Tag: life’ll kill ya

Wednesday with a side of baking

Coon cats first

Firefly:

Rook:

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Wednesday. Cloudy and cool.

Hard to get out of bed this morning. Rook finally had to resort to sitting on my head and chewing my hair.

Read about a quarter of the WIP, breaking to make macaroni, some of which will become part of lunch; the rest of which will become part of lunches going forward. Also have to do some banking.

Came across a recipe for scallion-and-cheddar scones, which I do believe I’ll be making this afternoon; they actually look like Real Food, in addition to being tasty.

The Lawn Guy has been by and done his thing, being as it’s not Actually Raining at the moment.

The question How Are We/I Doing? has been asked. The answer “I’ve been better,” may be seen as flippant, and “Working,” may be seen as not being kind to myself.

A story. Steve and I many years ago attended the Universalist/Unitarian Church, where I was also a volunteer with the Evening Sandwich Program.

Now, Unitarians are kind of the Virgos of organized religions. There are many variations on the joke that starts out with a question like What Do The Religions Do When Their Church Catches on Fire, and it’s inevitably the punchline that the Unitarians call the fire department.

At our particular church, there was a tradition when those in the congregation who had experienced a Good Thing in their lives during the previous week, were asked to stand up and share this with those gathered. One Sunday, Steve stood up and talked about some writing triumph that I no longer recall, and got A Look from the pulpit.

At coffee, after, the minister came up to him and said, “The Good Thing is supposed to be personal, you know. About your life. Not business.”

To which Steve famously said, “But writing is my life.”

All this to say that when I say I’m going to work, it doesn’t mean that I’m being mean to myself or exceptional in my dedication to my job. I’m writing. It’s what I do. Worry when I don’t do what I do.

. . . and that’s the bell for the pasta.

How’s everybody getting by today?
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There was a call for the scone recipe, which is rendered below:

Scallion Cheddar Scones
This is supposed to make 12 scones. I made 16, because I have a scone pan and it has 16 spaces.

From the King Arthur All-Purpose Baking Companion

2 cups (240g) unbleached all-purpose flour OR (224g) unbleached pastry flour (I used white whole wheat, because that’s what I had)

1/2 tsp salt

1 Tbs sugar

1 Tbs baking powder

6 TBS unsalted butter, cold, cut into pieces

2 large eggs, beaten

1/3 cup (77g) cream or sour cream (I used sour cream)

1 TBS Dijon mustard

1 cup (112g) grated sharp cheddar cheese

3-5 (56g) scallions, chopped (I used shallots because no scallions)

Preheat oven to 375F. Sift together flour, salt, sugar, baking powder. Rub in butter with fingers.

Mix together eggs, mustard, cream. Add to dry ingredients. Stir in grated cheese and scallions. Mix until just combined.

Liberally flour the counter and your hands. Pat the dough into a 6×9 in rectangle about 1 inch thick. Cut the rectangle into 6 smaller rectangles, and cut each smaller rectangle into two triangles to form 12 triangular scones. Place on well-greased baking sheet.

OR 1: Squish even amounts of dough into each space in a dedicated scone pan

OR 2: Make 12 even amounts of dough into balls, put on well-greased baking sheet.

BAKE for 20 minutes, or until nicely browned.

Mine just came out of the oven:

. . .I have conducted a Quality Control Taste Analysis.  These?  are good.

Monday morning update

Monday. Rainy and cool.

Just back from the vet. They will do a regular postmortem and call me when they have those results. If they aren’t able to nail down what happened, then they will need to send tissue samples to a full-service lab, wherein we start to talk about $erious Money.

Firefly, and especially Rook, have been keeping very close — Firefly sitting on my lap, and Rook following me from room to room. So far, he’s brought me his lizard, his pink ball, and a piece of hardware he stole off the dining room table, which is — cough — off-limits to cats.

I should find something to eat.

Anything Can Happen Day

Wednesday. Dim and coolish. I had the doors open in Steve’s office for a while, but somebody is setting off firecrackers across the river, while on this side of the river, they (THEY) are deconstructing the bridge, now that the other bridge is back in service, and between the noise of this and that, the cats asked me to close up, and I was pleased to oblige.

I slept for 10 hours and 16 minutes last night (according to the Garmin Watch), which is what happens when you take a muscle relaxant before going to bed. Sadly, the only muscle the meds seem to have relaxed has been the one that I scarcely use, in-between my ears.

When I did finally arise from my rosy bower, I made myself a sausage-and-cheese sandwich on a buttermilk biscuit. After breakfast, I hit the showers and then the keyboard, where I managed 1,275 new words, bringing the WIP to 59,580ish, in total.

The Plan, insomuch &c, is to do my duty to the cats, find something for lunch, then — maybe — take another muscle relaxant and/or, oh, I dunno, watch Murderbot, which is now available through Prime Video, by which I mean, I can pay extra for Apple TV through Prime, and so binge the first season of Murderbot, which may actually be a good idea. And, yanno, it being Anything Can Happen Day, maybe my back will cut me a break.

Tomorrow, I need to get up at OhmyGHOD in order to arrive at the hospital for the yearly mammogram at 7! A!M!. Who makes these appointments, and why haven’t they been fired?

Oh. Wait.

After said visit to the radiology department, I do believe I will eat breakfast out, for the second time in a week. Then I will either come home and go back to bed — not the way the smart money bets — or turn on the computer and get some more writing done.

And what’s happening for you on Anything Can Happen Day?

Sunday

Coon cats first:  The Breakfast Club

Sunday. Looking like it’s trying to make up its mind, is it going to rain.

About 1,000 new words on the morning, bringing the WIP to 44,150. Ish. May or may not write tomorrow, depending on how early I get up, I guess. Book club at 1; PT at 2:30. Lunch sometime or ‘nother.

The cats tried to tempt me back to bed after breakfast and I won’t say they weren’t persuasive, but — work to do. They finally came in to keep me company about the time I knocked off, and there they are all still.

Got mundane tasks to get rid of, some research to do, and some lunch to rustle up. Enough to keep me occupied, but not enough to be overwhelming. I’ll take it.

What’s doin’ at your place, today?
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Sigh. All the old war wounds are aching tonight, which is my cue to back slowly away from the keyboard and pour a Wine Venti.

Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe. Remember to hug the people you love.

See you tomorrow.

Housekeeping

All the Things have been done, including assisting the flying fish in their endless quest for sugar.

I? Am exhausted and hurting, which is apparently going to be the new normal. I’m trying to figure out a schedule where I can write during the hours when the meds are actually blocking out enough of the pain to allow me to think. This produces a very odd sort of day, in which I eat breakfast, answer correspondence, and do the PT homework, with writing starting around 10:30ish and going through until about 2:00/2:30. At 2:30ish or 3, I eat a meal, let’s call it dinner, and either putter at simple household tasks, as I did today, and/or watch, oh, ballet! from the new, improved pillow fort on the couch, designed to be soft and supportive of my back.

After Coon Cat Happy Hour, I either will or I won’t eat something light (I’ve been tending to “won’t.” Quelle surprise.), and possibly go back to the office, as I did last night, to write for another hour before I make a cup of tea, take the muscle relaxant part of the meds and go to bed around 10ish.

I’m hoping that I’ll be able to get back to a less dog-eared sort of a day, but, as I’m led to understand, the whole back situation can only change by getting worse, and nobody wants that. It may well be that I can get to a point where the present level of pain is ignorable, and I actually consider that the best possible outcome.

What all this means is that updates will become even more erratic than usual. I’m not sure how much entertainment is being derived, but I do know that those who do read the updates prefer consistency. Mea culpa. I, too, prefer consistency.

Alas, entropy appears to be winning.

All that said — yes. Thanks to everyone who has written to tell me that the judge has ruled the Anthropic payout can go forward. Yes, I will likely receive money from this class action suit. No, I will not be paid $3,000 per violated title. This is because there’s a 50/50 split with the publisher of each title, and the chapbooks, for which I would have received the full amount, were ruled not to have been stolen by reason of a technicality. Still, I will, eventually, get some money, as I understand it, and, being as we live in a society founded on capitalism, money is always welcome.

While money, above, is always welcome, I fear that this lawsuit has taught the wrong lesson. Wrong lessons. It has not taught that stealing someone else’s stuff is wrong, for instance; it has only reinforced the toxic notion that everything has a price, and once that price is met, there is no accountability nor shame attached to wrongful action.

Well. The pension fund was just Sitting There.

And on that note — everyone have a good evening. Stay safe. I’ll check in as it’s possible, tomorrow.

Tuesday morning

I wrote new words. Eleven hundred new words, in fact, bringing the WIP entire to 27,888. So that’s a thing.

Yesterday’s visit to the walk-in clinic was both lowering and interesting. Interesting: The walk-in clinic Does Not Prescribe pain relief medication. They do prescribe muscle relaxants and anti-nausea medication.

The PA sent me to the hospital for an x-ray of my back, just to make sure I hadn’t inadvertently broken something since the last time my back was x-rayed. As I had not broken anything, I was given a prescription for muscle relaxants and anti-nausea medication.

Since one is strongly discouraged from taking T3 and muscle relaxants, I have broken into the (still in date) naproxen left over from last year (because now I have anti-nausea medication, in case naproxen turns ugly), and took the first dose this morning. The muscle relaxants are to be taken at bedtime, and I perhaps have seen a slight lessening of the pain — well. I was able to write new words today, and do all of the PT homework, instead of just the Good Parts, so, yes, muscle relaxants had an effect.

I have also unearthed a crazy little hand massager (a big plastic marble in a holder) that I’ve been running firmly over the hurtin’ bits, and also still with the lidocaine roll-on (yes, I know about lidocaine patches. Have you ever tried to put a goopy, floppy, patch on your own back? Sticks to itself. Sticks to your hands. Sticks to your clothes. To your back? Not so much. And that’s without mentioning the necessity to twist around with an aching, spasming back, trying to get the fool thing in place.)

The clinic’s diagnosis (this is the “lowering” part of the program) is bone spurs, aka “small anterior osteophytes” and “mild mid thoracic spine spondylosis,” which is age-related, degenerative arthritis, and therefore nothing to be done, save what I’ve been doing, and wait for the flare to ease up or I manage to increase my ability to ignore pain.

(Aortic atherosclerosis was also noted, as an aside. This is not New news, and aside from being separate from the reason I was at the clinic, I’m thinking it wasn’t mentioned verbally because the plaque level hasn’t reached the Magic Number yet.)

Onward.

Ellen Richmond is yesterday’s hero. She brought me to the clinic, the hospital, CVS, and picked up the prescriptions. Later in the day, Beth and Steve Symonds stopped by to replenish the cookie supply, which was much appreciated.

I now need to figure out something that looks like lunch, and whether or not I’m going to take a nap, after.

Rookie is clinging like a clingy coon kitten, which–he really is too big to curl up between my cheek and my shoulder, but he’s doing it anyway.

So, there’s my news.

What’s your news?

Short catch-up and apology

Abject apologies for having gone dark.

Short form is that I can’t totally get ahead of the back situation, though I even took the Unprecedented Step of asking the PCP for strong drugs.  Which work, to a point.  But not, alas, to the point necessary for peace, harmony, and getting any work done.

Tomorrow morning, a kind friend will be taking me to the walk-in clinic (which is absurd on the face of it, the walk-in clinic being about two miles from my house, but — strong drugs.  And back spasms.), where it is my very great hope that they will be able to provide something that (1) works to stop the more-or-less constant muscle spasms, and (2) doesn’t have the side effect of making me sick.  Though (2) is becoming less desirable as (1) takes on more necessity.

Aside the Constant Complaint Thread that’s been running on Facebook, below is probably the only notable thing I’ve said in three days:

Last night I finished listening to Accepting the Lance, by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller, narrated by Eileen Stevens. May I just say that, while I vividly remember writing the scene where the Agent of Change is taunting Val Con — during this, my first reading of the novel as a novel, I was particularly struck by what the Agent chose to taunt him with.
“Vulnerable…so very vulnerable.” “We have seen it — cut one and the other bleeds. Kill one. Both die.”
In fact, he’s being taunted for having connections. For being human.
Wow.
Epic storytelling, past me-and-us. And truthly truth, as well.

What if I’d been the one to say good-bye?

Aaaand. Back pain has returned. We. Are. NOT. Pleased. Currently working on trying to up the efficacy of my superpower by doing what needs to be done, and when there’s a spike, telling myself, “It’s only pain,” and keep on with whatever it is I’m doing. Let it be known that I’m not doing the wire act, and certainly not the trapeze.

The local post office gives me to understand that the Perambulating Package is on the route jeep and scheduled for delivery at my house today.

Yeah.  We’ve heard that before.

A question for the Tech Folk, Internet Domain Division. If someone has registered a domain through a wholesale service and “can make any changes to the domain” that they wish to make, does that not make them the owner of that domain, regardless of if they allow someone else to register the domain with a provider, post content and act in all ways as if that name belonged to them? That the person registering the domain can, in theory, and at any time, evict the person using that nameserver?

Spanish Aunts.

…it seems that standing up is the current correct position insofar as my back is concerned, so I’ll be bringing the pages I have left to read of the WIP to the standing desk for perusal.

I have Tali in position under the standing desk in my office, and Rook in his box on the edge of the big desk, where he can get the breeze from the open windows, it being a nice enough day, so far.

What’s happening with you, today?

Today’s blog post title brought to you by .38 Special, “If I’d been the one.”

Anything can happen day

Wednesday. Sunny. Temp 74F Humidity 74%. Windows are closed.

I? have ordered in breakfast on the theory that I will eat an omelet if all I have to do is open the damned box and get a fork out of the drawer. I’m flailing around for strategies to get myself interested in eating food — and I don’t at this point care if it’s healthy, particularly — and came to remember that I never had any strategies for that particular quirk in a stupid quirky nature. When I was living with Steve, he cooked 90% of the time, and I’d sit at the table to be sociable, even if I didn’t feel like eating, and would have a bit of this or that while we were talking. Yes, Steve was a genius. However, that solution is no longer operative, and I’m a bit at a loss. And before anyone panics — I’m not sick, my stomach doesn’t hurt. I just — don’t want to eat. The urgency is that I cannot allow this to fall into a habit.

Argh.

Moving on to more amusing topics: The perambulating package is now in! South Portland. USPS promises delivery, but we’ve heard that song before.

We had a bunch of thunder and some lightning, but if there were violent thunderstorms in Maine last night, they were someplace else. While I don’t regret the violence — or the possible tornadoes — I do regret the thunderstorm drama.

Today’s Plan is to read the 100+ pages of the WIP, which will not only hopefully hang together as a tale, but provide sufficient hooks to hang the rest of the story on.

Writer math.

break to eat breakfast Which. Was. Good. Remember this, Self? Food tastes good. Sheesh.

A friend posted a meme yesterday about “When I was growing up, we were thrown out onto the street, helmetless, with our bike after breakfast and told to come home before dark.” Which encouraged some conversation including, “What is this “helmet” you speak of?” And that got me to thinking about How Things Change.

For instance. In my life — which, we do have to factor in the determination that we were writers above all else, which did have an enormous bearing on finances — I think that people who have two homes, or a camp, are well-off. The course of my life being such that we could barely afford one house, and were always skating the edge between solvent and me presenting Steve with a fanned hand of bills and saying, “Pick a bill. Pick any bill. The bill that you pick is the bill we won’t be paying this month.”

So, that. And then I think back to — my parents. Who had land in the mountains of Pennsylvania that they intended to build a camp on. They never did because they’d gotten taken in the matter of boundary lines and water, but that aside — they owned property other than their primary residence. My father was a spotwelder at the General Motors factory in Sparrow’s Point, Maryland. My mother was a stay-at-home mom.

Going back a generation, and the reason I’m so “surprisingly” at ease on the water, my father’s parents had a camp on Middle River in Maryland to which they retired every summer. They also had a mini-farm at what was then the edge of the town of Parkville, Maryland. My grandfather was a tailor for a large tailoring house (I often remember the name, but not this morning) in the city. My grandmother was a stay-at-home mom.

Tailor and spotwelder — these are not positions associated with great amounts of wealth. And yet, they were able to buy “extra” properties.

Well. The past is a different country.

Time to go to work.

What was your childhood summer like?