Watts Line

Surfer Dude plans manly Vegas vacation

There are certain things about my manchildren that I admire. Each is blessed with an endearing trait (or two) that seem singular to them.
For instance, our firstborn, Surfer Dude works hard, but loves to play.
I've always admired his ability to find joy in his life and to celebrate every possible occasion. He works hard, but as he told me when he was a five-year-old walking in the door from his first day at school, "School's okay, but it cuts into my play time."
He made it plain that if it came down to a decision, school would lose out.
When Dude applied for his first job at the excruciatingly young age of 16, he was thrilled with the idea of making money. After the first week of balancing school followed by a few hours of work, he announced the work thing was destroying his roller-blading opportunities. The fun factor of making money had worn off.
Which brings me to the plans our oldest Manchild has for early March.
He and his future brother-in-law and an assortment of their mutual friends have decided to take a vacation. An all guy vacation.
They will travel from several states including Kentucky and Oregon (where my member of the vacation troupe lives) and they will all rendezvous in Las Vegas.
The vacation has a title - kind of like a rock concert tour, but without the music.
They've dubbed it: Mancation-2008.
The whole thing sounds a little scary to me. A bunch of wild and crazy guys, loose on Las Vegas, without the tempering effect of their women. Kind of like a bunch of cowboys in an 1800s remote western town (which in some ways is what Las Vegas is) before the mail order brides arrived - a little rough and reckless for my taste.
But there;s more to L.V. than the obvious. I recalled my sister's recent trip with her husband and the trip my friends Lotte and John took this fall.
"You should plan to go see the Cirque du Soleil Beatles thing, 'Love.' Your Aunt Janice and Uncle Jim went and they said it was great. And do you remember when Miss Lotte and Mr. John went? They liked it so much they went back and saw it again the next day."
"Yeah, right, Mom," he said. "You're kidding. That's a joke isn't it?"
Well, it wasn't a joke, but I had to relent. They are, after all, a posse of guys who are probably thinking more about watching a roulette wheel than they are a musical.
"I guess you have a point," I said. "So what are ya'll planning to do with yourselves for four days?" (I wasn't at all sure I wanted to know the answer.)
This was his response:
"I don't have any specific plans except I plan to gamble. And have a few drinks."
(Not exactly what I was hoping to hear, but at the same time, not a surprising answer.)
"How about Hoover Dam," I asked hopefully. "People love to go see Hoover Dam."
"I have a few hours to kill on Saturday before my flight home. I guess I could go do something like that," he said. "I've already seen the Grand Canyon, so I don't need to do that again."
"I'm sure I'll have lots of stories about what happened when I get back," he said jovially.
"That's what I'm afraid of," I replied.
"What about your beloved. What does she think of this Mancation?"
"She's fine with it . She's glad I get go." (Young women apparently have evolved to a higher plain than I and my peers were at that age.)
So, I'm resigned that instead of having fun touring Hoover Dam he'll be touring the blackjack tables.
Like I said, the very name of the event, Mancation-2008, makes me a little queasy.

Contact Judy Watts at journalscene.com or 873-9424 ext. 220.

Having it My way On my day

We get a day off for our birthday here at the newspaper. My original plan was to take the day and just have a little fun. That day was Friday. I didn't take it off.
Why?
'Cause being at work was going to be about as fun as it gets for a newspaper person. I'd have been crazy to stay home and fret about what I was missing.
First of all, Ryan Castle got a call from the Thompson campaign on Wednesday asking if Fred Thompson could have an interview with us.
Well, since both of us are huge "Law and Order" fans that were a no-brainer.
"Sure," he told them, "Come on over. We'll be glad to interview him." He would arrive at 3:50 p.m. We'd be waiting.
Then we found out John Edwards was going to be in town at the Summerville Holiday Inn. At noon. We figured, "Why not?" I asked Publisher Ellen Priest if she wanted to join us and she said, sure thing.
So, she and Ryan met up at the Holiday Inn with a hundred or so other onlookers and had a big time reporting the event (It's always fun when there's media from all over the country covering a local do.)
After the Edwards hoopla, we finally made our way back to the office, downloaded photos from the event, and got ready for Thompson's arrival. (Somewhere in there, the Hubster dropped by with a vase of my favorite flowers, pink tulips.)
Just before 4 p.m. the big old Thompson bus came rolling down Doty Avenue and made a valiant turn into our driveway. (If you've ever been by the office, you'll know how much nerve it would take to bring a big bus down that narrow path.)
Thompson emerged, looking very tall and just like the TV character of which we are so fond.
He made his way inside, greeting a few people on the way into our conference room. We got situated, were nearly mortified when he asked for water and we thought all we had was tap water. Fortunately, I opened the fridge to discover someone's bottled water, which I promptly pressed into service and offered to the former senator, actor and presidential candidate. He answered our questions easily and sincerely. We then all headed for the street where he greeted Summervillians on the sidewalk outside the Summerville Museum and the Sweetwater Grill. Lot's of fun for all. We waved as his bus pulled away. In his wake was a photographer from the New York Times who needed to use our wireless internet to transmit his photos.
"Sure," we said, and left him there since by then we were late to the McCain rally. Ryan and I piled into Ellen's big old truck and she drove us to Kelly's Barbecue braving awful traffic, mostly because of the rally, but partly because it was rush hour. The yard in front of the restaurant was packed with hundreds of supporters and the curious. McCain had not arrived. He was stuck in the traffic generated by his own event. Journal Scene writer David Berman was already in place with other media, covering the event for us.
McCain's big old bus soon pulled in and the crowd went nuts chanting "Mac is Back." Again it was entertaining to be part of a bigger, national story.
As I said at the top of this column, it was my birthday, and the Hubster was waiting at home for me. We had reservations at Oscar's for dinner. (Yummy.)
The next morning, our oldest Manchild, whom I had spoken with Friday morning, called.
"How was the rest of your birthday," he asked, wanting to know what had happened since we'd spoken at 10:30 a.m. Friday.
"Fantastic," I told him. "Every bit of it. A great day at work and a fun night out with your Daddy."
And it was. One of those days when you really do get to have it all.

Contact Judy Watts at jwatts@journalscene.com or 873-9424, ext. 220.

Cold will be the death of plants

So here it is January and finally we have the cold weather that folks have been wishing for. (We have wool suits and sweaters that need to be worn, you know.)
But for crying out loud, we didn't need it to be this cold, did we?
The last couple of days, I have worn what I grew up referring to as my "big coat" along with the pair of leather gloves my mother gives me every year for Christmas. As a result, I have a drawer full of gloves, four of which don't have mates. (I figure if I hold onto those four long enough, Momma will repeat a style at some point and the extra will come in handy when I lose one of the mates to the new pair.)
Anyway, we do have a little cold weather every year. Granted, the last few years it's been more of a rumor than anything else.
In anticipation of a freeze, or whenever the TV weather forecasters (better known as meteorologists; and the really hotshot ones who are designated as "certified" meteorologists) predict a freeze, I take note and make plans to pull out the protection for the yard plants that I've dragged from one season to the next for the last so long. I actually have a geranium that's going on five years and a few begonias that have lingered for three.
Then there are the camellias that just started blooming last week. Not sure there's any way to save them once they've bloomed, but there are plenty of buds left that will make it through to bloom in another week or so.
I take the most care with the two big old houseplants that no longer fit in the house because they summer outdoors and have grown into humongous plants. One of them is nearly tree-sized and the only way it could come in my house is if I get a bigger house.
I've had the two oversized once-upon-a-time houseplants for a while. One was from the subject of a profile story I wrote some years ago and the other was from a friend. Another great plant was on the front still adorned with lights from Christmas, so I decided to leave them and cover the plant, hoping the slight warmth from the tiny bulbs would generate enough heat under the sheet canopy to protect it.
They're all great plants, so I make every effort to take care of them in the exhausting heat of summer, dragging them into the shade and watering them regularly when it's hot enough to kill a roach; and swathing them in old sheets, towels and tablecloths when the occasional hard freeze comes our way.
And they've done well all this time - until Wednesday night.
That night when I arrived home, I dragged out my stash of old plant swaddles. It was dark before I got around to layering them on. The wind had picked up, so the covers were blowing off almost as fast as I could put them on the plants. But I finally got them to stay to my satisfaction and before I froze myself.
The next morning, half of the biggest tree was uncovered, but looked healthy still. I left for work hoping it might be okay, but by the time I got home that night it was brown in spots.
That night I was even more diligent and pulled out a big green tablecloth from the laundry and layered that on the biggest of the plants, also.
Next morning, all the covers were off. It looked a little brown all over. I figure it's a goner.
But the light-bedecked plant on the front patio is still looking pretty good. So far, that one seems to have weathered the cold.
I'll know by the weekend when the temps once more rise to flip-flop weather.
This weather will be the death not only of my special plants, but all of us.
Is that a cold I feel coming on? Maybe I'll string a few lights on myself and cover up with an ugly sheet.

Contact Judy Watts at jwatts@journalscene.com or 873-9424, ext. 220

Surprise visit

I walked into the house last Monday after work and there in the entrance hall were a pair of well-used, slightly smelly, running shoes. Sneakers. Guy sneakers.
I got a little bit misty-eyed. It'd been a while since I'd had the thrill of finding man-child clothes trashing the floor next to the front door.
Our boy, Surfer-Dude was home from Oregon for the week. We miss him and are thrilled to have him back in the house, smelly sneakers and all.
Since he and his brother moved out, the mess is less, but so is the visual interest. By visual interest, I mean things like socks hanging from the arms of chairs, blue jeans lying on the kitchen counter, wet towels languishing on the bathroom and bedroom floors.
It's hard to beat those kinds of very special and manly decorating touches.
Anyway, Dude had arrived on the Saturday before Christmas, a 20-hour plane trip from the south coast of Oregon.
"I have you for ten days," I told him, giving him a big old hug at the airport and feeling very motherly about the whole situation.
"It's good to be home," he replied, obviously glad to be back in a warmer climate. It was the coldest day we'd had in a while and he was running around in a T-shirt embracing the warm weather. "We'd just had a hail storm the day I left." (It seems every time I talk to him on the phone it's either in the process of hailing or has just finished. Very strange.)
"This is great," he said, holding his arms out to the Lowcountry climate.
We got him back to the house, fed him and put him down for a nap - he was tired after the long trip and I had a welcome home party due to start in a few hours.
Part one of his nap began as a he sprawled on the couch and immediately dropped into a coma-like sleep.
Two hours later and five minutes before guests would arrive, I nudged him and told him he could continue sleeping in the bedroom. Which he did.
But there were folks at the party who had not seen him since he was a little boy.
"Come see my baby. He's sleeping," I told one guest who hadn't seen him ever. Who probably didn't even know we had chidren.
"Is it your dog?" "A grandchild?" she asked as I led her to the back of the house.
"No grandchildren yet," I said. "And the dogs are in the garage."
We peaked around the corner into the bedroom and there lay my oldest man-child, Surfer-Dude.
"My baby," I said. He snored contentedly, a few clothes scattered on the floor, one running shoe on the bed, the other under the chair. An obligatory towel was draped over a corner of the table.
"Cute," she said. Her response lacked a certain enthusiasm. "He's kinda big - and hairy."
"Yeah. Isn't he great? No matter how old he gets, he's still my baby," I said as we returned to the party. He eventually joined us, and I showed him off in his waking state.
Sunday we shopped for Christmas gifts, ate too much and visited.
By Monday he was missing his beloved who was spending Christmas with her family in Kentucky.
"Can I borrow a car?" he asked, bringin back even more memories. "I'm going to drive to Kentucky Wednesday and will be back on Friday," he told me.
So now I await his return on Friday.
He'll be with me until Sunday and I'll put him back on an airplane and send him back to the west coast.
He'll be back in May. I'll be looking forward to clothes on the floor, sneakers near the front door, someone who needs to borrow the car - and my big hairy baby.

Contact Judy Watts at jwatts@journalscene.com or 873-9424 ext. 220.

Christmas shopping nightmares

I like my guys to have presents to open on Christmas, but as they've gotten older, that has become more and more of a challenge, because their needs and wants have grown and changed just as they have.
I had planned Wednesday off to finish my shopping. Tuesday night, Man-child #2 called with the usual pleasantries like "Hi Mom, this is Paul."
"Yes, Paul, I recognize your voice."
"Well, the car died."
There's no way for that sentence to end well. The only thing I've bought more of than cell phones for boy-children, is cars. (If you have a man in the making at your house, all I can say is, good luck.)
"How dead is it?" I asked.
"Completely. Not worth fixing."
So that really should be his problem, shouldn't it? As it turned out we had three vehicles: Two cars and the truck the Hubster recently inherited.
I would transfer one of the cars to the son. I picked him up on Wednesday morning from his apartment. We filled out paperwork - the title and some other form the lawyer to whom I'm married gave me. We called the insurance company to get the insurance transferred. I paid them money via the telephone. The insurance would take effect at midnight.
We went to the auditor's office and got another form that we took to the tax office and I paid them money.
We went to the DMV And I paid them more money.
By 4 p.m. we were done and I returned Man-child to his apartment in North Chuck because he couldn't have the car until Thursday. I still had an hour or so to get some shopping done.
That's when I noticed the small crack running horizontally along the bottom of the windshield. So much for that errant hour for shopping. The car is now at the glass shop having a new windshield installed.
And so much for Manchild having a present under the tree. It will be in the driveway instead. And he's happy about that.
But I still had surfer dude, our eldest, to buy for.
"What can I get for you," I asked, ready to get whatever he wanted.
"Well, some friends asked me to go to Vegas with them in the spring. Will you get me the ticket to Vegas for Christmas?"
"I can do that," I told him, trying to hide the disappointment that I wouldn't have anything to wrap other than the underwear and socks I got him last week.
"No tools?" I asked, since he builds cabinets and furniture for living.
"Nope. Just the ticket will be enough."
I agreed and wished him a good flight home.
There was only one guy left to buy for, the Hubster.
He doesn't really need a lot. But there's one thing he loves and that's his tunes. Blue grass, Irish folk, classical. (It's real easy for him to get bargains at the music store with that kind of taste in music.)
So, I found myself standing in front of the iPod display. I couldn't help myself. This would be great. He'd love this, I decided. I'm writing this a few days before Christmas. By the time you read this, the gifts will be open, the skirt under the tree will be bare.
Will he like his gadget? I hope so, but someone will be opening a surprise present on Christmas day.
And that will make Christmas a lot more fun for me.

Contact Judy Watts at journalscene.com or 873-9424 ext. 220.

Shopping woes ease with years

Shopping woes ease with years
My guy and I went out this weekend to finish up our shopping. We left the house at 11 a.m.
We bought the annual Christmas supply of socks, T-shirts, pajama pants and fireworks – the little extras we’ve always added to the mix, and that our brood has come to expect along with their “real” presents.
Somewhere in there we also had lunch. By the time we decided to pack it in, we were tired and felt like we’d used up the whole day.
I looked at the clock.
“Guess what time it is,” I said.
“It’s still daylight, but it’s gotta be late. I’m beat. Close to 5?” he guessed.
“Three o’clock,” I said.
“That can’t be right.” He glanced over at me like I must be crazy (not an atypical look as it turns out) before eyeing the car clock. “How did that happen?”
We had purchased all but a few of the items on our list in less than a few hours. Granted I had already done a lot of it, but that doesn’t usually matter.
In the past when the Hubster and I have gone Christmas shopping it has always been a marathon that includes three meals and the closing down of stores. We’ve actually had to get the store guards to open the doors for us so we could get out. There were times we joked about hiding in the mall so we could finish shopping overnight and check out in the morning. Fortunately, we never went that far.
There were years that we spent entire weekends lugging unhappy children for hours through toy stores, clothing stores, fast food restaurants (in the days before food courts and play zones -- hard to imagine) and keeping them going with promises of movies later.
And of course the trip usually involved waiting in a long line of equally stressed families to talk to Santa. How many hours did we spend in that endeavor? There were times I wasn’t sure who was crankier, the kids or us. (But I cherish the photos of our little guy-kids sitting on Santa’s lap, even if the event itself was often less than fabulous.)
As the years have slipped on by, our list has shortened with the loss of beloved fathers. I still have the urge to buy mine a fishing lure or shirt every year, then have to remember his story is told, his last gift received. He continues only in our memories and the retelling of favorite family tales that include him.
But we have added new people to our list as well with the much-loved young women in our man-children’s lives. I have a wonderful time shopping for them since our own guy-kids were not into frilly shirts and tights. I satisfy the frustration born of buying nothing but khaki pants, blue shirts and navy blazers in increasing larger sizes, by choosing the really cute stuff I can’t wear but the girls can.
So the years have changed our shopping needs, and I like to think we’ve gotten better at it as well. We are organized, with a list and a clear idea of what we are going for, yet flexible enough to know when we need to cut our losses and move on to another idea.
The getting ready is easier. The gathering of the gifts is no longer the ordeal it once was, the kids don’t have to be dragged from store to store. We come home before we are ready to collapse.
We will welcome the children as they come to join us for the celebration. We will visit with our mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles and cousins, and the friends who complete our family circle.
And just I and mine plan to have, I wish all of you a very Merry Christmas!

Contact Judy Watts at 873-9424 ext. 220 or jwatts@journalscene.com.

Chicken still ranks at top of shopping list

I start my Christmas shopping on Thursday afternoon - Thanksgiving Day. It's a little tradition that my youngest sister and I have had for a good many years now.
Now granted, there isn't a lot open. In fact, it used to be that the Store-with-the-Big-Load-of-Stuff that noone else wanted was the only one. Now there's a mega-this and a super-that which open up in the afternoon, but the pickin's are still slim.
Despite the fact that other stores now open, we're still fixated on the Sore-with-the-Big-Load-of-Stuff. Mainly because of the Christmas Chicken from about eight years ago. It was about 3 p.m. when we entered the store. It was crowded, with hardly any room to move. After all it was the only game in town.
We picked through some rolls of wrapping paper, looked at the components to a Christmas village and then - we saw it. There on the shelf just above eye level.
I think we locked onto it at about the same time.
First Sis started giggling, then I laughed out loud.
"Do you see that?" she asked.
"I do," I said and lifted it from the shelf.
"Is that a snowman?"
"It is."
"Riding a chicken?"
"Yep."
It was about 10 or so inches tall. A carved white chicken, with a snowman riding on its back as if it were riding a horse. Both were decked out for the season, the chicken with holly-laced reins and the snowman with the appropriate top hat with a spring of holly in it sitting on its head.
"What do you suppose the person who made this was thinking?"
"Probably wasn't. Must have been into the eggnog in a big way."
I flipped it over to see how much it was - $3.99
"That's kinda high," I said looking it over pretty good, putting it back on the shelf walking away, then going back to gaze at it again.
We couldn't help it. We each bought one and laughed all the way home. My chicken had a place of honor among the Christmas decorations at first, then I took it to work and plopped it on my desk. A conversation piece. Plus, it made me smile.
And then it happened.
I came to work one morning and the chicken was gone.
I searched, I asked around, I scoured the newsroom looking for the jokester who thought it was funny to take my chicken.
But the chicken was nowhere to be found. Obviously someone besides me found the humor in my Christmas chicken and had to have it.
I have since tried to buy my sister's chicken, but so far she has refused to give in.
But every year, when Thanksgiving afternoon rolls around, she and I trek down to the Store-with-the-Big-Load-of-Stuff and scour the shelves. We keep looking for that chicken like a cat that waits for a bird to return to the same limb. It's a little bit nuts, but who knows? Maybe one day we'll find another one. Or maybe I'll sneak up in my sister's attic while she's away and ...

Contact Judy Watts at 873-9424 ext. 220, or jwatts@journalscene.com

Manchild leaves with smiling dog

Manchild leaves with smiling dog

And now we are one dog short of a full load -- a full load being three. (Fortunately, this does not involve a tragedy. It’s a good thing, we think.)
It all started when the Hubster called Manchild #2, our 23-year-old guy-kid who recently departed our household to go live in an apartment with friends. His father called to ask him if he would come home and rake the yard. He indicated that there was money involved. When we have a job to hire out, we offer the job to our out-of-work TV guy. (MC2 is a casualty of the Hollywood writers strike despite the fact that he lives in North Charleston and not Hollywood. But even the dark side of S.C. has been affected by the writers strike which has shut down production of the locally shot Lifetime TV series “Army Wives.”)
So, MC2 came over with a friend and they worked like crazy people raking the shin-deep layer of leaves that had apparently fallen overnight.
After they finished, we sat around the den chatting when MC2 said he’d wanted to ask me something for a few weeks.
“Sure. Ask away,” I said, a little worried that he wanted his room back.
“I was wondering if I could have one of your dogs. We want a dog real bad. We even called about one, but they’d already given it away. But what we really want is one of yours.”
He was serious. And I was dumbfounded. Shocked. But I could see that perhaps he was a little homesick and maybe needed a little touch of home to come live with him.
“You want one of my dogs?” I asked, still getting over the surprise of the request.
“Yes.” He was serious. He looked at me steadily and sincerely.
“You can’t have Sally, of course, since Sally is MY dog, and you can’t have Charlotte because Sally thinks Charlotte as HER dog. Who would she bathe every night if Charlotte was gone?”
“What about Cassie?” he asked, looking a little desperate.
At that moment Cassie was sitting on the ottoman next to him and licking his face and -- I kid you not -- smiling. The dog was practically giggling. She’s a very pleasant dog anyway, but she was particularly happy that our youngest guy-kid was in the house. She and he had always been friends. At that point I decided she’d put him up to it.
I looked at Cassie. I looked at him.
“Okay. On a trial basis. You can try it for a few days, but you have to bring her back to visit and run in the back yard. And if it doesn’t work out, you bring her right back home.”
“I will. I promise.”
I didn’t like giving a pet away. But for the next half hour I instructed him on her care (which he already knew since he only moved out a couple of months ago), got her leash and carrier, bowl, food and blanket. Before I knew it she was gone.
When the Hubster came home he commented on how clean the patio area was and that the yard looked great.
“Notice anything missing?” I asked.
“Leaves. The leaves are gone.” He looked around then asked, “Where’s Cassie?”
“With your son.”
Later that night my beloved sat on the couch smiling.
“Whatcha’ smiling about?” I asked.
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
“That we only have two dogs and I should go and get another one.”
“Wrong. It means our youngest is finally becoming domesticated. He wants something to take care of besides himself.”
And that’s when I decided it might have been the right thing to do. Maybe.

Contact Judy Watts at 873-9424 ext. 220 or jwatts@journalscene.com.

Cooking gene kicks in during retreat

After the Hubster read last week’s column, he had just one question about all the cooking that went on while I was at the writers retreat, “What about me?”
Since my idea of an elaborate meal is whipping up a pot of spaghetti he was right fascinated by the fare that I described. It’s not that I don’t like cooking, but between my schedule and the Hubster’s, food production ends up being pretty basic stuff that more often than not involves leftovers from the restaurant the night before.
Put it this way, exotic well-planned meals aren’t our top priority. So her rightfully has questions. But first a few bits about the rereat for those who had questions. The retreat, which is sponsored by the Lowcountry Romance Writers of America (most of the members are from Summerville, Goose Creek and other parts of Berkeley County but we have out-of-towners and out-of-staters as well.) Every year we rent the same fabulous beach house (we hear that Bruce and Demi once rented it for their family – back when they were a family).
The first year the retreat was just for the weekend, but we fell in love with the house and it wasn’t that much more to get it for the week. And when you 30 women in the same house, well, the cost isn’t too huge, so the second week, called Hermit Week was born. This year we added a second Hermit Week and a Masters Class with teachers who are agents, publishers or well-known authors to help and newly published writers.
Hermit Weeks are a time to write alone in your room, take solitary walks on the beach and hang out with other writers. There’s no pressure to socialize. Meals are on your own during the day. At night we come together to either go to prepare an easy meal.
That’s when my mother’s cooking gene apparently kicked in.
It started with a breakfast casserole. Then it moved on to a Beaufort Stew. The next morning I found myself sautéing shrimp left over from the stew, whipping up creamy grits for shrimp and grits. Now, I’d never cooked this before, had no recipe, and it turned out great. I couldn’t believe it. I don’t know why I event did it. It was like my mother was there telling me what to do.
So, after breakfast, I called the Hubster.
“What you been up to today,” he said.
“Cooking.”
“Really? Cooking?” (I detected a tone of: 1. Disbelief and 2. Envy)
“Yeah, I know. That’s different, isn’t it?” I said, still wondering what had gotten into me.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve been cooking this week, too,” he said and named off a few simple dishes that involved way more cooking than either of us does when we’re in the same house.
“So, maybe we’ll do more cooking when I get home,” I suggested.
“That sounds like a great idea,” he said. (I could tell he didn’t really think that would happen. And I have my doubts, but I can fantasize, can’t I?”)
So, this is my very, very early New Year’s resolution. I, and he, will cook more. We will prepare healthy things and eat at home when we can so that when we are at holiday events we will not overindulge just because we are so happy to see real food that didn’t come out of a box.
I wonder what I’ll fix for dinner tonight.

Contact Judy Watts at jwatts@journalscene.com or 873-9424, ext. 220.

Domestic Goddess? No. Writer? Maybe

I’ve just returned from a week spent with about a dozen women writers of women’s and romance fiction. To the one, we all professed to be challenged housekeepers and cooks.
We are not domestic goddess material.
So how do women who profess no domestic skills function on their own in a cloistered environment in which they write all day and most of the night with no expectations placed on them to do anything else?
Do they go around in dirty clothes? Is the kitchen littered with empty pizza boxes?
Are pots, utensils and dishes piling up in the sink?
In short, like a bunch of guys.
No. It does not mean that.
When a woman professes to have no domestic skills, it is not in comparison to guys.
Take my house for instance. When I had all my guys — the Hubster, Surfer Dude and Manchild #2 – under one roof, when I went away for a few days, I came to undone laundry (unless you call laundry distributed to every square inch of all the bedroom floors with the occasional sock dangling from the ceiling light fixture, “done.”)
I found empty pasta cans at various locations throughout the house. Why? I have no idea.
I would discover newspapers (not that I discourage newspaper use of any kind) pulled apart and littering the couch, the rest of the floor that was not already covered by laundry and on the tables.
By comparison, a dozen women who profess no domestic skills and live together for not just a weekend, but for an entire week, should at least come close to a little mess, shouldn’t they?
In reality this is what the beach house looked like during our stay. The dishes were all washed and put away, the garbage was emptied regularly — including recyclables — there was no paper or laundry on the floors or tables or sofas.
The women were all nicely dressed and well coifed in clean clothes. The reason they had clean clothes is not because they over-packed. It was because of the laundry room.
It was in constant use. I kid you not, there was actually a line to get in there to wash a towel or two, a few bits of clothing, sheets. It was without a doubt the busiest room in the house.
The kitchen. For women who say they don’t cook — and I am one of them — the kitchen was also very popular. We cooked great dinners then sat around the table chatting about what our characters had done that day.
As one of the other women writers and I sat on the deck late one afternoon, discussing potential plot twists, enjoying a little liquid refreshment, one of the other women emerged from the nearby kitchen, carrying a plate of hot — not just warm — HOT chocolate chip cookies.
“I thought you might like to have some cookies. I just made them.”
Well, she didn’t have to ask us twice. They were gone in a second and those were possibly the best cookies I’d ever eaten. It doesn’t get any better than that.
So for a bunch of women who make no claims on being the ruler by which all good housekeeping is measured, we failed pretty badly.
What I have decided is that the mark has been set so high by the likes of Martha (and you know of whom I speak, and even Oprah with her fabulous lifestyle) that no matter how adequate we might be at housewifery, we fall short in our own minds by comparison. So this is my new yardstick. It’s not Rachel, or Martha or Oprah, but a house full of guys.
That’s the new benchmark. By comparison we will look good. Really good.
We are women who can write. But we can also fold underwear, turn on a dishwasher and make the occasional casserole.
As it turns out, we’re not half bad.

Contact Judy Watts at jwatts@journalscene.com or 873-9424, ext. 220.