Sunday Plus: Hilary Mantel

Hilary Mantel is a bit of a chameleon, I think. Pardon the ad at the beginning.

Theme Thursday: stones

Stones in the Road; Joan Baez singing Mary Chapin Carpenter's song. This is the first thing I thought of when I saw what this week's theme was

Tuesday

Well, I don't have much to say; one of my profs said, you write so well, it's a shame you have nothing to say. So. There it is. No wonder.

Monday

Scarf: knitting is finished! now I have to weave in ends and block (sort of, for this pattern). I will post a pic after I've sent it off. Hope you like it, Scarf Exchangee.

yoga tomorrow; slogging through 444 page chapter, which will keep me busy for the lion's share of this week.

Sunday plus: Debra Winger

Last week's NY Times Magazine featured a thoughtful and thought-provoking interview with actress Debra Winger. I hadn't thought about her, had forgotten she played a pivotal role in Rachel Getting Married, and I hadn't known she had written a book, Undiscovered, a few years ago. I scouted around and found her interviewed by Ben Cheever on a small book-related tv show, which seems to have lots of other interesting interviews, should you desire to watch them. I wish I could embed it, but you'll find it here, at Pleasantville [NY] Community Television.

Saturday

Anne tells me I may not finish it by December 1; I have that much yarn left to knit up. And Anne should know.

At first, I hated working on this, but now I'm liking the results. I'll post a picture after I've sent it off to the scarf exchange recipient. I think I may make one for Stacie in browns, unless she gives me another colorway .  .  . it's like a fishnet, and can be worn as a scarf or a cowl.

yesterday

Dinner wasn't half bad, if I do say so myself. The turkey's cooking time may have been hastened, however, if D had realized that the top of the roasting pan was nestled within the bottom of the roasting pan, thus supplying a nice layer of insulation from the heat . . . . and this isn't the first time, either!

Thanksgiving

Cooking for two is just about as demanding as cooking for twenty-two. Just an observation.

Wednesday

Well, for the first time EVER Thanksgiving will be just D and me; L is ensconced with the Mouse hard by a Great Lake. I know she will have a wonderful time because that's just the kind of person Miss Mouse is.

However, I am still going forward with my big meal: turkey (of course), some kind of special sides, most likely from the Nov. issue of Bon Appetit (from which I already made a very jazzy cranberry sauce involving orange peel and ginger, among other exotica). I have a gnarly (and costly!) celery root to contend with, plus parsnips, turnips, carrots, and potatoes. We're big on roots this year. D got a very nice (I hope) and inexpensive Kermit Lynch rose (the one on the left) to go with it all.

photo via Kermit Lynch blog

It is strange not to have family around; I remember the first Thanksgiving we had with my mother and the rest of my family in western Mass. We had a fire going in the front parlor, as someone called it, plus the wood stoves stoked. She decorated the table with branches and dried seed pods. I remember being very overwhelmed and I wish I had a picture of it all, which I must, somewhere . . . at least I have the movie of it all in the theatre of my head.

I'm glad L is moving out into the wider world, making her own, independent memories. And I'm looking forward to some photos posted somewhere, so I can see how much fun she had.

Tuesday

I'm getting excited about a Facebook group that is coalescing to start a food coop here. When our locally owned and independent natural foods grocery was taken over or bought out or muscled out, take your pick, by Whole Foods back in May, I wasn't exactly happy. But things are getting less local and more corporate by the week. 365 brand seems to rule; seating in front of the little cafe area has been removed in favor of floor display space; and my beloved bulk dried fruits have been banished to soulless Whole Food prepackaged 8-oz units. I know my favorite dreadlocked bulk manager is not happy about that.

So, maybe I'll be much more involved in getting a food coop off the ground. Maybe it will be the next independent, locally, cooperatively owned grocery!

Monday

All weekend I kept hitting my forehead with the palm of my hand, desperate to get away from medical jargon. Then, I remembered. Poetry. And I went off to find some new one.

Barbara Hamby is so very talented, funny, and wise. You can find more poems and links here.

Ode on Dictionaries
–Barbara Hamby

A-bomb is how it begins with a big bang on page
one, a calculator of sorts whose centrifuge
begets bedouin, bamboozle, breakdance, and berserk,
one of my mother's favorite words, hard knock
clerk of clichés that she is, at the moment going ape
the current rave in the fundamentalist landscape
disguised as her brain, a rococo lexicon
of Deuteronomy, Job, gossip, spritz, and neocon
ephemera all wrapped up in a pop burrito
of movie star shenanigans, like a stray Cheeto
found in your pocket the day after you finish the bag,
tastier than any oyster and champagne fueled fugue
gastronomique you have been pursuing in France
for the past four months. This 82-year-old's rants
have taken their place with the dictionary I bought
in the fourth grade, with so many gorgeous words I thought
I'd never plumb its depths. Right the first time, little girl,
yet here I am still at it, trolling for pearls,
Japanese words vying with Bantu in a goulash
I eat daily, sometimes gagging, sometimes with relish,
kleptomaniac in the candy store of language,
slipping words in my pockets like a non-smudge
lipstick that smears with the first kiss. I'm the demented
lady with sixteen cats. Sure, the house stinks, but those damned
mice have skedaddled, though I kind of miss them, their cute
little faces, the whiskers, those adorable gray suits.
No, all beasts are welcome in my menagerie, ark
of inconsolable barks and meows, sharp-toothed shark,
OED of the deep ocean, sweet compendium
of candy bars—Butterfingers, Mounds, and M&Ms—
packed next to the tripe and gizzards, trim and tackle
of butchers and bakers, the painter's brush and spackle,
quarks and black holes of physicists' theory. I'm building
my own book as a mason makes a wall or a gelding
runs round the track—brick by brick, step by step, word by word,
jonquil by gerrymander, syllabub by greensward,
swordplay by snapdragon, a never-ending parade
with clowns and funambulists in my own mouth, homemade
treasure chest of tongue and teeth, the brain's roustabout, rough
unfurler of tents and trapezes, off-the-cuff
unruly troublemaker in the high church museum
of the world. O mouth—boondoggle, auditorium,
viper, gulag, gumbo pot on a steamy August
afternoon—what have you not given me? How I must
wear on you, my Samuel Johnson in a frock coat,
lexicographer of silly thoughts, billy goat,
X-rated pornographic smut factory, scarfer
of snacks, prissy smirker, late-night barfly,
you are the megaphone by which I bewitch the world
or don't as the case may be. O chittering squirrel,
ziplock sandwich bag, sound off, shut up, gather your words
into bouquets, folios, flocks of black and flaming birds.

Sunday plus: Quinn Cummings

I will try to find an audio interview, but this link will do for now.

Here she is, from a vlog post:



talking about another blogger's book . . .

Saturday

clasps are supposed to hold. hands clasp. my watch clasp came undone, and I found it down my sleeve while I was driving. my turtle pin clasp, though, was done up. when I found that it was no longer pinned to me i searched everywhere, certain it was being crushed under someone's tires in some parking lot.

i found it, the clasp still firmly intact, but the pin end not held by it. i'm being told something, and I hope I'm understanding.

Friday

Another afternoon on the river . . . I think I'm beginning to get the fact that only so many days are allotted to us.

Thursday

Stile Antico. I was nosing around YouTube, looking for them, because Sunday Baroque is championing this group, who are surprisingly young, when I discovered NPR's Tiny Desk Concert series. Quite eclectic! I may be linking to these again: Jakob Dylan next?

Wednesday

After the latest results, I won't be watching Dancing with the Stars again. (I know, hard to believe I'd watch it, right?) Also, no more 7 to 9 a.m. morning shows for the "news." I listened to NPR on the radio this morning; so much more in depth. Even the short fluff piece on Prince Wm. and co. was more insightful than all stuff on ABC.

Tuesday

What I've been watching when I'm knitting: Pleasantville Community Television; Ben Cheever is a pretty good host, I think. Eclectic guests, to be sure.

Monday

Fish Fight is Hugh Fearnsley-Whittingstall's latest endeavor. Although he is championing the North Sea, we have Sea Web and Monterey Bay Aquarium to further the cause in US as well as international waters.

Sunday plus: Natalie Merchant

Saturday

Knitting group; finished a scarf! but not the International Scarf Exchange one; that one is giving me grief.

It is parents' weekend at L's college, and Miss Mouse is taking L all around. I am eager to hear the details!

The final 3 feet of gutter to clean out is calling me. I meant to take photos today. Alas.

Friday

yesterday, we couldn't hack it (how about some good news? I know transitions aren't easy, but they don't have to be so difficult . . .), so we left our posts midafternoon for this place,
where we watched the river from a serene deck. The happy hour prices weren't too bad either  . . .

poem

I think this just about sums it up

In the Middle
–Barbara Crooker

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day you look out the window,
green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail is a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.

Wednesday

I'm trying to think and be positive; yes, that's right. You heard me. Getting out and getting busy with the rake helps. I guess sitting in front of the computer screen, being zapped by soul-sapping rays isn't cutting it.

I'm reading (well, the book is sitting around, glaring at me) James Joyce's Ulysses, but I'm only up to page 10. I tore through Portrait of the Artist as a teenager. I need to turn that receptor back on. As it is, I can barely sit still to read catalog copy. It's hard to sit and read for pleasure when I read all day for pay.

Tuesday!

Hunter Museum

I have spent the entire day, trying to alphabetize a reference section, plus fiddling with adding periods after authors' initials and trying to figure out a bunch of tables that the author didn't want to deal with. I need to find something more satisfying to do. I know, I know—all work is meaningful, not just "creative" highfalutin positions. But gee whiz.

Plus my rate has not kept apace w/cost of living/inflation. The flesh is being stripped from my bones. I keep watching these so-called financial experts on the morning "news" shows (since when is news considered showing a clip from yesterday's Oprah's talk show of her talking to M. Jackson's children? whatever . . .), but they are talking to people who I assume have regular jobs. But what is regular now?

sunday activity

The view from the Bluff View: those specs are regatta participants

Sunday plus: Lucy Wainright Roche

Sardonic? how about heart wrenching ...

Reel

I'm remembering John C. Campbell, listening to this . . .


Those years are leaves on the ground . . .

if this doesn't post correctly, the links were to YouTube YoYo Ma . . .

regatta weekend

summer's end, after Election Day

last of the basil, to make pesto for the freezer.



I used more walnuts than pine nuts in the mix; at $39.00 a pound, pine nuts are too dear! when I'm feeling flush, I grab a handful from the bulk bin. And I'm always shocked at how much that handful costs.



I read somewhere long ago that you shouldn't add the cheese to the mix until you are ready to combine it with the pasta (or whatever). So I don't, though I don't know why that would make much of a difference, do you?

in a pickle

well, perhaps the state's residents are now in such a condition after yesterday's election, but while the red tide rolled in, I was making the most of a lovely cauliflower.

breaking it up

Using my made-in-France-Christmas present slicer . . . which is a handy tool

hotting up the kettles; the cauliflower got blanched in the green one.

onions coming to a boil in a vinegar/sugar mixture that will pickle the cauliflower

sterilizing the jars

blanched c. in said jars, w/onion. Then pickling liquid over all. A canning funnel comes in very handy. I hadn't done this in so long, I was a bit rusty.

In the canner; do you see a face? I do . . . who is it? Protector of all canners? the Madonna?

et, voila!

all that was left, which I threw into last night's vegetable mix for supper:

Pickles have to cure for about 4 weeks; we'll see how I did . . .

Sauerkraut?

To a green thought in a green shade. –A. Marvell, from "Thoughts in a Garden"

OK, I've tried this before, and the results were not just inedible, they were scary—gloppy, gray mass of . . . what?

I'm trying it again (please excuse the less than sharp photos; I don't know if this is due to overexcitement of starting the process again, or fear of freakish results)


Using the method from Eugenia Bone's Well-Preserved (Clarkson Potter, 2009)

shredded cabbage + 1-1/2 Tbl of pickling salt

My own touch, to keep out creepy crawlies (natural, too).

Bag of 1 qt water + 1-1/2 Tbl pickling salt; per Ms Bone, it acts as a weight, and if it leaks, it leaks only brine.

If I can bring myself to haul out the canning equipment, I intend to make pickled cauliflower from this book as well. Cauliflowers are on sale at all the groceries here now, firm, meaty, sparkling white. So, onward!

November 1, 2010

from The Tempest
Act IV Scene I

Prospero. Be cheerful, sir:
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision
the cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
as dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with sleep.

–W. Shakespeare

"The first mention of The Tempest is in the royal Account Books of the Revels Office: On Hallowmass night, November 1st 1611, 'a play called the Tempest' was performed before the most cultured of kings, James I." from Poem a Day, edited by Karen McCosker & Nicholas Albery

hello

Yes, I'm posting every day in November, the mundane, the boring, the tragic; I'm letting it all go. Maybe I'll even have an insight or two. Who knows?

International scarf exchange

who wants to participate? Helen??

http://ise9.blogspot.com/

insurance

covers the cost of replacing the lost food. Yea! One small step down the path toward positive news and happenings.

Here is a poem, written by a woman whose two children had just left for college (from Poem A Day, Steerforth Press, 1994):

Fall

So it's today, and in the chokecherry this year:
the first leaves turn ochre, there, by the open gate.

I grab the sweater you left on a chair, wrap it
around my shoulders, and—as I did for days last year

until I couldn't keep up with the season—I pick
every single rusting leaf, each fading flower

and hide them in my apron pocket: their crush
clandestine against my belly. It's a simple gift

for you—for us—such an easy thing to do
for a few more days of summer.

–Laure-Anne Bosselaar

baaaack

Yes, I'm going to be back blogging, now that L is ensconced in her dorm at a small college somewhere within the lower 48.


(Notice the fetching comforter [duvet] cover . . .)



This is the way her bed looked, before we saw the guy across the hall's room (yes, guy; this is 2010, a very progressive place, and god help us). His bed was not lofted, and the desk was moved out from under (well, obviously), and it all looked so much more apartment-ish, so L's roommate pleaded with him and his dad to come over and help move the beds down. Poor D and I helped as best we could.

It looks much better. Sorry I didn't take before and after pictures, but the days there were so fraught with emotion, I'm surprised I got this much recorded.

view out dorm window . . .

While we were there, we received a voice mail, sent by my neighbor on Tuesday morning, only we got notification that it was sent late on Wednesday (bye, AT&T) telling me that the power was off. She didn't know to call the power company, so did nothing until we finally returned her call (thanks, AT&T; we'll be contacting another carrier). Suffice to say, we lost all foodstuffs in fridge & freezer. I think, given all the horrific happenings of this summer (hot water heater quitting on July 4, plumber arriving July 9 or so; car; etc etc) I feel we are just about out of options for catastrophe at this point. Been down so long, it looks like up to me, as Richard Farñia wrote.

printmaker

a lovely little film of printmaker Angie Lewin I came across in my virtual travels:

what to read next . . .

Discovered in More Book Lust; and I vaguely remember the movie, whose script was written by Harold Pinter, I believe.

Under construction, or something . . . plus two photos of summer activities

L was driving home from work early one evening a few weeks ago, somewhat distracted, and rear-ended a car about to make a left-hand turn. The van's airbags deployed and mayhem ensued as the car horn blared and the police arrived. According to D, there were three police cars directing traffic around the car, which was awaiting towing from the middle of the road. It happened in front of the local No Tell Motel, so lots of ladies left their posts to come out to survey the commotion.

No one was hurt, and the other car was driven away. Not so the van; it was declared totaled by the insurance company, mainly because the airbags are so expensive to replace.

Let us now draw a veil over that portion of the summer.

* * *
Two photos, one of a melon grown out back, which was very tasty indeed. Unfortunately, it was the only one to survive. The other is a comforter cover I'm making for L to take to college. It's almost done; a child of 10 could have sewn this (after realizing the book's directions were faulty, but that's another story).

A very nice person indeed

Poor D just tried to call his old friend, only to discover he had died

Brent R. Jackson

| Visit Guest Book

JACKSON, Brent R. Of Dorchester, died unexpectedly on December 20, 2009 at the age of 67, of pancreatic cancer. The son of the late Harry & Helen Jackson of Framingham, he is survived by his sister Sue Jackson of Woodbury, MN; aunts Meg Fillmore and Vi Ross of Hudson, Betty Greeley of Peabody, and Evelyn Greeley of Chapel Hill, NC; and uncle Tom Coolidge of Dunnellon, FL. Brent worked at the Boston Museum of Science for 37 years until 2004. He proposed and then built their Courses & Travel programs, which grew to hundreds of courses and science-based travel tours. Brent got his Bachelor's degree in Biology from Tufts in 1964 and a Master's degree in Zoology from UNH in 1968. Before joining the Museum he taught biology at the Newton North High School. He continued to lecture on teaching science to all ages of students at Suffolk and Boston Universities, and was named Science Educator of the Year in 1985 by the Massachusetts Association of Science Teachers. He worked with the Massachusetts State Science Fair as an organizer, fundraiser, and chairman. Until his death, he was a board member of the New England Museum Association and an active supporter of the Becket-Chimney Corners YMCA camp in Becket, Massachusetts. A veteran world traveller, Brent explored 205 cities in 28 countries across 6 continents, and 42 American states. In recent years, he was a guide for New England tour companies and a school evaluator for the Commonwealth. Information about a spring-time celebration of his life will be posted on his Facebook page. Donations can be made in his memory to the Becket-Chimney Corners YMCA, 748 Hamilton Road, Becket, MA 01223.

dog, cat, and herbs

remus


frank and bear


herbs



frank's flank

Recipe

Many years ago, I came across a copy of The Best from Libby Hillman's Kitchen: Treasured Recipes from 50 Years of Cooking and Teaching (Woodstock, VT: Countryman Press, 1993). I had never heard of her, but at the time we were living not very far from the Vermont town in which she lived. I learned that she had been quite a teacher and cookbook writer in Great Neck, NY, before moving up to southern Vermont to live near her daughter, who ran a restaurant, and also to live near Marlboro College, with its great summer music festival (she was also a musician; a Julliard graduate, as a matter of fact).

We had been going to the West Brattleboro Farmer's Market waaaay back then, and I finally put the redoubtable lady determinedly going from booth to booth with her basket under her arm together with her author photo on the dust jacket. It was secretly thrilling to see an actual author ambulate about the proceedings.

Although I don't cook very often from her book, there is a little recipe that goes with EVERYTHING. She called it Dry Rub, but we call it Libby's Rub, and you will not want to be without it ever again. It goes with beef, pork, chicken, oven roasted potatoes—well, you decide. We double this:

1/4 cup kosher salt
1 T pepper
1/2 t dry mustard
1/2 t allspice
1 T each thyme and marjoram
1/4 t cayenne pepper

Mix up and store in a lidded jar.

Still looking up, Betty! I think we made it. Are you ready for another go in JUNE??

Sunday

was spent for the most part working on two ongoing projects, and shaping up a sample chapter to submit for the consideration of the publisher for a large (lucrative, I hope) project. Fingers crossed that things are looking up!

L got a fancy iPod for buying a Mac (rebate makes it free). I think if I had such a gadget I'd never get anything done. It has wireless connection to just about everything, including radio stations. Earphones, take me away . . . To think that when I was about her age, the only thing to drag me away was the Mike Douglas Show after school. And the actual telephone, anchored in the kitchen. No dragging a receiver around the house.

Remus and Soul Adjust

Quiznos, baby!

Yes, L had her first training day. She gets to wear black pants, black shoes, black official Quiznos t-shirt, black Q apron AND a hat. They practiced making sandwiches. Tomorrow, more training. I will try to take a photo, though I've been told I'm ABSOLUTELY forbidden, of her in her regalia.

There is one issue: parking. Yes, even though city is trying to promote tourism, they metered every last inch of downtown, OR created privately run parking lots. Not much sense in a service-driven society.

Wrinkles

I've had a lot this week: Internet wrinkles, job wrinkles, dog tinkles that become wrinkles. Even though we keep our beady eye on that dog, she jingles off in an instant, probably through some wrinkle in time, to deposit a wee bit of herself in the far reaches of the living room.

happy wrinkles, all!

A puppy

ate my damn Internet connection! Or maybe that's "a damn puppy ate my Internet connection!!!"

I was without it all day, until L suggested turning everything off and checking the connections. The M***S***** people were no help at all. They used to be a regional company, but sadly have gone "off shore," as they say.

new opportunity

arrived in e-mail, but I have to "audition" for it, and it is both developmental and copy editing, so D and I will work on it together, if we get it. Good to open up the pipeline to another employer, but once again, asking for more bang for less buck. Oh well.

Monday

Can things get more chaotic? I think not

Oh to be in

England. I'm deeply into my little River Cottage guides, and channeling myself somewhere next the sea. It's an interesting mental trick to picture yourself somewhere you're not quite sure of, and to mediate on it so strongly that for a moment you really are there. Wherever there is.

And then there's Big Sur . . . We shall see.

Saturday

desultory; working, hoping D gets more income coming in. Can't handle much more on my own. Editing so time consuming. Publishing has changed so much in the past 20 years, it's an almost unrecognizable pursuit.

When I think of the deep edits on paper, and the quick Find option in Word on the computer: they just don't compare. Despair? Can't let it in.

Onward and upward, I say. It's all I can say.

* * *

A girl prepared

a great graduation; the valedictorian's speech was spot on, too.





Onward and Upward, L! The Oberlin Big Book of Forms was awaiting us in the PO box, as was an alumna sticker from school! Changes in the works, for sure.

Plus, my little handbook from River Cottage, Edible Seashore, about foraging at the edge, came too. I need to get myself to England soon. Finances need shaping up, though.

graduation

is tomorrow! Class Day was today; I'm still not sure what that means.

Miss Remus was "crated" while we were out today; she was yipping when we got back. This isn't boding well for being at the ceremony tomorrow, and then going for a celebratory lunch out.

Any suggestions, dog owners?

a cat's-eye view

a view of the herbs: mint and oregano. I'm reacquainting myself with my backyard, now that I have Remus's exercise regime to oversee . . .

Tune Tuesday!!!

This just in . . .

L got herself a job at Quiznos! Starting Saturday, the day after graduation.

The floor is open for fast-food work tales, good and bad

busy

Yikes; this will be one busy week. 3 editing projects ongoing, graduation, trying to keep up w/the Pilates Challenge of 3 mat classes a week, plus blogging. What was I thinking? Miss Remus Jean, the puppy, is a challenge in the house-breaking department (not robbery, I hasten to add).

Torrential downpour brought with it the steamy humidity of high summer. A perk for my hair, but not much else.

Roast chicken for dinner; greens from the garden. that's it!

medical, dental . . .

I'm a bit at sea with all these new projects coming in from the big client my packager has secured. Textbook publishing is heading more and more in the direction of allied health areas. My AMA Manual of Style and Taber's are getting a work out. Testbanks and more testbanks, as well as another edition of the "how to stay healthy" text, which is more interesting, but must be a very expensive book to buy. Lots of art/photos.

Hard to stay focused, when all the sentences read like this: On examination, her temperature is 98.6°F, and you see an erythematous and edematous external auditory canal with a small amount of purulent discharge. What is the most likely diagnosis?

Friday

The last day of high school . . . EVER! A momentous day, and I have a photo of toddler L in her little fancy blue bathing suit with the pink fish on it taken at the Island City House in Key West lo, those many years ago.

I still have those shorts I'm wearing, as a matter of fact.

summer is coming in; two versions:

Mystery . . .

Nancy Drew, of course. Who doesn't remember (well, you would if you'd been a girl, anyway) Nancy with her titian hair and her friends, boyish George and plump Bess. And her roadster. Didn't you want to hop in and zoom (perhaps not zoom) off? Carson Drew was her father, and Hannah Gruen the housekeeper. Yes, Nancy had lost her mother at 3 or at 10, depending on which book you read.

Carolyn Keene, the author, was apparently many people, but Nancy herself was the original creation of a book packager named Edward Stratemeyer, who also created the Hardy Boys.

There is quite a bit under this Wiki link . . .

Repose

Quiet. Shhh.

yip, yip, yip yiiiiiiiip!

Yes, miss Remus was crated, along with an old towel, a new towel, a cat toy that she had been tearing the bejesus out of, and a new rubber ball with a jingle bell inside.

The only thing left out was "something blue."

Which I became halfway through a very long night. L has her iPod and a fan whirring away as white noise. We had spine-tingling yelps, which would subside . . . then end! The arms of Morpheus awaited me not, because these periods were short lived. The cycle continued. I'm surprised we didn't get a knock on the door to find out why we were torturing an animal.

The DVD on dog training did NOT explain how to get the dog to accept the crate; it showed several happy dog owners reading, or doing other domestic chores, while their various dogs obediently and silently lay in their mesh crates.

We will see what happens next.

Tune Tuesday!!!

dogged

I guess I must remain so; my experience runs only to cats who are litter box trained in the twinkling of an eye. Not so Remus, who turns out to be a she rather than a he (further exposing what I don't know concerning dogs). Last night she produced a gusher on my bed, before leaping off to finish on the rug. The cats were not amused.

Though Remus has an excellent disposition, she also seems not to like being crated. She protests with a piercing howl! At present, she is dish-rag floppy on my lap.

A Dog for the Dogless

My cell rang, and it was B, telling me to go see some of the cutest puppies in the world in the WalMart parking lot. Jack Russells and Jack/Pit Bull mix. Well, you can imagine that I was in no mood for that kind of nonsense. But my car was not in my control, it seems, because I found myself turning into WalMart (I NEVER go there), looking for the "Free Puppies" sign. Well. What can I say?

Welcome, Remus.

Saturday

Well, this is one of those days when the expected happens, but it's still quite unexpected. I hope you're finally at peace, Dad.

Hey

I was in the grocery store the other day, explaining to my checkout friend that yes, I did actually work (she assumed I was a woman of leisure). When I told her what I did, she said, "Hey, I went to school for that! I wish I could do that, too!"

Who knew copy editors were cool? I am bound and determined to see the up side. Yes, I know it's an uphill battle for me, but still . . .

Are my projects all fascinating? Absolutely not.

Do I have more coming in than I know what to do with? Absolutely!

Do I learn something new every day? Definitely!

Am I stuck in traffic? Never!