Judy Alter's Blog, page 6

Sophie Update

Sophie listening to a lecture.

Tonight I really am going topost yesterday’s food blog, so look for it in a bit. But first I wanted to postan update on Sophie: she is better. Her kidney numbers, while not perfect, aremuch improved over yesterday, and her blood sugar levels are better. Tonight, I’mtold she ate part of a can of dog food. And when we visited this morning, Ithought she was more alert—head up, looking around with interest to see what andwho was around her. She definitely is on the mend.

I want to praise the techs atthe VSNT clinic. I get a real sense of caring from everyone I talk to, and I’venoticed, before this episode, that if I say I’m calling about Sophie, they areright away on top of it. The whole clinic knows Sophie and considers her sortof a miracle dog—that’s certainly what Dr. Burney says about her. Yesterday,Rachel was so helpful; today we had a lovely lady whose name I unfortunatelydid not get, but she told us she had cared for Sophie every time she’s been inthe clinic, and she was “invested” (the word she used) in her well-being. Shetold us the common sense advice she was giving Sophie, what she thought she’dtry about food, how she was cheering for her. And the most encouraging thingshe said to me was, “I think she’s trying. She’s really trying.” As long asSophie is trying, we will too. Not at all ready to give it up, though I reallywould like to have her at home. She did look a little hangdog when the tech ledher back to the clinic, and that made me sad. I think she’d like to be home too.

Now if I can only convincemyself that today is Friday, not Saturday … we will visit in the morning andsee where things are.

As always, I’m grateful foryour support. I told Sophie today that she had a whole world of people cheeringand praying for her.

There’s good news in Mudville tonight

 

Sophie loves Jordan!
Sophies doctor, Derek Burney, is a miracle worker,
but so much credit for her care goes to Jordan and Christian.
Today, Thursday, is my regularday for my food blog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate.” But I have been so overwhelmedby and grateful for your prayers and hugs and good thoughts for Sophie that Idecided to bring you up to date. The recipe I had in mind will keep. Meantime,there’s good news tonight, but first here’s how the day went.

The vet called about 7:30 thismorning. Miniscule was his favorite word. She might, he said, be a bit better but it was miniscule, and herchances for surviving this episode were miniscule. She refused to eat and had developeda bloody discharge from her nose. Her kidney numbers were only slightly better.It was time for us to come see her and talk. So I alerted Jordan and Christian.We were all convinced we were going to let her go. I packed up the insulinneedles and some other things that we wouldn’t be needing but someone elsecould use. We were glum as we drove to the vet, though I did my usual whennervous and talked too much.

We were in the waiting roomwhen Rachel, the tech, came leading Sophie on a leash. That was the firstsurprise: Sophie had not been walking when the Burtons took her to the vet.Rachel said that was new this morning—she’d been carrying her out to potty. Andshe said her demeanor was better this morning. We were shown into an exam roomand left to visit with Soph. A year ago when she was so sick, Dr. Burney warnedme that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever was happening toher was all my fault. Sure enough, she was less than ecstatic to see me, butshe sat still for Jordan to pet her—and when Jordan stopped for a minute,Sophie turned her head as if to say, “Keep doing that.” For Christian, sherolled over so he could give her tummy rubs. One factor: the two of them couldget down on the floor with her; I can’t. They did pick her up a few times so I couldwhisper sweet nothings and promise to give her Velveeta if she’d eat enough tocome hope. When the doctor came in, he said he was as surprised as we were.

I wouldn’t want you to thinkSoph is back “at herself.” She was on pain medication which made her even morelethargic, and she panted quite a bit, but she was enough better that I said Icouldn’t think of letting her go, and Dr. Burney agreed. We are all comfortablewith seeing what tomorrow brings. Christian is more worried about my bankaccount than I am—he says I can’t let this go on too long, and I understandthat. But I just can’t say, “I’m glad you seem better, but I can’t afford topay any more bills.” Life is too precious, and the burden of holding it in your hands is heavy.

I remember once running into afriend outside my neighborhood vet’s office. He said, matter-of-factly, “Heneeds a $2000 surgery, and I can’t afford that, so we’re going to put him tosleep this morning.” I was horrified, though I’m sure my friend, once acolleague, really couldn’t afford it. I’d have arranged monthly payments orsomething. As I struggle with the Sophie dilemma I think of the hundreds of people dying in Ukraine and Gaza, and I have concluded death at a distance and in mass, anonymous numbers is easier for many to tolerate. Up close and specific, it appalls.

Dr. Burney called this eveningto report that Sophie ate a piece of lunch meat this afternoon and then, aftera bit, ate another. That’s a really good sign. He says he can’t see her cominghome tomorrow but he’s hoping for Saturday! I feel like shouting this news from the rooftop!

My goodfriend and neighbor, Jaimie Smith, sent me this quote from Joe Biden. It is sotrue, it made me teary, but I also think it speaks volumes to what kind of agood man our president is: “Dogs’ lives are short, too short, but you know thatgoing in. You know the pain is coming, you’re going to lose a dog, and there’sgoing to be great anguish, so you live fully in the moment with him. You can’tsupport the illusion that a dog can be your lifelong companion. There’s suchbeauty in the hard honesty of that, in accepting and giving love while alwaysbeing aware it comes with an unbearable price. Maybe loving dogs is a way we dopenance for all the mistakes we make in life.”

 

A day in limbo

 

Sophie waiting for company on the patio.
We had our first patio gathering tonight.
This morning before I was evenout of bed, the vet called with not-so-good news. Sophie’s kidneys werefailing. He didn’t sound hopeful, but he said we would give her the morning andsee how she did. He’d call back mid-day. So I piddled—read emails, readFacebook, answered a bit of correspondence, but all thoughts of creative workfled. I was watching the clock and wondering what his idea of mid-day was. Ithink I was a case study in suspended animation.

My kids rallied around, asthey always do when I need them. Colin, skiing with his family in Wolf Creek,Colorado, has called three times and been very supportive. I guess the bestthing he said to me was, “You’re always tough about the big things.” And this,I agreed, was a big thing. Megan, packing up her family in Tahoe to head home,called, and Jamie called from Denver and tried to cheer me with made-upBiblical quotes. I love them for trying, but talking to them made me teary. Iwas better off when I didn’t talk about Sophie.

Dr. Burney called around two o’clock.No change. She was still lethargic, not interested in food, not interested inpeeing, kind of mentally sluggish as well as physically. But he didn’t soundready to give up. When I said, “She was my miracle baby,” he said, “Oh, I know.Mine two.” So we decided to give her the afternoon. He called aboutfive-thirty, and we agreed to give her until morning. Are we postponing theinevitable? Maybe. One thought I had was that whether or not Soph tookadvantage of the day, it had been a help to me, allowed me a chance to collectmyself and face what lies ahead. I sent her a telepathic message this morning,told her it was up to her—she either had to turn it around or shut it down, butshe had to save me from making the decision. Dr. Burney said he was sure shegot the message, but he would repeat it to her. I love that man.

So we are still in limbo. I thinktomorrow morning, no matter which way it goes, Jordan and I will go to theveterinary clinic and see her. When she was so sick a year ago, Dr. Burneywarned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever happened toher was my doing. And boy, was he right. She wouldn’t come near me. So thatworries me a bit about going to see her. Jordan thinks seeing us will give hera boost. I am not sure.

And to pile complication oncomplication: Jacob has tested positive for Covid. He’s just home from athree-day fishing/swimming/hanging out trip to Oklahoma with three buddies.Called his mom at lunch and said he couldn’t taste his Chick Filet. (In myopinion that’s a good thing—I boycott Chick Filet, but he loves it and I can’t appealto his teenage hunger on moral grounds). So when he got home, he testedpositive. So now he’s bummed, because he can’t hang out with his buddies duringhis senior year spring break, and he can’t work to earn money.

But there is family good news.My brother, who is pretty much bedridden, has been in the hospital for two orthree weeks, but it looks like he can go home tomorrow. I’m so grateful for smallslivers of hope.

Tonight Subie and Phil camefor a drink. She said she watched all day for a message telling them not tocome, but I would have wanted them here no matter which way things went withSophie. They are longtime friends, the kind who are a comfort, and they weretonight. It was the first time Subie drove over our new, nicely flat driveway,and she was full of raves about it.

I am deeply grateful to all ofyou who have sent hugs and prayers and good wishes. You help me as I wait inlimbo, and I’m sure. If she knew, Sophie would be grateful too. She always didlove to be the center of attention.

Sophie’s story part II

Sophie, 12 weeks old
The day we brought her home.
Tonight, the cottage is quietand a bit lonely. Sophie is spending the night in the hospital. She had takenlately, with the warmer weather, to lying on the patio until late at night whenI enticed her inside with a bit of cheese so I could go to bed. During theevening, she’d come in from time to time to get a drink of water and, I hope,to see that I was where she thought I ought to be, but it was not as though wespent the evening chatting. Still, I miss knowing she out there, and I may evenmiss her demand for breakfast at seven in the morning.

She is in a specialty clinic,not your neighborhood vet (think big dollars), but the doctor who saved herlife is one of my favorite people. She needs his spot-on knowledge. He calledtonight to say that she’s still pretty rough. This morning he reported that herdiabetes was out of control, her blood sugar ridiculously high, and she hadopened the old wound (once a bed sore) on her front elbow. (I’d caught herlicking that now and again but she stopped when I told her to.) Tonight he saysthe sugar numbers are much better, so I will wait for a morning report.

I like to say this allhappened so fast—the first clear sign was yesterday morning when she didn’t eather breakfast. But in retrospect, I know there were small signs—another time I’llbe more alert to them. She, who is always ravenous, turned down her dry kibblethough she kept eating the canned food. And if I poured broth over the kibble,she’d eat it. But that quit yesterday. We caught her chewing nonedible things.And both last night and this morning she disappeared into the far reaches ofthe back yard where I cannot see her and cannot follow with my walker. I’ve hadexperience before with a dog who went off to die, so that freaked me out. Infact yesterday in the wee morning hours I called Christian but just then shepoked her head around into the door, and I hit disconnect quickly. But lastnight and this morning Jordan and Christian had to go get her and carry her backto the cottage.

So tonight I am feeling sorryfor myself. Jordan and Christian have gone to a friend’s b’day dinner at Don Artemio’s,the relatively new, upscale restaurant featuring the food of northeasternMexico—think Saltillo and San Miguel, also think nopales, cabrito, tacos deLengua (tongue tacos and my favorite on the menu). Don Artemio’s was a finalistfor the best new restaurant in the James Beard Awards for 2023. I suggestedjokingly Jordan order the cabrito, because that’s what I want the next time Idine there. I knew she’d frown, and I bet she orders a steak because that’swhat she likes and what she is comfortable with. Me? I want to try new things,as long as they are not too spicy.

But more than feeling sorryfor myself, I am feeling sorry for Sophie. I know she thinks we’ve abandonedher. She hates the clinic, and we all know when you feel bad, you want to behome, not in some sterile place. Fingers crossed, prayers said that she cancome home tomorrow.

Tonight Mary came for happyhour. She is to do a two-part cooking class on Helen Corbitt for the Silver Frogs(non-credit, community classes from TCU for an older audience, a truly vitalprogram.) Mary cooks from her kitchen via a Zoom-like arrangement, and for the Corbittprogram she plans to have me chime in with my research into Corbitt’s career.So she showed us the treasures she’d bought for the demonstration—a Hollandaisesauce mix, chutney, flower pots for the cakes Corbitt made for LadyBird, etc.,and the Power Point presentation she’d put together. I declined to do thatbecause I have no idea about Power Point. It was fun to talk about Corbitt, andI enjoyed the hour. Then Mary and Jordan rushed off and I ate leftover meatloaf and a small green salad.

But I’ve got great cookingplans coming up—only to be told Jordan wants a b’day dinner of tacos Saturdaynight. I have a recipe for chicken tacos I might try to talk her into, but I amnot hopeful.

Pray for Soph, please. I hope tomorrowI can report she’s safely home.

Worrying about Sophie

 

Sophie is having what I guessyou’d call a diabetic crisis—so I am having an emotional crisis. Over theweekend, we caught her eating some odd things—like my rattail comb, a baseballcard picture of one grandson, and so on. Jordan said, “She’s hungry”; Christiansaid, “She’s bored.” Turns out Jordan was right.

Last night I had to get up twiceto refill her water, which is unusual. When she went out at five in themorning, she was gone twenty minutes or more, and I couldn’t find her. Wasabout to call Christian when she stuck her head in the door. She has breakfastin two servings—a complicated story because of her insulin shot. But thismorning, she did not lick the bowl clean as usual with her first breakfast anddid not eat her second at all. Christian was taking Cricket to the vet, so hedescribed the symptoms, and the vet said her blood sugar is high. She needs toeat and have insulin.

This evening we triedeverything to get her to eat—pouring broth over her dog food, grating cheeseand dropping it on the floor with an “Oh, oh” (which is what we do when we’reworking with cheese—it usually delights her), and, finally, putting dog foodand broth in a blender and using a syringe to force feed. Worked pretty well—untilshe went outside and threw it all up. Per vet instruction, we gave her a halfdose of insulin. Both Sophie and I would be lost without Jordan and Christianto manage all this.

So tonight, lethargic is amild description of her condition. Poor thing apparently feels awful, so firstthing in the morning I’ll call the vet. I anticipate we’ll take her in, they’llfeed her through an IV (there goes the fur on one leg), and give her insulin. Ipray they can do it without keeping her overnight.

Christian put our feelingsinto words tonight when he said, “I didn’t realize how fragile her health is.”Now that I look back, I should have seen more warning signs—whereas she usuallyate anything you gave her, she scorned her dry kibble for several days. One dayI put broth on it and she ate it heartily, but now she won’t even do that. Andcanned food? She was ravenous. It’s such a sudden change.

Being a pet parent has a lotin common with parenting a child—that feeling of helplessness when you want sodesperately to make them feel better, can’t make them understand how to help,and don’t know what else to do.

Nothing else on my mindtonight. Tomorrow, I hope, a more cheery report.

Were the Little House on the Prairie books anti-feminist...

 Were the Little House on the Prairie books anti-feminist? What a question!

 

 

 

 

President Biden warns us repeatedlythat the November election is the most significant in American history. We willchoose between democracy and fascism. Recently I’ve noticed another threat—to women.It’s not just abortion or our rights over our own bodies; it’s our place insociety, in the world in which we live. The presumptive Republican candidatefor the governorship of Norh Carolina, a man named Mark Robinson who isendorsed by trump, has said he’d like to go back to a time when women didn’thave the vote. A politician (I think it was Montana, and I apologize I didn’tget his name) said that America ought to be ruled by men of God—strong, whitemen. In Texas and in my home county of Tarrant, incumbent women lost asignificant number of offices, everything from state representative to taxcollector and the state school board. Nationally, there’s the quixotic campaignof Nikki Haley, now ended, or the well-publicized shootout in Californiabetween Katie Porter and Adam Schiff. Porter s now being criticized for being asore leader, akin to trump, but I think she was doing what she does best:exposing politics and corruption. Could her being a woman have added to hercurrent dilemma? After years of fighting the glass ceiling, women are onceagain gradually being edged out of power, influence, etc.  

Senator Katie Britt’s responseto the State of the Union has been mocked, critiqued, disputed all over theinternet, and I won’t repeat the comments here, though some are hystericallyfunny, especially the cold open of SNL. But beneath all the laughter, there’sserious concern. Right-wing extremists give every indication of wanting to sendwomen back to the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. The dismissive attitude issummed up by a recent incident in Arizona: when Gov. Katie Hobbs called forreproductive freedom in her State of the State speech, a male legislator whomust have thought he was clever said there’s already aspirin. He advised womento hold an aspirin between their knees, a suggestion so demeaning and insultingI hardly know what to say.

In her March 8 column, Letterfrom an American, historian Heather Cox Richardson traces the demonization ofwomen back to the Sixties and cites protests over the 1968 Miss Americacontest. She doesn’t say it, but the early 1960s saw publication of BettyFreidan’s The Feminine Mystique, the book many credit with starting thelate-twentieth-century feminist movement. Richardson traces the status of womenthrough those years: Nixon’s turn against abortion in an effort to win theCatholic vote, Phyllis Schafly’s screeching attacks on the Equal RightsAmendment, the 1973 Roe v Wade, which did so much to free women from traditional,pre-WWII roles, the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little House on the Prairie bookswhich Richardson suggests reinforced the idea of women needing men to take careof them. In 1984, Walter Mondale chose Geraldine Ferraro as his running mate,and they were soundly defeated. And then there was Rush Limbaugh with his “feminazis”and right on up to Hillary Clinton’s battle with donald trump. I urge you toread the entire column: March 8, 2024 -by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com)

Of course, the battle began atleast a century earlier than the Sixties. It was 1848 when women met in SenecaFalls, NY to plan their fight for rights. There followed years of protest,jailings, beatings, and unbelievable courage until in 1920 the 19thAmendment gave women the right to vote. The fight is different today but nonethelessintense. Anger and indignation are not good motivation for action, but in this case,I think they are appropriate. I hope women across America will see the insidiousnature of this campaign against us and rise up en masse to tell right-wingextremists we are no handmaidens. Will you join me? I am tempted to say “VoteBlue!” but much as I personally want to see Joe Biden in office for anotherfour years, that’s not the point here. I think every woman should evaluate eachcandidate on his or her stance not only on abortion but on women’s rights andthe rights of minorities, because the two go hand in hand.

In peace.

Cooking up a storm

It looks a bit sparse on that big plate, 
and the bok choy looks a bit pitiful,
but the chicken was really good.
Perhaps I need to improve my food stylist skills.
It’s the weekend, and as usual I’ve spent much of it cooking. Along the way I’velearned a couple of things. Besides, I’ve enjoyed it.

Friday night, I fixed cottagepie—the English version of shepherd’s pie. If you make it with lamb, it’sshepherd’s pie; with beef, cottage pie. We had cottage, though as I made it Iregretted that I hadn’t thought to get lamb. It’s about time for some more lambin our diet, perhaps Julia Child’s recipe for spring lamb stew. But until I getto that, cottage pie makes a good, one-dish meal. It’s one of Christian’s favorites,and I always cook with at last one thought of him in mind. Jordan sweetlymashed the potatoes for me, though I cooked and peeled them. Somehow having herdo that made the meal less of a chore.

Tonight I was more ambitiousand followed recipes for sauteed baby bok choy and bourbon chicken—it turns outChristian had several bottles of bourbon stashed in my closet. I refrained fromusing the good stuff, though it was only a quarter cup. That recipe had alittle bit of everything in it—ketchup, apple cider (I used white wine). Honey,soy, bourbon, chicken broth—no wonder it was flavorful. There was part thoughthat was an ordeal: cubing the chicken thighs, even though they were bonelessand skinless. I put them out to defrost, hoping to catch them in a semi-frozenstate when they would be easier to cut up. First time I tried, they were stillfrozen too hard; then I let them go too long, and they were defrosted. And the lessonof the day: my knives really needed sharpening. I’ve known that for some time,hated to add one more thing to the list I ask the kids to do for me. You askwhy I don’t do it myself—I have an electric knife sharpener but  simply cannot bear the sound. So tonight,after dinner, Christian left with the sharpener and several of my knives.

Other than that, the bourbonchicken was fairly easy to do if you remember mise en place—prepping allingredients and equipment before you begin. The list of ingredients in thesauce for the chicken was fairly daunting—unless you took it item by item and hadit ready before you cooked the chicken. Similarly the bok choy recipe calledfor two separate mixtures. So I did all that and carefully considered what pansI would use. As it turned out I used a pan for the bok choy, transferred thatto a slightly smaller pan, washed the first one, and did the chicken in it. Butthe real saving grace was having all those little dishes of oil and garlic and complexsauce ready before I began.

None of us were tooenthusiastic about bok choy even before I served it. Although it was billed asbaby bok choy, I suspect it was larger than that. Christian doesn’t like cookedgreens, though the stems were crisp and good, and he remarked he liked thetaste. Jordan and I were lukewarm. So the recipe went into the round file, andthe remains into the compost.

The chicken was another matter—itwas not only hard to cut up but hard to cook. You tossed it with cornstarch,but that turned it into one gluey mess making it hard to follow directions thatsaid cook in a single layer. I persevered but none of it browned like the recipepromised, and I ended up deglazing the pan with a bit of uncalled for whitewine to get up all those good, browned bits. Perhaps my pan is not as non-stickas I like to think. But I removed the chicken, heated the sauce and cooked ituntil thickened, added back the chicken, It was to be served over rice, butneither Jordan nor I care for the rice, so Christian brought his own. Wegarnished it with green onions and declared it a semi-Asian success.

So what I learned was the importanceof mise en place. But the other thing was a certain pride in myself. It’s hardto admit, but I live in a semi-assisted living arrangement. There are things Ican no longer do for myself and have to ask for help with. But when I do one ofthose little things, I feel so triumphant. Tonight, it was figuring out how toget lids off two resistant things—the chicken bouillon where I used my mom’shot water trick, and the bourbon where I used a rubber jar “thing” to twist thetop off the bourbon. Somewhere in my not-so-colorful life, I have torn both myrotator cuffs and, of course, never had the surgery because I know it isbrutal. So both my reach and my grasp are compromised, But tonight I figuredhacks to get me by things that normally would have required help and that mademe inordinately proud. I will add that the mechanical jar opener I recently orderedwas worthless.

Tomorrow the Burtons will goto have dinner with Christian’s father. Sunday nights are always a bit hard forme, because for so many years that was family night, and I fed anywhere fromfifteen to twenty. I always think Sunday dinner should be something special, sonow when I’m alone I splurge. Tomorrow it will be baked scallops in lemonbutter and probably a few spears of asparagus with cheese sauce. And, oh yes, aglass of wine!

One of the wonderful thingsabout my retirement/reclusive/golden years life is that I eat very well. I hopeyou do too.

Random thoughts on a chilly night

I was about to start this postwith the unoriginal observation that Texas is at it again—unpredictable weather.Yesterday and apparently overnight we enjoyed some much-needed rain of themoderately gentle variety rather than the heavy downpours that run off beforethey can soak into the ground. I was especially pleased because I thought thenewly exposed roots for my two huge trees must be grateful. But then the phrase“Texas is at it again” struck me in a whole different way.

This week showed us Texas, GregAbbott, at the behest of his oil-rich billionaire sponsors, shoving Texas everfarther to the right. What kind of a governor indulges in revenge politics,deliberately challenging state politicians who opposed him, in this case on theinfernal question of school vouchers? Unfortunately, money talks and Abbott’schallengers beat out several of the more moderate Republicans on thedown-ballot. It looks like we are doomed to have school vouchers, which willfurther weaken our already pitiful public school system. Texas needs to putthat money into teacher raises, classroom equipment, etc. In short, it needs tostrengthen public education, not siphon off possible funding. The irony is thatthe voucher amount is not enough for many low-income families to send theirkids to private school so who benefits? The rich who are already sending theirkids to private schools and now get some money for doing so. It’s a rotten system.

Ken Paxton was not quite assuccessful in avenging himself against those who voted to impeach him, andthere’s now a glimmer of hope because he is finally going to go to trial laterthis spring on fraud charges he’s delayed for years. But right now he’s busysuing everyone in sight—an El Paso faith-based organization that helpsimmigrant (of course Paxton hates them), several school districts forelectioneering (but has he looked at private schools who push petitions forvouchers on their parents). Today it was announced he is suing severalentertainment and/or food venues for not allowing police officers on theirpremises if they carry guns. Ah yes, Texas is the state where guns are moreimportant than human life. His targets include the State Fair of Texas of allthings. Also the popular Meow Wolf in Grapevine, a restaurant in Deep Ellum, atheatre in Grand Prairie, and a bar/restaurant in San Antonio. Must keep thepoor guy busy finding his targets. But it costs money to mount these lawsuits,taxpayer money, and we never hear about the outcome. Except today I did hearthat a judge quashed the suit against the El Paso immigration charity.

But if you look at it, Abbottand Paxton are spending Texas taxpayer money without our consent for extravagant,cruel and illegal means at the border (a judge gave Biden a big victory on thattoday) and to sue business which are adding to the Texas economy and quality oflife. For this, Abbott and Paxton get big bucks from those oil men who thinkthey can run Texas, and what do we, the taxpayers get? An inferior educationsystem that consistently ranks in the middle to lower grouping nationally. Goodgoing guys.

On the national scene, it is redundantto say that President Joe Biden hit it out of the ballpark last night with anenergetic, challenging, comprehensive State of the Union message that exposedall of the Republican lies and sent the orange former guy to tweeting out noless than seventy-five angry posts. I had thought with the primaries behind us,the volume of emails and texts would diminish but no such luck. My email was amess this morning with politicians from all states wanting to ride Biden’s coattails.Many of them are candidates I would support were I a wealthy woman, but I’mnot. All this deluge of messages does is a) make me feel guilty, and b) make mewant to explain my support but straightened circumstances. I am tempted to sayI’ll vote for the candidate—oops, specify progressive candidate (I’m not rulingout a Republican, though I don’t think I’ll find a progressive one) who sendsme the fewest emails. But then again, who’s counting.

Here we go again into afrenetic cycle of fund-raising. I’d love to turn off my computer, but I won’tbecause I think we each have a civic duty to be well informed and because,politics aside, I enjoy my online life. November seems a long time away. Alsoit really bothers me, and has for years, that money determines electionoutcomes. I realize it’s true, but I resent it. I want us to elect politiciansbecause they will run the country with knowledge and wisdom, they will try toprotect America, keep it strong, protect democracy, and improve life for theaverage American, not because they have the biggest war chest (Abbott wins thatone in Texas and looks what it gets us—a fiefdom). 

Just call me Pollyanna, theidealist.

 

Surviving, Day #2

No, it's not Jacob's birthday, and he hasn't been 14 for several years.
But in the upper left you can see the trees I've written about tonight.
They are too beautiful to lose, and we need lots of trees for the climate.
Yesterday it was theophthalmologist; today it was the dentist and the driveway, or teeth and trees.The dentist first:

When I was a kid, back in theDark Ages, I had bad teeth, inherited I’m told from my dear father. Whatever, Ihad lots of cavities and in my tween years spent a lot of time in the dentist’soffice. The dentist happened to be a family friend—he and his wife/nurse wereUncle Walt and Aunt Kaffee. Uncle Walt was a taciturn man, but what did a kidof twelve know about taciturn? I just thought he was disapproving of me, and Iwas intimidated. In those days, the dentist’s drill was a clumsy, slow thingand having all my cavities filled was a long and painful process. (To UncleWalt’s credit, most of those gold fillings are still in my head some seventyyears later and to his double credit as an adult I learned to appreciate him.)Needless to say, I dreaded and hated going to the dentist. I remember makingthose trips to the Hyde Park Bank building, though now I can’t tell you if itwas on 51st Street or 53rd. Seems to me, I went alone,though some thirty years later I always went to the dentist with my children. Addto all that the truth that anxiety is a feeling I’m all too familiar with, andit’s easy to understand that I carry with me today some dental phobia. At myripe old age, I have finally learned to take excellent care of my teeth(especially if I don’t eat blueberries) and the hygienist is pleased with me.Visits are usually not long and always painless—especially since she’s agreednot to use the hydroelectric thing on my teeth. But I still get anxious, sohaving a dental cleaning behind me is a great relief. Of course I have to go backin three months, but I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

And I’ve had such problemswith dental insurance. I didn’t like Cigna’s coupon books because I pay throughmy bank, so I ignored their coupons, sent them checks which they returned, andthen they cancelled me for nonpayment. Me, Pollyanna, the good girl who paysall bills promptly! Then I took out an Ameritas policy which not only didn’tsave me money, it cost me because it hardly paid anything on my dental billsand I was left with a huge balance plus monthly insurance payments. It seemsthat my dentist was out of network, but then I found he isn’t in any networksand yet he has a thriving practice. So I cancelled Ameritas (angrily, I admit)and discovered my Humana Medicare covers dental work—why I didn’t know that allalong is another puzzle. But the final blow came today when I was told thatwith any Medicare policy, I have to pay the full amount up front, and they willreimburse me when the insurance pays. The system is beyond me, but I admit to afew unladylike phrases today (not in the dentist’s office, however).

On to the trees: For years I’veworried about two tall, beautiful oaks that grow at the edge of our driveway, closeto the house. They provide wonderful shade for the house in summer. Over theyears (maybe as much as a hundred) they have broken and pushed up the concreteof the driveway so navigating it is a real challenge. I knew it would have tobe addressed one day. When an arborist surveyed our trees, he suggested replacingthe concrete with gravel so the tree roots could breathe. A good friend who hasa masonry company offered to pull up the concrete, but the owner of our lawnservice threw in a monkey wrench by asking, “What if the concrete is holdingthe trees up and they fall over?” (One would for sure take out my cottage andme if I were in it.) The arborist said that almost surely wouldn’t happen (noguarantees), but he wanted to treat the trees first to strengthen them. For acouple of weeks I’ve been trying to coordinate arborist, mason, and the lawnservice guy. And I’ve been worrying about trees falling over. Was it safe forme to stay in the cottage while the concrete came up? Finally, it was all setfor four o’clock Thursday; then it changed to 1:45. And then, today, Wednesday,the concrete crew showed up unexpectedly. Good that it cut down the time for meto be anxious. All went smoothly, the trees are still standing, and the brokenconcrete is gone.

Tomorrow, there is nothing onmy schedule except work at my desk. Nothing, I hope, that I must survive. Colorme thankful that these two days are behind me, my eyes are okay, my teeth areclean, the broken concrete is gone, and the trees are fine. God is good..

Surviving

 

Helen Corbitt cooking
Photo from the Texas History Portal
Feeling a little foolish about it,but I have to brag I survived the appointment at the ophthalmologist’s office.Bottom line is that nothing about my eyes has changed since the last visit.Surgery would probably make my vision a bit better, but there are risks, minimal,but still. Having had one “rare” eye disorder that required surgery, I am notwilling to go there again. But the survival aspect is because I get reallyreally nervous going to the eye doctor. As I’ve said, I feel like I’m failingan exam I should have studied for during the eye test. Today I had a kind,encouraging tech who kept saying, “Very good.” I thought I was acing it and wasa bit deflated when the doctor said it showed no change from last year. Theappointment was not quite as long as I anticipated—just under an hour and ahalf, which was good because Christian had to get me home, pick up Jordan, andget her to a noon hair appointment. It all worked perfectly. My only moment oflosing it was leaving the office with my eyes dilated and the sunshine sobright—I suddenly felt like my knees wouldn’t hold up, so Christian obligingly pushedme the maybe six feet to the car. So glad that’s behind me. Now if I can justget past tomorrow’s dental appointment.

We had planned to celebrate Mary D.’sb’day a bit late tonight with a hot dog dinner—she loves hot dogs, and her husband,sweet Joe, doesn’t eat them. But Joe’s usual tennis night cancelled, and hecame with her for happy hour. So we postponed the hot dog dinner for a week andserved happy hour fare—Jordan brought roses and pink champagne and watermelon,and I whipped up a ham spread, which I thought was pretty good. So did Mary andJoe, but Jordan doesn’t do ham. Joe declared he enjoyed the evening, but poorguy, I’m not sure how. Much of it was about cooking and food.

Mary hosts demonstration cookingshows for the Silver Frogs, a senior community group from TCU, and she hasarranged to do two sections on Helen Corbitt. She will cook, and I will fill inwith facts and stories about Corbitt. (If you don’t know, Helen Corbitt was thedoyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus stores in the late fifties and thesixties, but there was much more to her career, both before and after Neiman’s;a New York native, she literally transformed the Texas palate). So tonight wetalked recipes—Texas caviar, which is one of her signature dishes; chickenbroth, popovers, and strawberry butter, which is still served today to every diningguest at Neiman’s (I think only two Neiman Marcus restaurants survive—in Dallasand Fort Worth). Corbett was known for her extravagant use of butter, cream,and sugar—and then her spartan menus at the Greenhouse spa. Most of us don’twant to go the Greenhouse route, but we probably want to adjust a lot of herrecipes to today’s standards.

Big political night, but I have turnedoff the TV late at night. Really, the primary results, with a few exceptions, don’ttell me much. I want to see what happens when progressive candidates go up againstMAGA extremists (okay, loaded language on my part). I am glad Colin Allread wonthe nod to be the Democratic candidate for Texas Senator and hope to heaven hecan get Ted Cruz out of our hair. Tonight, I am already weary of “BreakingNews!” messages telling me Biden and Trump swept their primaries. That was agiven, not breaking news, but it shows how hungry the media is for punch withtheir news. Tomorrow we’ll get a more sober reassessment of what both statewideand national results mean.

The political cause that engages mymind tonight is the Supreme Court and the obvious corruption, particularly fromJustice Clarence Thomas. That he doesn’t recuse himself from cases dealing withTrump is inexcusable in light of his wife’s involvement in the January 6insurrection. And I read an article today that pointed out that the relationshipbetween Georgia’s Fani Willis and the prosecutor she hired is getting all sortsof attention while the Thomas’ relationship is getting none. Media bias isstill a real thing.

Ah well, we won’t solve all thattonight. Sweet dreams.