten less so lately. My health is good, but what if something happened? See, the cautious side of me comes out.
My daughter-in-law Lisa says, "Jude, you only live once. Go for it!" I wish I had that spirit.


It's not a dream I've completely let go of yet. The Lord moves in mysterious ways--my mom told me that.

Puppy teeth triumph again

Last night I was writing up a storm and didn't have the TV on. Somewhere in the evening I got a notice that the connection to the internet had been broken and I'd be notified when it was restored. Okay, I missed a few emails--no big deal. And I couldn't get Facebook but I just figured the TCU server was down.
This morning I wandered into the kitchen and turned on the TV--I'm a TODAY show junkie and really like to get the 7 a.m. news. Instead I got a screen that told me service was disconnected and gave me a list of things to check, including the connection to the master modem. Tried the office TV and got a snow screen--and then I remembered that I'd caught Sophie chewing on a cord (yet again) when I put her up for the night. I'd wrapped the frayed cord with electrical tape, treated it with Tabasco and thought all was well--apparently not!
Called U-Verse, which involves listening to this automated man who insists on running a few tests, etc., and takes up about ten to fifteen minutes before he turns you over to a tech. The first tech, probably in the Philippines--hard to understand for my less than efficient ears, tried to be helpful and after about forty-five minutes said he'd send a new modem which I would get the next moring. Then he put me on hold for an order number, kept checking, and after anothr 30 minutes said he'd call back and leave the number. He never did, and I hope he forgot because a modem wasn't what I needed. I looked again--the modem still had power, but one of the cords connected to it was the frayed one. So I had another delightful conversation with that automated guy who does all that clicking and checking. The second tech said I should just go to Radio Shack and get a new coaxial cord--save the $55 minimum servce call charge. Hot diggety! I was ready to throw on clothes and go--but I couldn't separate the cord from the modem, and when I followed it, it's one that goes behind all four sections of my bookcase and finally outside the outer wall. Back to the automated guy--this time when I got a tech I said, "I can tell you what I need. I need a service call." Of course she insisted on going through their usual rigamarole of questions but finally said they had openings for this afternoon, between noon and four. She did assure me it would all be taken care of for me at no charge--at least I think and hope that's what she said. I resigned myself to waiting until four, but it was a good excuse to scoot out of a meeting at 11:30. At 11:50, the service man knocked on the door. He said, "Give me ten minutes, and you'll be back in business." It took him in truth about 25 minutes, but he was so pleasant and helpful. We checked each TV in the house, the internet, etc. and everything worked fine. He spliced the cord below the frayed part and then said my connection was old-fashioned and he'd give me the newer model. Bonus: he gave me a sheet with his name and number on it and that of his boss, said next time to call him. If he couldn't talk me through the problem on the phone, I could call his boss and ask to have him sent out. Goodbye, automated man.
I've already had a neighbor request the magic number, but I figure that isn't fair to Danny--that's his name. He'd be inundated with unhappy Berkeley residents, many of whom have been complaining about U-Verse.
You read about people who abstain from TV or give up their computers for a week. Not me! I was in despair this morning at the thought of a whole day without anything to do. Oh, yeah, I could read and work on my novel--that part of my computer worked fine--but it all felt helpless. I even forgot a couple of times that the phone did still work. And I was so happy this afternoon to have it all back. I think I've secured it from the puppy teeth now, and I'm taking much more precautions so my arms don't get bitten any  more.
Hope to be back on track tomorrow.

The glory of an empty day--and dreams of Scotland

This morning the day loomed before me, nicely empty. I got Jacob off to a soccer game by 7:45 and then piddled. Did go pick up my car and trade in the loaner that I didn't like. Then ran to Central Market, mostly to buy chocolate, and CVS pharmacy because I had a terrific discount card--bought a year's worth of allergy medicine! But I was home by just after ten, with the day all mine. I wrote 2600 words--please get used to this word count because it's going to appear every day, well at least on the days I feel good enough about it to report. Had a wonderful leftover piece of meatloaf for lunch plus cucumber slices splashed with red wine vinegar and sprinkled lightly with black pepper--try it sometime. Really refreshing.
Worked again in the afternoon, some writing, some reading of a heavy book I'm to review, paid a few bills, etc. And then a nice long nap, so nice that once again I lay in bed dozing until Jordan and Jacob barged into the bedroom, and Jacob demanded that I get up.
He and I had a lovely evening--went for dinner with good friend and surrogate daughter Sue Boggs and her kids--Alex, 15, and Hunter, 12. When they moved in next door to me, Hunter was in kindergarten and Alex in third grade. Now they've grown into real conversationalists and interesting people. They were patiently amused by chatterbox Jacob, who seemed to spin story after story out of his vivid imagination. I told him if he didn't say, "I don't like that" and had good table manners, I'd give him ice cream with chocolate sauce when we got home. True to form, after I poured chocolate sauce on his ice cream, he said, "I wanted vanilla." I left him eating--or not eating--the ice cream with chocolate.
An anonymous commenter on this blog--I know who it is--says he's getting irritated by my car and he only has to read about it. Well, tonight I'm irritated too. Jacob and I decided to put the top down (since it's just been fixed) on the way to dinner--but I couldn't get it unlatched. Sigh. Another trip to VW. I am indeed getting tired of this, but I like my bug so much bettr than the loaner Jetta. I'm sticking with it.
I've been joking about moving to Scotland if a certain candidate is elected president (anonymous: you know who I mean). Now I know I'm not adventuresome enough to do that, but sometimes the idea has appeal. Colin said today they would come visit and suggested I spend six months there and six months here. Could I afford that? And what about my dogs? But still I have this idyllic vision of living in a small town and taking my meals in a pub where I'd meet friendly people. I guess it will remain a pipe dream--or the stuff of a novel. I think I know the town--and the pub--of my choice.