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.

Four Donut Day

Four-Donut Days

To say life has been hectic lately is like saying teenagers have hormones, cats are finicky, and chocolate is popular, especially with women.

My normal life involves a husband, a special needs son, a push-every-envelope teenage daughter, a budding writing career, a volunteer job, and my role as head-servant to two cats and a pony disguised as a dog. Somewhere in there I try to fit in taking care of myself and follow Christ’s admonition to do unto others as I’d have them do unto me.

Recently, I added the long-anticipated task of moving my parents from their four- bedroom home in Texas to a 1-BR assisted living apartment in Georgia. My parents made the decision, and the whole family was pleased by it.

But there were issues. Like too much stuff. The treasures of decades simply wouldn’t fit. Not in a 1 BR apartment. Not in the homes of the three children trying to downsize. There was also the paperwork. It’s scary how much legalese is generated by the simple act of releasing just a tad of independence. Everything has to be signed, cross-signed, notarized, stamped, and, it feels like,  blessed by foreign potentates.

We spent hours deciding who got Aunt Edith’s Bible, when to do the yard sale and how to tell Daddy he couldn’t bring his fang-happy little dog, who hates everyone but him. Meetings followed conference calls. Betwixt and between, I scrambled to complete the urgent things, let other stuff go, and served odd meals. Corn pancakes were a big hit, Beanie-Weenie’s with broccoli, not so much.

 Preparing for my parents’ arrival, I drove to their new home often. Each time, my nemesis beckoned me, promising sweet reprieve. 

The Krispy Kreme Donut Shop.

If like me, you have a tendency to retain fat and sugar, donuts are evil. Especially if you love Krispy Kreme’s white-cream filled, chocolate frosted variety and were born incapable of eating just one. Fortunately, there are no KK Dens of Iniquity on my side of town. I have enough willpower—just barely—not to drive across the city to reach one. I hadn’t been in a Krispy Kreme Donut Shop in years.

But there it was, right on the path to my parents’ new home. I ignored it and tumbled my to-do list around in my head, trying to squeeze in one more thing. I needed to wash the car before I picked my folks up at the airport. Our dog, Cocoa, needed a bath. Could I go to a do-it-yourself carwash, tie Cocoa to the back of my RAV4, and wash him simultaneously?

Before PETA could make a citizen’s arrest, several stressful things happened. My daughter, full of the superior wisdom inherent in teens, stopped her ADD medication and promptly had her third car accident. Our insurance company dropped us, so I was able to add shopping for high-risk insurance to my to-do list. I like to keep my list really full. Sleep is SO over-rated.

Our son Luke, who has autism, began suffering mysterious gastrointestinal problems. Since he doesn’t understand pain, Luke reacts differently. He punched himself in the stomach. When a teacher told him he could not go to the bathroom for the third time in 15 minutes Luke felt he wasn’t adequately expressing his need, so he slugged her. We emphasize the value of communication in our family. This is not what I meant.

 Returning from one of a series of fruitless doctor’s appointments, I sped down the highway.  Luke munched on a bag of crackers, oblivious to traffic whipping in and out of the lanes around us at insane speeds. I gritted my teeth and concentrated.

 A cracker escaped Luke’s grip, rolled across the floorboard and landed somewhere at my feet. To Luke, this was a catastrophe rivaling Wall Street’s worst day. At the speed of light, he unbuckled his seat belt, scrambled across the seat and began fumbling between my ankles looking for his snack. I screamed and threatened him with death if he didn’t immediately cease, desist and re-buckle.

By some miracle, we were not hit by oncoming trucks. I returned him to his school unscathed, other than by the flames that had come out of my mouth during the cracker incident. In a normal, ideal world, I could have gone home and soothed myself with chocolate and a good book until the bus deposited him in our driveway.

Normal is a point of view. In my normal, there was just enough time to make it to my next meeting. The assisted living manager informed me that mom’s crotchety general practitioner had, disdaining repeated clarifications, checked the wrong box on the official move in document--again.  Although Mom lived independently in her Texas home, the form, as completed, said she functioned about three steps above a rutabaga.

We had to have paperwork which indicated Mom’s true functioning level. Otherwise, she would be admitted to the center’s somewhat depressing and exorbitantly expensive skilled nursing ward, while Dad stayed on the Assisted Living side. 

I started the drive home, contemplating options. I visualized Mom, in her Queen Elizabeth voice, instructing me to cancel all arrangements. I pictured Daddy holding Dr. Crotchety at rifle-point until he checked the correct box.

A neon red light flashed in the corner of my eye.

“Hot Donuts. Now.”

I fought the steering wheel, but it was futile. Of its own volition, the RAV pulled into Krispy Kreme.

A demon taking the form of a smiling young man stood behind the counter. “Good afternoon, Ma’am! Buy a dozen donuts today; you’ll get a dozen free!”

Get thee behind me… “Just one of those.” I pointed to the chocolate-frosted white cream-filled ones. Perfect, plump, pleasure-filled… Surely they used to be bigger?

“Just one?” the demon inquired, lifting an eyebrow. The donuts in the case seemed to shrink.

“Well…maybe two.”

I left with four donuts, two of which I ate before I got to the car.

Some days are just four-donut days.