Cabin fever and a grammar hammer

Well, this winter seems never-ending and cabin fever is bringing out the worst in me. I just read a list of the most 'contented' states - states where life expectancy is longer, that have a very low percentage of obese people, and have higher yearly incomes. Most of them were damned cold; Minnesota and both Dakotas. I'm thinking people live longer because their organs are frozen for about a third of the year, and so, are better preserved.

But, that's neither here nor there. Cabin fever is making my worst nit-picky side come out. Everything annoys way too easily. So I've decided to have a pet peeve a week and kind of spread out the irritation until spring blooms and I can get into the open air and take a walk. (To those of you who will point out that I actually can take a walk in the cold - I don't want to.)

This week's peeve is grammar. My mother was a funny lady and pretty lenient about most things, but when it came to table manners and grammar she was a real stickler and I like to think I'm carrying her torch, so to speak. Yes, I know that English is a fluid, ever-changing language. But I believe it's important to master the basics before creating something new.  

There are a few things I've given up on. "Hopefully" when you mean "I hope" for example. Though strictly incorrect, the meaning is clear. My mother held hopefully this was used by politicians in the hope that no one would actually associate them personally with what they were hoping. Probably a good assumption.

And the other day I heard a newscaster say "impactful." What can you say to that? I just shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. And using "are done" when you really mean "have finished" just makes me sad, but I feel it's here to stay.

However, the misuse of the pronouns "me" and "I" still has me yelling at the television and muttering under my breath when I can't really, politely, correct someone out loud.

Growing up, one of the big errors that seemed to abound was the misuse of the word 'me'. "Johnny and me are going to the park." My mother would say "Hmm?" and wait for a correction to "Johnny and I." Then she'd give the okay nod.  

Somehow the pendulum seems to have swung so far that much of the English speaking world is afraid to use 'me'. So now I hear from teachers, friends, TV reporters, and characters on the screen, say, "Would you like to go to the park with Johnny and I?" or "They were having lunch with Mom and I?" It's the object of a preposition for crying out loud. What you really want to to say is, "With me." It's making me nuts and, as my husband will attest, I'm already walking a fine line on that front.

So please, for the sake of my sanity, let's nip this insidious practice in mid-bloom and go back to the good old days when spring was in the air and we loved to say, "I ain't gonna say ain't 'cause ain't ain't in the dictionary."

Insurance Debacle Update

So many people have been kind enough to ask how we are getting along with the whole insurance debacle that I feel I should publish a little update.




This week we ended up getting Eileen private pay insurance. This will give us some breathing room to see if we can work through the system or not.


After a week spent on the phone and in the Affordable Care Office set up in the Prince George's County Social Services office, my feeling is that we will not be able to unless we go to Annapolis and sit on Anthony Brown's desk and make him notice us.


Unbelievably, even the poor saps who work in that office have no more access to the powers that be than you or I. After spending almost two hours waiting last Wednesday we finally met with a really nice guy named Ronald. He understood our problem, could not fix it there, and spent an hour to get through to customer service, only to be cut off once he connected. And he wasn't even able get the same person back on the line! It's enough to scream.


Some have asked if this has caused me to change my political affiliation - it has not. I figure you don't disown your children because of mistakes, even disastrous ones. You just end up being bitterly disappointed and you don't vote for them for Governor.


On a cheerier note - MDHMH sent a correction letter. They realized that Eileen is the Ward and that I am the Guardian. Will wonders never cease?


PS: A dear friend has given me a 'special number' that she called and got immediate help. This may work for us, but because of other circumstances to do with Medicaid, we haven't used this magic bullet. I'm saving it though, just in case.

Health insurance and some rather inventive language

Just an amusing little anecdote today about the wonderful Maryland health system and our ward.


For those of you who may not know, two years ago Tom and I became the 'guardians' of his adult cousin, Eileen, when her mother died. Eileen has myriad developmental problems and some mental health issues as well. She is just able to live by herself in the house she grew up in with the help a home health aide. We have power of attorney. Tom handles all of her finances and I handle health issues and groceries. Eileen pretty much depends on us for everything.


Now between a massive screw-up (no other word for it) with her old employer and its new COBRA administrator and the massive screw-up (again, no other word for it) that is the Affordable Health Care Act in Maryland, Eileen is at this moment without insurance.


So far, you say, not very amusing. It's coming.


I said above 'no other word for it', but I am wrong. My dear husband has found many other words for it. I've never heard most of them. Not that I am particularly conversant with that particular speech form. I've never been a sailor. But I have seen a lot of movies. I've heard a lot of language in those movies. And I think those writers could up their vocabulary a notch or two by speaking to my husband about Healthcare in Maryland.


However, just when things looked pretty darned bleak and what we both needed was a really good laugh, we got a letter in the mail from the Maryland Department of Mental Health. It was a request to fill out a survey on our recent dealings with the agency. God bless their little pea-picking hearts, the letter was addressed to Eileen - the parent/guardian/caretaker of Penny Petersen. And we thought these agencies had no sense of humor. 


The letter did the trick. Tom laughed. I laughed. My daughter laughed. My sister laughed. True, this is not much of a story and perhaps you had to be there, but after a day spent at Social Services trying in vain to correct the whole insurance fiasco, that silly letter turned out to be a life saver.

Tunnel vision - or the lack thereof

Writing can be difficult to say the least. That blank page thing is not an exaggeration. Blank pages are pretty damned scary. And my male tunnel vision approach is not working out as planned.


Yesterday I woke up determined to get a two page synopsis of my new book written. To the uninitiated I know this sounds like a piece of custard tart - Mary met John, they fell in love, they discovered a body, the dog ate the evidence, the killer attacked the dog, Mary saved John from a burning building and they caught the maniac. All lived happily ever after, except the maniac who disapproved of the prison's Friday lunch menu.


But I find trying to reduce 65,000 words to a measly 800 or so while keeping some semblance of an orderly plot, and making it interesting and reflective of my writing style is really, really hard. But I was determined not to give in to all of the distractions around me and get it done! (Oh my goodness, my nails really need a manicure.)


I had already done the grunt work. I had reread my notes, scanned the book, and made an outline to follow. I was reviewing said notes and deciphering my chicken scratch (my handwriting leaves something to be desired, such as legibility) when the phone rang. I needed to answer it because we were expecting - no, expecting is too strong a word - we were hoping for a call from the insurance company about our ward's health insurance. So I answered it. Shouldn't have. It was as you might have guessed a salesperson on a mission. (Just a minute, I need another cup of tea.)


Back to the writing board, tea in hand. I had just figured out what "D&R wanr behind" written in the margin meant when I remembered that I had not yet done my aerobic arm exercise - my New Year's resolution. Four minutes dancing with weights to 'I Will Survive" and I was back to business.


Four hours, five cups of tea, three more phone calls, a snack, another snack, a minute dusting the computer, a call to my daughter, and a quick load of laundry later and it was done. 64,879 words encapsulated in a brief 639 word précis. It wasn't bad. A little humor, strong plot line, characters clearly identified. This was okay. Culprit caught and put in jail. But it seemed like something was missing. I read it again - slowly. OMG, I forgot the murder! Tunnel vision where art thou?

2014 - It's got to be a better year

As the new year begins I am trying to get back into a rhythm of some sort regarding, I was going to say my writing, but my life would be more accurate.


Too much has been going on in the extended family and very little of it good. A death and two serious illnesses have taken their toll on all of us. I have been distracted to say the least. I find myself staring out the window a lot, walking in aimless circles, eating a lot of junk food, and generally wasting entire days unable to focus.


But it's 2014, time to pull myself up by my bootstraps - I am not entirely sure what bootstraps are, but I'm pretty sure that pulling them up is a good thing - and getting on with life, writing, and - heaven help me - a healthier, or at least less fattening, diet.


First step - I will be positive. After all 2013 wasn't all bad. I did get my book published. Last week I went to Barnes and Noble in Alexandria and signed some books for the store. Just like a real author! I'm going to a cozy mystery conference in May. This is all good stuff.


And second - I'm getting organized. I can hear a lot of laughing out loud, but I'm determined. I will develop tunnel vision. I will be like many men I know and completely ignore anything that is not right in front of me.


Of course, this will happen as soon as I finish writing this blog, making dinner, and then spending tomorrow on the phone with the fine people from Affordable Health Care, COBRA, CareFirst and probably a few others in order to straighten out the mess someone - and we have no idea who - has made of Eileen's health insurance. So really, I will get organized when hell freezes over or when I throw the phone out the window, whichever comes first. This is my plan and I'm sticking to it.





In the meantime, I am stuck on a key part of my new mystery. But after tomorrow's marathon phoning I may change the whole plot anyway to a woman driven mad by insurance companies who gets her revenge by locking all of the people who run these companies in a room with a non-stop recording telling them to "Press 1" now, but never letting them do it!

And a Partridge in a Pear Tart?

Well, I managed to do it again. As usual, my brain appeared to be elsewhere when I was shopping and I completely miscounted the cream cheese. This is absolute proof that my brain has a limited ability to function when asked to do one thing at a time. This should not have been hard. For the first time in forty-two years I was not cooking a big family dinner on Christmas Eve. The only assignment I had was to make a dessert for Christmas dinner at Tom's sister's.

Maybe it was because it was the first time in forty-two years that Tom and I were going to be alone on Christmas Eve. This was a bit of a hurdle for us. We've always hosted dinner on Christmas Eve. It started with dinner for my side of the family and grew through the years to include just about anybody. One year we had a very handsome policeman drop by to be stared at by three giggly teenage girls.

At any rate to get back to the matter at hand, I decided to make a pear tart. The pear tart that I make is quite delicious, if I do say so myself. But the cookie crust is a little tricky. It's easy to overcook it. So I baked the crust Christmas Eve and planned to fill it Christmas morning giving myself plenty of time to make another one if necessary.  But it wasn't necessary. The crust was perfect. A little crispy, just brown enough, good enough to eat.

Cookie crust the way it should be

So Christmas morning in an effort to fight off the blues I was feeling not having my kids there, I looked at this crust and smiled. Then I got busy making the filling. Well, not exactly making it. But very busy looking for the cream cheese which is the basis of it. I know I had some. I had made a list. I went to the store and remembered to bring the list. And, best of all, I actually read the list and got what was on it. So the cream cheese had to be there. Didn't it?



Christmas dessert

Luckily it was early in the day when I searched for the cream cheese. Strangely enough, while I did not have any actual cream cheese, I did have all the ingredients for a Bundt cake, including heavy cream and cake flour. And it was pretty darned good, but not as good as a Pear Tart!



Angel hair and Christmas

I would like to thank all of you who came by the Bowie Grille on Saturday to help me officially launch Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My. The day was a great success. Not only was I surrounded by family, but neighbors and old friends and new friends managed to find time only weeks before Christmas to share the day with me. I can't tell you how much it meant to have you all there. Thank you so much.

And because Christmas is only days away I am going to tell a little Christmas story about the year we put angel hair on the tree. Sounds pretty, doesn't it?

Now, my father was a nut about Christmas. We had no money to speak of and really didn't get much in the way of gifts, but that didn't matter. It just meant so much to him, from decorating the tree to arranging the gifts under it, to hanging our socks at the end of our beds, that we could have gotten socks and underwear and we'd think we had gone to heaven.

He was very big into decorating the tree. It was an art. The tree itself usually looked like one Charlie Brown might have rejected, but we loved it anyway. Lights were strung with care. Ornament placement was crucial. Tinsel was put on strand by strand.

It was an exciting night. We'd have a bath and put on our new pajamas. My mother made all of our clothes and we always had new pajamas for Christmas. By this time, Dad had wired the tree to the wall (we had cats and they tended to climb) and had gotten the lights on. Then it was our turn to put on the ornaments and finish up with tinsel.

But this particular year, tinsel was edged out by Angel Hair. Some marketing genius placed it front and center in the Christmas decorations aisle. And my Dad bought it. It looked great - elegant, wispy clouds of gossamer fluff. We were thrilled. Putting tinsel on strand by strand can be tedious for an adult. For little kids it was a royal pain. This stuff didn't need that kind of precision. My brother, Tim, and my sister, Chris, and I took it out of its package and started strewing. Then we started itching. And then we started crying.

The marketing genius had forgotten to mark clearly on the label that Angel Hair was made of spun fiberglass and, in the wrong hands - well, any hands really - it cut like little knives and itched like the devil.

So the new pajamas came off and we once again hopped into the tub while Dad took the angel hair off the tree with a few choice words and threw it in the trash. We went to bed still itching.

I look back fondly on that night. I have no idea why. Maybe it's the lesson that we learned - never tinker with tradition. Or maybe it's just that I've forgotten most of those past Christmas's and this is the one I remember. Whichever, for about a minute and a half we had a tree fit for heaven, even though it ended up, probably with the marketing genius, in another place entirely.