Germ Warfare

I read some 1950’s mystery fiction. As we enter flu and cold season, I’ve noticed a difference in the way people back then handled germ warfare.

They went to bed!

Sounds good to me. Evidently they had servants to handle day to day affairs. At my house, servants are noticeably absent.  So I slug some rid-a-flu and keep going.

There weren’t nearly as many antibiotics, and almost no symptom relievers at the time. The kindly doctor made a house call, dispensed what medicine was available, then told them to stay in bed and drink liquids. If they had money, he was paid. If not, he departed with a chicken or homemade jam or a promise.

Now, if I’m feverish or spewing unpleasant things, I probably visit the doctor. She gives me an antibiotic designed to quickly kill the germs. My health plan and I pay a total which my doctor friends tell me is a fraction of what they used to make. They probably wish, sometimes, there was a nice, plump chicken to be had.

I may go home and rest awhile. Or not. I’ll probably telecommute until my boy gets home from school. Then it’s off and running until my husband gets home, when I can usually go to bed. Multiple interruptions are likely, as I am, apparently, the only one in the house who knows where critical things are kept. My daughter will flip on the lights, and demand to know why I’m in bed. She will ignore my subtle hint that she should leave- "Go away, I’m sick!- and recount the various dramas of her life.

In my books, the patient usually recovers. Unless, of course, he or she is helped to his or her reward by a wicked murderer who hopes to pass the death off as natural. I also usually recover, at least partially. But let’s get back to the part where the 50's doctor says go to bed.

Seriously? I don’t have time for that! I pop something to suppress the symptoms and continue with regularly scheduled programming at 95 mph.

Just as soon as I'm physically well enough to dress myself without missing a critical button, and mentally astute enough to open the garage door before I back the car out, I'm back in the game. It’s not generally acknowledged that driving a car under the influence of the flu is as dangerous as driving drunk, so off I go, hacking and weaving. Because my world will fall apart if I'm not there to run it, right?

I share the pain with friends and co-workers, gather some new bugs while my resistance is low, and the next round of germ warfare begins.  But the germs are gaining on me, developing resistance to the antibiotics so freely available.

I’m ready for the days when the local doctor put us to bed, took his chicken and left, confident we’d contain ourselves and our germs until we were well. There’s just one problem I see with going back to this plan:

Where will I find servants to carry on while I’m down? Do you think anyone will still work for homemade cookies?

Over-Editors Anonymous

 

  Hello. My name is D’Ann and I can’t stop editing.

Last week, my finger was poised to hit send. My new novel “Grandi Needs Killing,” was finished. Edited. Complete. Edited again. Done. Edited and re-edited, ad nauseum. I had four requests to send my full manuscript for consideration.

Time to send my eaglet flying into the world of publishing, to make its way or crash. Time to really work on my new novel.” Time to tell Grandi good-bye and move on. So far the furthest I’d moved was a loose plotline for a new novel, a title I dislike, and five pages I should probably scrap.

And  yet…

I never reviewed the chapter breaks in “Grandi Needs Killing.” Were they ideally placed to insure readers would be compelled to keep reading?  I would just take a quick peek.  Spend  fifteen minutes, an hour, tops. Then I could send “Grandi” out and be done with her while I wrote “Murder at Whiskey Oaks Plantation.” (Meh. Mediocre title. I can do better.)

I seated myself at my laptop, ready to quickly modify a few chapter breaks, then move on to “Murder at Whiskey Oaks Plantation.” (Awful title! Perhaps, “Death on Whiskey Mountain?” Should I stop and research names?) I shook off the digression. Grandi needed a final, fifteen minute facelift.

Two days later, my quick peek had morphed into another line by line re-edit. Wasn’t that a rather weak verb here? Certainly I could find a more evocative way for my heroine to express angst. And, wait surely I hadn’t written “there” when it should clearly be “their?” Readers will think I’m an uneducated ninny! And how did the misspelling of kaleidoscope, a mistake of infinite magnitude, escape detection in the first 39 edits?

My first novel “Dancing  From the Shadows,” had significant printing problems. Three months after its release, a second edition was needed. I was only supposed to go through the manuscript and mark the printing problems. I lost sleep doing a line by line edit of a book that was already published.

I’ve increased my speed though. It only took two years to write and edit “Grandi Needs Killing,” as opposed to the three and a half years required to complete “Dancing From the Shadows.”

I’m getting better. I’m NOT editing too much. I can give up editing whenever I want.

Who am I trying to fool? At a book signing, I will probably hand the reader a slip of paper and say “I’m afraid I used too many adverbs in the third paragraph, page 198. If you’ll replace that paragraph with this one, the prose will be stronger.”

I need an intervention! Anyone want to help me form “Over-Editors Anonymous?

 

The Peel

THE PEEL

 

I’m not aging as gracefully as I’d like. This isn’t a comforting thought to someone now doing a good bit of speaking, in a culture where 50 is the new 30. So I was intrigued when I was invited to a “peel party,” where a registered n dermatologist’s nurse would give light chemical facials called peels.

The hostess gets these peels often, and says they minimize the appearance of age spots and fine wrinkles. Although her age is within a few years of mine, she appears much younger. I decided I should try either her makeup or her peels. Since I don’t wear much makeup, I decided to attend the party.

It was interesting. The nurse asked questions, I filled out the inevitable forms, and then she applied the peel to my face. It burned, but not so much I couldn’t stand it.

I glowed the next day, like I’d been sunbathing, but nothing happened. On day two, I started to flake a little, scattering little pieces of my DNA wherever I walked.  You aren’t supposed to pick at the peeling spots, but who can resist a little tug? Not me.  It was gratifying to see that beneath the scales of dead skin, my face did look fresher.

By day three, I looked like a molting iguana. I washed my face often, applied lotion, and wore white or cream colored tops, so I wouldn’t look like I was suffering from a case of runaway dandruff.

In the midst of this skin-sloughing process, my aunt came to visit.

She’s a really cool auntie. Only a dozen years older than me, she’s retired now, and spends half the year traveling all over the country in her fifth wheel.  Sometimes she travels with a friend, but most of the time it’s just her and her pound pup, traveling wherever the spirit moves, dropping in on relatives who are always overjoyed to see her.

I wondered a little about that. She came at a particularly busy time for me, but I was delighted to see her and didn’t mind a bit. Why is that?

I came to the conclusion it’s because she’s been “peeling” for years. Life has brought her a lot of pain. She’s used these experiences to sand off the less desirable aspects of human personality: selfishness,  pride, pretensions, and judgment. The process has revealed the easy-going, generous, humble woman God created her to be. She’s not perfect, but she’s a lovely work in progress.

I may do more of the facial peels. I haven’t decided yet. But I do know that I’m going to make sure that along the way, I’m doing constant character peels. In the final analysis, while I’d like to look youthful and attractive, it’s inner-beauty I want to spend the majority of my time and energy on.

Clean?

Clean is in the eye—and nose—of the beholder. As parents know, something declared “clean” by a teen often means nothing more than a path through the rubble, and the absence of obvious ebola.

To me, clean means the absence of visible grime or unpleasant smells, and an orderly appearance. By order, I mean a lack of clutter.

Here, my beloved spouse, Bruce, and I, like many roommates, differ. He agrees with the absence of dirt or odors, but doesn’t recognize clutter.

I want visitors to feel enveloped in a warm hug. The welcome feeling fades when one trips over a briefcase, or must fight for counterspace to set down a coffee cup. Bruce feels belongings scattered about makes a home feel "lived in," while, a hammer left on the coffee table is handy for the next project.

When it comes to organization, however, my better half is, well...better. His closets and drawers are a methodical work of art. Mine are also a work of art. Think Picasso. I clean things out periodically, but they never stay that way. Bruce has offered the services of a professional organizer. Unless said professional plans run behind me from closet to pantry to drawer 24/7, it's not going to help.

But, seriously?  Do you need to snoop inside my closet to feel welcome?  If so, I'm not inviting you twice. Bruce, on the other hand, could give tours of his closet, with no advance warning. 

These different belief systems have caused some stress in our marriage. Take the time we had a big party scheduled in a couple hours, the house was clutter central and I needed a few final things from the store.

"Honey, I've got to do a grocery run, this place is a mess, and guests are imminent. Could you clean up?"

"Sure, no problem."

I left, feeling as I often do, truly blessed among women. 

Imagine my surprise when I returned to a house which was more cluttered than before. My beloved was in the garage.

"Doesn't it look great?" Bruce asked proudly, sweeping his arm to indicate his newly organized garage. Swept and mopped. Beautiful. Only thirty years of marriage, and the realization that I had failed to define my terms kept me from getting the hammer off the coffee table and applying it briskly to his head.

I guess it’s all about appearances. This was hammered home the day we had Mrs. RothBottom over for dinner. Mrs. RothBottom is one of “those.” You know. Perfect figure, perfect hair, perfect clothes. Wealthy widow. To make it worse, she has a brain and uses it. I can swallow perfect better when it’s matched with stupid.

She was a client who said she wanted to get to know us better. I suspected her of wanting to know Bruce better, but he said I was crazy. We’d had an incredible dinner, served by a maid, at her Buckhead house.

Now, she was coming to our home. It was “clean” by any standard. I had prepared my best recipes, finishing with an  infamous chocolate dessert designed to add inches to even Mrs. RothBottom’s bottom.

I was looking as good as it gets. I even had on makeup. I was all set to make a good impression.

Until Bruce led her inside not through our perfectly good front door, with its polished brass nameplate, but through the laundry room. 

Really? Bruce brings Ms. “I’m All That” in through the only unclean room in the house? Because who cleans a room designed for dirty laundry? It is also home to the kitty toilet. With two cats, it always smells pungent. I had cleaned it an hour before, but one of the cats had just bestowed a token of approval. The room reeked of Eau de Feline.

Pride is an ugly thing. I gave up. I’m not going to try to keep clean with the RothBottoms. I have enough trouble maintaining my own standards.

So, what is the definition of clean? I guess it comes down to the compromise that you and those who live with you can tolerate.