Happy birthday to me

Today is my 56th birthday. I find it increasingly hard to believe I'm as old as I am, but I also realize that 56 is not what it was when I was a kid. I don't just mean in the childlike sense of anyone over 50 seemed ancient, but even looking at photographs of my mom and my aunts, in their 50s, they were much older than I look or feel today.

I've wanted my entire life to be a writer. I've written for my entire life. It took me until I was 54 to start seriously seeking publication. At 55, I signed a publishing contract and published my first book. Now my birthday gift to you all is to say if there is something you want to do with your life, get off your butt and do it. You're not getting any younger. If you wait 5 years to start all you will be is 5 years older.

I may regret the time I spent not attempting to publish, but I still wrote. Many of those stories are on my computer now, in one form or another. Many more are in my head, asking to come out. I am bulging with stories. And now that I've started, I will not allow anyting - including me - to derail the path that I should have taken long ago.

I've said it once, and I will say it as many times as I need to. Get out of your own way.

Down Time

My self-medication/presents from the craft show -
Aziraphale & Crowley and Phoebe Waller-Bridge

Of the unintended variety.

I had a two-day craft show after Thanksgiving, and I woke up on the Friday with a sore throat. No problem - we'd done family dinner the day before and it was probably just scratchy from talking too much. I wasn't getting sick.

I don't get sick often. It's an odd point of pride. I'm not Holly Hygiene; I avoid antibacterial hand stuff like it spreads the plague, and generally I get through the winter with no issues. Not this time.

We loaded into the venue in the afternoon and Mario went off to do things while I set up and hung out with the other vendors. Somewhere around the 4:00 p.m. opening, I started to cough. Not. Getting. Sick. Dammit.

Saturday. Sick. Sore throat. Cough like a German shepherd. Headache. Eight hour craft show with no backup - Mario already had plans and there was nothing to be done about it. At least it was in our town so if I was at less than my best, my neighbors would forgive me.

It's been over two weeks. I've coughed and hacked and cursed and consumed several gallons of cough medicine and orange juice and it's finally - FINALLY - breaking. I didn't go to the doctor, because a) I don't like to go to the doctor, and b) this has been my life.

Growing up with two chain smokers, my childhood was yearly bouts of bronchitis. When I grew up and moved out, it changed to once-every-five-years. Now it's apparently longer than that, because Mario may have seen me get sick before, but he remembers nothing as alarming (and noisy) as this.

Better now. My head no longer feels like a bowling ball that's going to fall off and roll around the living room. It's been annoying, too, because it's hard to write when you can't think straight, and I've been on a nice roll with the new project. So instead I've been doing social media and marketing stuff, the only level my brain would work at. But now it's clearing, and there are no more craft shows, and I can roll into Christmas with something resembling a sense of normal.

Free at last!

Pre-surgery. That dark triangle in the center shouldn't be there

Yesterday was my FINAL follow-up appointment with the retina specialist. He poked and prodded and dilated and numbed and finally, FINALLY, gave me the all clear.

He showed me some of my scans and I took pictures, for my own reference and also so everyone can see what kind of weird things your body can do in places you can't see.

I'm at about 90% now. He said I may improve beyond that, and I might not. But I'm no longer at risk of anything becoming detached, and I see just about the same as I did before the surgery. My vision was never an issue - I'm massively near-sighted, with or without other problems.

One thing he mentioned to me today that I thought was interesting, or at least his explanation of it was. My right eye, the one that was operated on, is also a lazy eye. That was diagnosed when I was 9, when I got my first glasses, and they made me do all kinds of exercises like focusing on a pencil and drawing it toward my nose without crossing my eyes. It helped. Maybe.

From another angle. You can actually see the hole at the top

He said it really didn't, and that the only way to completely correct a lazy eye is to diagnose it at a much earlier age. He's actually working on a toddler-age video game that can test vision, for this reason. But he said that my eye is still lazy, and though I think I'm looking through both eyes equally, my brain isn't used to focusing that one, so I need to try harder.

He explained it like meditation. "You're supposed to be emptying your mind, but a thought will creep in. You notice the thought, but then you bring your mind back to the meditation. Same thing - you'll notice that you're not fully focusing with both eyes. Just bring the right eye back, and keep going." His theory is that by doing it that way, I'll build up more of a habit.

9/23 - almost smooth again. It still might flatten out more over time

PI don't know how right he is. I'm just glad to be seeing the last of him, for reasons having nothing to do with him personally.

How it started

I wrote my first stories on a typewriter like this. Or, rather, I typed my first stories. I wrote plenty before that, but my handwriting has never been all that good, so when I discovered typing, it was the way to go.

My dad was a Philadelphia firefighter, but like most of them, he also had a part-time job (both because such an important job didn't pay enough, and because he wanted to keep me in sufficient toys; I was an only child). His part-time job was a shared maintenance gig at a local college - he and two of his friends split the job between them; the college didn't care who did what, so long as the hours were covered.

He brought home random interesting things that were going to be thrown away, and one day he hauled in this ancient, black Olivetti typewriter, the kind that was completely open on top and had black and white enamel keys.

It was very similar to this one which I trashpicked a few years ago, my old one having disappeared during a later childhood move (thanks, Mom). This typewriter lives in a corner of the room that serves as our library/my office, otherwise known as the house's original dining room.

Gratitude

Cats. Walking on books for centuries.

I may not mention it here often, but I'm grateful for this blog, and for all of you who are still out there reading it after all these years.

I would be grateful to the blog, even without readers, because the one thing it has always done is keep me writing. Even when I'm writing nothing else, the blog has been there, keeping me limber.

Once upon a time, before my life was so full, I wrote all the time. Every day after work, or before bed, or in the morning. Whenever an idea struck me.

Then I got older, got busier, got married, got a lot more things to do that I didn't even always want to do, and writing for me drifted away for a while.

But the blog, which I started because I wanted to keep up with my far-flung sewing friends, remained. And I remained faithful to it, in somewhat sporadic fashion, and when the urge to write came back to me, at least I still remembered how to word.

Because of this blog.

One more thing off the list

So I needed an author photo - for Facebook, for Twitter, for the publisher and all the promo stuff we'll be doing (in addition to my actual BOOK, y'all).

I hate my picture taken. I'm self-conscious about my teeth, and my glasses reflect, and I've got circles under my eyes and and and...

My friend Dianne is a pretty good photographer (she was the only friend who was allowed to take pictures at our wedding, because I didn't want to spend the day flinching at cameras), so I asked her last week if she'd take a few pictures. She agreed, but she's away this week, so...

Here you have a writer in her bathroom with a smartphone.

I took about 60 pictures, got 4-5 that I actually didn't dislike, and then futzed with them in my photo editing software. I didn't do much, really - I am what I am, so I didn't do anything to my actual face beyond smoothing out the lines in my neck and a few uneven patches in my skin. The rest is 55 year old me, happy that I'm going to be published, happy that one more item on the to-do list is checked off, happy that I don't have to wait a week for photos that I probably wouldn't like any better, and at least when it was just me, the phone and my new shower curtain, I could mutter all I wanted about bad angles and just how many colors is my hair right now?

Anyway, that's done. Exhale.

I feel seen

First off, I want to thank everyone who left a comment on my last post. I'm not sure which, if any, will end up being used, but they are all food for thought.

I saw this sign on Facebook the other day and had to share it. I don't think I've ever felt so seen in my life. This is definitely me. Especially the weird stuff on the curb bit. Far too many treasured possessions started out as weird things left on the curb.

What about you? I know I'm not the only trash picker out there.

Normal is good

So on Wednesday we got up at the ass crack of dawn to drive to the hospital. Know what sucks about being up that early? We drove almost a half hour, parked, and were inside before the sun even came up. The least I expected was a sunrise.

Somehow I had neglected to realize that anesthesia, even the local variety, would require an IV, and we had to do the dance of needle phobia again. They knocked me totally out for the very beginning, and then brought me up so that I could respond to directions to move my eyes, etc. Somewhere close to the end of the procedure, I realized I was listening to conversation and equipment noises, but it didn't bother me. Then they rolled me back to my cubicle and I startled the nurse by getting up and asking for coffee.

I had to wear the fly shield over the eye all yesterday, and took it off this a.m. at my follow up appointment, where I was given three kinds of eye drops, each with its own schedule.

I can see ok already. There are blurry spots in my vision,which will clear as the stitches dissolve and the swelling goes down. The white of my eye is pretty solidly red, which is bruising. I'm a little discolored, but not the shiner I expected.

Another appointment in a week to see how the healing is coming along. Assuming it's started already, because the stitches are itching like I've got sand in my eye and I can't rub or scratch.

Best part of today: the shower in the afternoon and wine with dinner. Normal is good.

I'm a grownup

In other words, I made it through my pre-admission testing last Wednesday without having a toddler meltdown.

Medical history, basic exam, blood pressure, EKG ... all normal except BP was a little elevated, probably due to my stressing about needles.

Or, as the nurse taking it said, "It could also have to do with that extra 15 pounds you're carrying."

Like I don't know. And I compared it to hers, and she said she had 20 on me, and we both started laughing.

The blood draw was remarkably painless. Which I knew it would be, I just can't look at needles without wanting to pass out. Interesting for someone who sews all the time and who has literally sewn THROUGH her finger twice with a sewing machine.

And speaking of, meet my new lovely. The hospital had a thrift store, and that was my reward for not having a tantrum. The machine wouldn't have happened except Mario pointed it out to me sitting under a table in a cute little olive green-and-gold suitcase.

It sews like a dream. I test drove it on my surgical instruction sheet, just to show it who was boss.

Small town

Speaking of my village, I just ran across this picture on my phone that I took last year. I don't know Megan, and I don't know the groom, but I do love knowing that I live in Bedford freaking Falls.

It's going to be something good

Harriet, being adorable on the kitchen table

Random roundup of news here.

Back in January, I got my eyes examined. For the first time in probably five years. I hadn't noticed my prescription changing much, but I'm basically blind as a bat, so hard to tell. I've been ordering new glasses online every year with my old prescription, and they've seemed fine - I always saw better, but that could simply be that the lenses weren't scratched.

Eye doctor writes new prescription, says he'd like to have me back for a few more tests because I'm so nearsighted; there are a few things he'd like to rule out. That turns into him sending me to a retina specialist, to further rule out things, and instead having them ruled in. Basically, I'm having eye surgery on May 1st to repair something that isn't quite broken yet.

I have a small hole in my retina. Specialist says it could have been there for years - I could even have been born with it - but myopia is very stressful on certain parts of your eyes, and, like every other part of us, even the muscles and tissues surrounding our eyes stiffen up with age. Something could detach, and soon.

So. Surgery.

Doctor says it's actually very routine (though it's not HIS eye), and will only take 30-45 minutes tops. I'll go home with a patch and eyedrops, lose the patch the next day and keep up the drops for another week or so.

Truthfully I'm more freaked out about the pre-admission testing, but that's because I'm a huge needle-phobic baby who has never yet managed to get a needle without either hurling or passing out.

I know. I come off as such a hardass sometimes, but show me something with a point that isn't intended for sewing, and off I go..

I'm trying to decide what kind of reward I deserve for getting through the testing without hitting either a tech or the floor. It's going to be something good.

Roundup

Snowing today, so I'm wishing for spring

I found out last Friday that my three-day-per-week job was coming to an end. Someone retired recently and they decided to rearrange and combine jobs so that they would only have full-time employees. Unless I wanted full-time? I did not. Full time = overtime, and I most certainly did not want that.

So here I am. Gainfully unemployed at the moment, but I'm okay with it. I have other offices where I've temped regularly, and I'll reach out soon. Right now, I'm enjoying the luxury of being home for a few weeks.

Resting, you know. By starting to prepare for spring craft show season, by finishing some house projects that have been lingering (can you believe it's been a year since we moved?), by writing every day.

I'm waiting on notes from the publisher regarding their suggested edits to my book. Then I get to go through the manuscript and see if I agree with their suggestions, make the changes (if I agree) and defend my choices (if I do not). From the discussion I had with the editor, it doesn't sound like there will be much, but that remains to be seen. Also, one person's definition of "much" is another person's "how dare you say my child is ugly?" So, we'll see.

One of the things that I really like about this publishing co-op is that I have veto power over the cover design. Because there are some awful covers out there, and I'd prefer mine not be one of them. They commission a batch of designs, present them to me, and I can say if I like any of them, and if not, I can at least say what parts of them I liked, and then they do another round of designs. Hoping for good things.

Cats are in flux. When we lose one, it always seems that it takes a while for the rest to discover the new world order, even if it's exactly the same. Annie has been a bit of a bully to Harriet lately, and Nicky, for some strange reason, is being nice to me. I'll take it.

Currently working on a new writing project set during the Great Depression, because it's an era that has always intrigued me. Not a lot to show for it yet, but these things take time. Hopefully not as long a time as the previous one, which could be going to college if it was a person.

If you have any questions about the book project or the process it took for me to (finally) find a publisher, let me know!

55 and up

A little corner of my writing space

Somehow or other, Thursday was my 55th birthday. I have no idea how that happened. I think that every year, but 55? Really? That puts me in a whole new age category, the dreaded "55 and up."

There is some news, though. Nothing definite yet, but an offer of a publishing contract from a small publishing co-op. It's worth thinking about. Even if I had literary agents clamoring for my book, and even if they sold it right out of the gate (which wouldn't be likely), it wouldn't be published for at least a year.

I'm thinking it over, and a lawyer friend is reviewing the contract. I'll know more soon.

Happy Fourth!

We recently had another time travel incident.  The calendar may say 2018, but in Lansdowne, it felt like some earlier, less contentious (but still very diverse) time.

There was a parade in the morning, which I did not attend because we had six straight days of temps in the high 90s and I could not move from under my fan . . .  on the first floor, where we've taken up residence lately because it got too hot too fast to put the AC in the bedroom window.  So Mario's on the couch in the living room, and I'm in the next room on the loveseat.  It works, for now, but guess what's happening when it cools off?

Going by the photos, the parade was standard Americana - fire engines, string bands (for you non-Philly readers, just go Google "Mummers Parade" and thank me later), kids on homemade floats, high school bands.

I honestly didn't know people still did this stuff.  

In the evening, there was a concert and fireworks down on the high school football field.  The town officially stopped fireworks a while back, but the local athletic association didn't want to let them go, so they fundraise every year, in addition to selling tickets to the actual event.. We bought tickets - though the fireworks were certainly visible outside the school field, and outside the town, it just seemed more fun to sit on the bleachers and ooh and aah with our neighbors.

I was impressed.  Small town it may be, but these fireworks were as good as any I've seen on the Ben Franklin Parkway in Philly, without being shoulder-to-shoulder with several hundred thousand sweaty, semi-drunken people.  There was even a pre-show concert, and the girl singing the national anthem at the beginning of the video can certainly hold her own.