Nutmeg

Nutmeg, my furry companion for more than nine years, crossed the Rainbow Bridge last Friday, after a long illness. She was a rescue cat, found in a culvert with her kittens when she was a couple of years old. By the time I met her at Second Chance Pets, her kittens had been adopted and she was ready for a life of leisure. That is to say she was prepared to be a couch potato for the rest of her life.

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She was affectionate and laid back, with a loud purr and a sandpaper tongue, with which she loved to wash my face. She loved ice cream and spaghetti sauce (no, not together). She was overweight by nature and never saw the kitchen counter, but she had her favorite places on the living room couch and my bed. She upheld the cat’s tradition of never allowing a bed to be changed without feline assistance, and nothing beat sleeping on a towel warm from the dryer.

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Early in December she lost her appetite, a marked change for her, and we began a series of visits to the vet. She had severe arthritis in her spine, but a battery of tests didn’t turn up much else, despite her obvious digestive problems. Steroid shots helped for a while, but when those stopped working, the vet diagnosed her problem as lymphoma. Gradually she stopped eating, but she still climbed into my lap to sleep in the evening, until at last she let me know it was time.

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When I started to put her things away over the weekend, I realized that even our furry friends leave the bits and pieces of a life behind. From time to time I go to estate sales with my friend Gerry Bartlett. Gerry has an antique business and looks for treasures for her shop. I occasionally buy something for myself (a book and two movies at the last one, a turtle carved from tiger eye not too long ago), but I remind myself that I don’t need more “stuff.”

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Seeing the material remains of someone’s life and household can be interesting, but I also find it a bit depressing. The contents of the kitchen spread all over the counters. Souvenirs of a stranger’s long ago vacations. Books, some well worn, some never opened. Clothing and shoes and linens. I hate to think of that happening to the contents of my house one day, but I’m not sure how to avoid it.

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I thought about that as I gathered up Nutmeg’s possessions and decided what to do with them. I expect another cat will find her way into my life eventually, so I cleaned the litter box and stashed it in the storage closet, along with food dishes, mats, comb, brush, and nail clippers, a few toys, and the doggy steps Nutmeg needed to make it onto the couch the last few months. Toys that showed years of wear I threw away, along with half a dozen of those corrugated cardboard scratching pads, which Nutmeg loved.

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She didn’t love the scratching post or the small kitty condo that sat in my living room ignored for years, so I put those out at the end of my driveway on Sunday evening. They were gone Monday morning, off to entertain someone else’s cat. I brought a box of Meow Mix seafood and sauce, the only food she was interested in the last couple of months, to work for the office cats and the ferals in the back yard. The leftover veterinary food (which was supposed to help Nutmeg lose weight, although it never really did) I took back to the clinic, to pass along at their discretion.

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I sometimes think my bedroom is haunted, not unpleasantly so, by the many pets who have shared it with me. I feel paws crossing the bed when there’s no one there, and I remember Cleo and Twinky, and the other cats before them, and the dogs, Sandy the scruff terrier, Fred the labrador mix, and Albert the gentlemanly basset hound. Now Nutmeg has joined them across the Rainbow Bridge. There should be quite a furry crowd waiting for me one day.

Happy New Year 2019!

Every year I try to write a New Year’s post, although sometime during the first week of January seems to be about the best I can do. This year I spent New Year’s Day with friends, eating various traditional foods, including pork chops, black-eyed peas, and cabbage (in the form of coleslaw this year). My own tradition involves herring in wine sauce, but I didn’t take that to the party, since no one else likes it. I ate herring on New Year’s Eve, because I have every year since I was a little girl, and I’d be afraid to break the streak. Besides, I do like herring in wine sauce. (Good thing, because there’s a two-pound jar—the only size available at HEB—in my refrigerator.)

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I wrote very little fiction this year. I did some editing, for myself and a friend, wrote my Grammar Gremlin columns for the Houston Bay Area RWA chapter newsletter, blog posts, and book reviews. I closed out (I think) my contest career by unexpectedly winning the RWA Golden Heart in Paranormal Romance for Jinn on the Rocks, the third manuscript in my Pandemonia series. I’m still thinking about independent publishing for the three Jinn books, but I’ve been thinking about that for years, and it has not magically happened. Go figure. I’m also thinking I might try my hand at writing a cozy mystery, since I’ve been reading so many of them. Clearly I’m not into “write what you know,” so maybe I should try “write what you like to read.”

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I read 62 books in 2018, just clearing my Goodreads goal of sixty. (There was a time when I was a book-a-day reader, but those years are far behind me.) Each year I’ve noticed I read more on Kindle than on paper, but I was really surprised to see that in 2018 I read only a dozen printed books, and fifty ebooks. (As I write this, my Voyage and my Fire 8 are on their chargers on the kitchen counter; my Fire 10, which I bought mostly for watching video, is on the coffee table. Now and then I even read on my phone.) On New Year’s Day there were 627 titles in my Amazon cloud, but I think I’ve bought three or four more since then.

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Last year I read 27 mysteries by 15 authors, including multiple books by Cindy Brown, Annabel Chase, Waverly Curtis, Robert Goldsborough, Pamela Kopfler, Cynthia Kuhn, Julie Mulhern, and Kate Parker. Almost all of these books were cozies. I’ve been a mystery fan all my reading life, so this isn’t a surprise.

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Science Fiction used to be my go to reading, and I still have more science fiction (and occasional fantasy) on my keeper shelves than any other genre. This year I read eleven SF novels, but 7 were in Kirsten Beyer’s Star Trek: Voyager series. I’m hoping to up my SF reading this year. I have 55 to chose from in my Amazon cloud, not to mention the printed books in the bedroom. And all those keepers to reread some day.

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I read nine “mainstream” novels last year, but three of those were Laura Andersen’s Boleyn trilogy, set in an alternate Tudor England and just as easily added to the SF list. I love alternate history, and I have Andersen’s second trilogy to look forward to this year. My romance reading was down this year, only five, but I have plenty of those on hand for 2019.

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In nonfiction, I read ten books (and nonfiction accounted for four of the twelve printed books), ranging from the craft of writing to Hollywood history to the tale of a T Rex skeleton. I have plenty of nonfiction ebooks waiting, too.

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This month my faithful HP desk top computer reached the more-than-venerable age of nine. Yes, really. There was a time, long ago, when I actually looked forward to a new computer (or a new version of a favorite program), but now I’ve been putting off making the change for at least three months. The computer is slow, and I frequently have to wait for programs that stop responding, but I muddle along because I dread trying to get a new machine set up and working. We got new computers at work last summer (Dell all-in-ones), but we had IT guys do the switch (I wasn’t even there). And the switch has not been without problems. I haven’t decided between an all-in-one or a small tower with a big monitor, and I’ll probably have to buy a new (wireless) printer). Meanwhile I back up my documents frequently and cross my fingers.

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Wishing you all a happy and healthy year full of reading, writing, friendship, and all the other good things in life.

books 2019

 

An Afternoon at the Post Office

The other day I made a trip to the post office, on behalf of the Scorekeeper. We needed the usual three or four rolls of forever stamps, and Jo Anne wanted Christmas stamps, maybe sixty of those. I seldom buy stamps for my own use, having discovered the ease of paying most of my bills through my bank, but I’m a regular at the post office nearest the Scorekeeper.

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It’s the first week in December, so I wasn’t surprised the post office was busy. As usual, there were only two clerks working; the other three stations were piled high with packages and such. At one of the open stations a woman with a large plastic bin filled with small packages (maybe a hundred of them!) was handing them to a clerk in groups of five or six, each handful requiring discussion. Ahead of me in line were a woman and a young girl. The woman had a shopping bag full of presents, which she apparently intended to package with post office supplies before she mailed them out of the country. That requires paperwork, so she and her daughter moved aside to fill out customs declarations, and I got my turn at the counter.

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Scorekeeper check in hand, I asked for three rolls of forever flags, not always available at this particular post office, which has been known to run completely out of stamps. Then I asked for three sheets of Christmas stamps, and the clerk showed me a card with birds and one with last year’s Madonna. “Don’t you have Santa or Christmas Carols?” I asked, having checked on this year’s stamps on line. I was prepared to take birds if that was all they had.

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“Yes,” the clerk said, “but if you want those you have to pay with a credit card.”

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What the hell? Which wasn’t exactly what I said, but close. “Why?” I demanded. I’ve been buying stamps with Scorekeeper checks there for years, frequently from this particular clerk.

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He shrugged. No idea. Orders from the management.

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By then there were even more people in line, so I wrote out the check for flag stamps, while the clerk scurried off and came back with a bag of Christmas stamps and a hand held credit card reader. I pulled out my own credit card and paid for three cards of stamps (one set of Santas and two of Christmas Carols). But I still wanted an explanation of this particular inconvenience, and the clerk said I could talk to a manager at the lobby window.

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So I stuffed the stamps and receipts into my purse and headed for the lobby—and my cell phone rang. It was the veterinarian who has been treating my ailing cat, and I spent five minutes in the post office lobby discussing cat poop on my cell phone. Amazingly, that was the high point of my visit.

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Once we’d settled on the cat’s further treatment (a week’s worth of pills—that should be fun), I went to the lobby door and cornered a manager, who listened to my story and announced that the clerk was completely wrong, and the manager would speak to him. As I left, the manager was indeed speaking to the clerk. End of story, or so I thought.

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But as I drove away, the proverbial penny dropped, and I realized I had written a $160 check for three $50 rolls of stamps. I pulled the receipt out of my purse and saw that he had charged me for one card of the damn bird stamps.

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Back to the post office, where I boldly cut across the line (still long, and the woman with all the little packages in the plastic bin was still there) and had a brief argument with the clerk. After insisting once that he had given me the bird stamps, he must have seen the murderous look in my eye; he checked around the stack of stamps near his register and handed me my birds.

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It took me forty minute to buy those stamps. I think I’m going to look into the stamps-by-mail service on the USPS web site.

 

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