I haven't been blogging this past week because I've started writing again. Really writing. In the past I've written short stories and I've won some competitions and I have sold a few things...a long time ago when I was young and there was more time and I had a whole lot more energy. Nowadays I've a house to keep and a husband to take care of and a dog that needs more attention than a young child because he's like having a three-year-old underfoot. But I've really missed writing. I'm almost finished with my first novel which I've been working on for years but got distracted from by activities of daily living like the grocery store and the bank and bill paying and, of course, working for a paycheck and raising a kid. When I was about halfway through with the first novel, an idea for a second one popped up and I've been roughly outlining it on a yellow legal pad. I think this might be a good one.

We've all heard the expression that if you do what you love, the money will come. I think that's too simple. I don't believe that's always true. I'd love to be a butterfly farmer too, but where's the money in that? And why is money the goal and not just the happiness? Well, that's a silly question, isn't it? We all have to have an income of some sort in order to pursue happiness...and to have food on the table and something to cover our heads and to see our children educated. Such is life.

I'm approaching 50 (seven months and counting) and I think this marks a new era for me. Lately I've been considering the things I've done and the things I've missed out on and the things that are still out there for me to sink my teeth into. I've been thinking that the child-rearing and the husband-caring and the dog-watching and the bill paying and the grocery shopping should take second chair to what makes me happy--writing. I haven't discussed this with my family but I really believe it's no one but myself stopping me. My son is stationed at Point Mugu, living with his girlfriend, earning his medals and ribbons and stripes for his uniform. He won't care now that his mother is sitting at the keyboard with her back turned to the rest of the world. My husband would never interfere, not even to ask when's dinner? because he thinks my writing (what little I've allowed him a peek at) is good enough to provide our retirement, which we won't have if something miraculous doesn't happen in the next 10 years or so. My doggie will just sprawl on the floor at my feet and snooze, asking only to have his head stroked every now and then.

So I think there will be less blogging and more writing. Now, if I could just convince myself I'm worthy of a laptop. Next blog.

It is cold in here! We're having a cold snap here in the desert and our heater isn't working. We have vaulted ceilings so the portable one doesn't really make a difference in the main part of the house but it suffices for the smaller rooms. So in the middle of reading blogs and my fingers going stiff in the cold, I got up and went into the living room where my husband is laying on the couch bundled into several blankets while watching TV and threw what I call a mini hissy fit about this part of the works being his responsibility and why is he just laying there?????!!!!! He said, "I'll take care of it." Well, it's been two weeks and I'm still cold. So I said, "Now!" No smile. No cajoling. Just do it! Sometimes a girl just has to stamp her feet...especially when it makes her warmer to do so. I've got a good husband. Not perfect, but good. I pretty much run the whole show and this works out best for both of us, but it means that sometimes I just get tired of it all and want to go lay on a white beach under a yellow umbrella with a blue drink in hand and a brown cabana boy to wait on me. I've been taking care of people in one form or another for years and I have occasions when I just think "When is it my turn to be taken care of?" This usually passes quickly, but raises its ugly head from time to time when I can't get the garbage emptied when I need it or the grass cut or the oil changed in a timely fashion. I shouldn't have to do everything and I won't because I don't think that's healthy. Husbands need to be needed, even if you have to force them into it. It'll never be equal. I even make more money and the house is in my name only, and neither one of us is bothered by it, but I do get a bit witchy about things when it seems I really can't add one more responsibility onto my already elongated list. Every girl has her limit. I will do the shopping and the bill paying and the meal making and the dog care and the errand running, and the house cleaning. I will warm the bed and swab the toilets and at least dab on the eyeliner and mascara every morning. Just don't ask me to fix the heater or empty the garbage or tune the truck up. Otherwise, you're going to swab the decks and clean the galley, bucko! (And this house will get a might colder, bet your electric socks on it!)

I consider myself to be a fairly good person. I don't spray-paint walls or steal candy from little kids or push the elderly off curbs. I general obey the speed limit (give or take 5 mph or so) and pay my taxes without complaint. I'm courteous of my neighbors and respect other's privacy and property. But I'm not perfect...especially when it pertains to my sister-in-law.

This morning she left me a message asking me to call her as she has questions "about Christmas." Nothing important, just call her back when I can. Problem is, I don't want to call her back. Ever. And especially not for Christmas as she makes me very Grinchy. I want to sneak into her house and demolish her holiday decor. Off with the bulbs! Down with the mistletoe! Out with the wreaths!

She's one of those women you just want to slap when you see her. Everything has to be her way or no way. She exercises at a local gym and hasn't an ounce of fat on her which makes her look tight and drawn and absolutely boob-impaired. She is so fat-less, even her hair is dry like tufts of cotton candy. She thinks all overweight people are lazy slobs who have just let themselves go and shouldn't participate in such life-affirming events such as breathing.

But what I dislike most about her is the way she treats her brother, my husband. J left home when he was 17 and joined the Army in sort of an attempt to rouse his father's (a retired Army colonel) love and respect. He even went to West Point just to try to measure up. P was left at home to endure their father's military anal retentiveness and she blames this on J for leaving her to their father's rather grim outlook on children. There were some incidences between brother and sister that I was not privy to, having met my husband only eight years ago, thank God.

J used to be a general contractor in Houston and Pueblo. He built a multi-million dollar business in historical restoration. He lost it all when his daughter died and his wife blamed him and in the divorce pretty much ran off with the goods as well as the remaining daughter whom she wouldn't let him see despite court orders. This, in turn, made my husband somewhat of a psychiatric mess which I have been cleaning up to the best of my abilities.

P only calls when she needs him to come fix something in her house. Usually she makes her mother call and talk to me and then I arrange for J to go over and fix whatever needs tinkering. Hot water heaters. Pool cleaners. Flooring. Door hinges. This year she wouldn't come to Thanksgiving dinner because she just couldn't be around him "in his condition." She acts like he's a candidate for Freudian analysis and white coats with plentiful belts. But yet it's okay for him to come over to her house and repair her garage door or install a doggie door or re-key her locks. (J is also a locksmith.)

Her biggest complaint to me is that their father bought J his first car, which is not true. It was J's own money which he'd earned working in the summers, but their father, always the man of the hour, insisted that he had to approve the vehicle, so he went with J to oversee the purchase. P insists that it was their father who paid for the car, not J, even though their mother says otherwise.

I can't fix this. I can't make them get along. I don't even want to anymore, though at one time, until recently, I thought I could eventually get her to come around. But every time I talk to her she puts J down and makes snide remarks about him which gets my back up. I think she's just bitter about how her life turned out: No kids, husband left her for another, younger woman, new boyfriend turns out to be married, job sucks.

Know what I'd like to give her for Christmas? Fudge made of Ex-Lax. Sugar cookies laced with cayenne pepper. And a great big vibrating toy from the adult shop which might bring us all some relief.

I'm pleased to announce that my Christmas shopping is done and I didn't go to the mall once. I guess I'm atypical in that regard, especially for a woman. I hate malls! My days off are in the middle of the week so I could go when they're less crowded with crazy shoppers, but some years ago I discovered that there are what is called "strip malls" in obscure areas that have great shops in them where you can find gifts that won't be duplicated. I've also found great stuff in the gift shops of hospitals and restaurants. I don't buy anything anyone asks for because I hate that whole idea. Wish lists are taboo with me. I like to look around until I find something that shouts out to me who it's meant for, something they aren't expecting but will just love.

I found a great restaurant supply store where there are shelves and shelves of professional type kitchen items that don't sell for an arm and a leg. Huge baking sheets for no more than the small ones you find in department stores and all kinds of gadgets that are fun to paw through. I found an East Indian spice store with one corner allotted to shawls and fabrics to drape over a chair or a shoulder or a corner of a window. I found a tiny knick-knack boutique with handmade figurines and candlesticks and wind chimes that are one-of-a-kind items. I found an old record shop with "antique" record cases, the kind with the cheap metal clasp, covered in pink or green vinyl and perfect for makeup or jewelry or whatever someone might want to fill them up with if they're not into old 45's.

My oldest niece told me last year that of all the gifts under her tree, she opens mine last because she saves the best for last, knowing that it will be something totally unexpected and perfectly suited for her. I think this is the secret to good gift giving...knowing the person you're buying for well enough, paying attention to what they like and are interested in and applying that knowledge in choosing just the right gift. I don't want to buy someone a CD that they can easily pick up for themselves. I'd rather find an old poster of the Rolling Stones or a pair of vintage earrings from an estate sale.

So I shop pretty much all year round, whenever something just pops up at me and screams "I'm for Auntie Bibi" or "Won't I look great pinned to Cousin Lucy's collar?" This means that now I can just concentrate on enjoying the season without going out and fighting for parking spaces and being jostled around in Sears. Just about the only thing I miss is the incredible smell of hot Cinnamon buns near the food court. Guess I'll just have to get out the breadmaker and make them myself.

When the holidays roll around I start thinking about people who are gone and won't be around for an eggnog toast. This will be the second Christmas without my dad who passed in June year before last after a looong illness. He loved the holidays, the food, the lights, the family coming together. He always had the grandkids over for a day of making cookies. Then my mother had to spend days cleaning up after them.

My grandmother has been gone a long time, but I remember the bags of oranges she brought to us from her small orchard. I stayed with her often. She was a gardener like none I've ever known. I practically just ate out of her yard. She used to tell me that if I ate the plums and oranges and apples right off the tree still warm from the sun, that it was like swallowing the sun and would make my skin glow and my eyes bright. I would eat until my stomach hurt but I didn't care because I just knew I was the most beautiful girl with the prettiest complexion around. I believed this right into adulthood. In fact, I still sometimes run to a mirror to see if I'm glowing after I eat a peach or a pear or an orange. I swear it's true!

My cousin Donny died two years ago at the age of 54 of a heart attack. Actually, he was hospitalized due to the heart attack but contracted pneumonia in the hospital and succumbed to that. He was the one who taught us to put olives on every fingertip and I do believe they tasted better that way. I think of him every time I open a can of olives. And, when no one is looking, I put a few olives on my fingers and pop them in my mouth in his honor.

In his first marriage my husband's 7-year-old daughter died on Thanksgiving morning of carbon monoxide poisoning. I never knew her, but I have a picture of her on Santa's lap and I drape a piece of garland around the frame and put it on the entertainment center with a few pieces of hard candy in front like a little shrine. My husband is the one who found her. He went in to wake her up and she was gone. He doesn't talk about her or acknowledge the picture, but I know he appreciates it.

As we get older, the faces around the table change. The chairs are never empty because as the older generation dwindles, the younger one thrives. This is the way it's supposed to be. This year, though I don't have grandkids of my own (yet), I'm having my friend's daughters and grandson over to make cookies with me. I'm going to plant a lime tree in the back yard. I'm going to toast my cousin with olives plucked off my fingers. I'm going to put my son's Santa picture next to Heather's so she won't be alone. I'm going to make up a tasty batch of eggnog and toast the ones who are now gone and those who remain. I'm lucky to have had them all.