Trendsetter I Am Not

I’m not exactly what you would call “cutting edge” and I’m not much of a trendsetter.  Sometimes it takes me a while to get with the program and follow a trend.

And sometimes I avoid the program altogether.

Like, for instance, when the ripped jeans trend started, I couldn’t follow it. All I wanted to do was take a needle and thread to the tears in those jeans and stitch them back together.  Not the point, I know, but it was a look I could neither accept nor pull off.

Fortunately, my avoidance of cutting edge trends has saved me from later embarrassment a time or two.  As proof, I have two words for you: Parachute Pants.

Nobody looked good in those things and MC Hammer is still probably mortified. Sure, he made a lot of dough from his 80s hit, You Can’t Touch This, but in that getup who wanted to touch that? 

Enough said.

My trend avoidance isn’t solely related to fashion either.

When people stood around the proverbial water coolers at work discussing the latest doings on their favorite television shows, I was usually on the fringes staying silent because it was a series I hadn’t started following.  In fact, it’s only years later that I now know what the fuss was all about on series like Breaking Bad and Lost and Dexter.

Thank goodness for Netflix.

As a matter of fact, I have only just recently jumped on the bandwagon of a certain film series. You’ve probably heard of it – Star Wars?

Yeah, that one.  I had never seen a single installment of Star Wars. Ever.

I don’t know why, really. It’s not like I detest science fiction-type movies or anything.  After all, I really liked The Matrix and the Terminator and Men in Black.

Plus, Harrison Ford was pretty cute back in the day. (I still like him now, but would hardly call him “cute”!)

So when my sister, brother-in-law and niece were in town over the holidays and wanted to see Star Wars: Episode VII – The Force Awakens and asked me to join them, well, how could I refuse?

Besides, it’s not like I’ve been hiding under a rock for the past thirty-nine years since the first Star Wars movie premiered. I know all about R2D2 and Chewbacca and Princess Leia and her gold bikini. And something about Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia being brother and sister.  And, of course, I have heard the line, “Luke, I am your father” about a bajillion times – even though I also know it’s a misquote and Darth Vader never actually said those exact words.

Just for grins one time, I played a game of Star Wars trivia – and won. Go figure.  I must be good at guessing.  Or all that trivia passed through my subconscious at one time or another through the years.

So now I can no longer say that I’ve never seen any of the Star Wars movies. And who knows? I may even have a Star Wars movie marathon so I can really make sense of this latest installment.

 

Just don’t expect me to change my ways and become a cutting-edge trendsetter.

I have only ever worn green or blue nail polish when my Halloween costume demanded it and I don’t understand ombre hair. It still looks to me like someone forgot to make an appointment with their stylist. 

And speaking of hair…don’t even get me started on the whole man bun thing…

That’s a trend that needs to go away. Now.  Because it's unlikely that I’ll be around in another thirty-nine years to finally get it.  

The BIG Trash Can Story

This is a story of the BIG trash can in Jane’s Domain. Normally, we wouldn’t be talking about things like trash cans as there really isn’t much to say about them.  Or so you’d think. 

But has that every stopped me before? Of course not! 

We can’t exactly call Trash Cans pretty. Oh, I suppose you could go all Pinterest on them and decorate them with stencils and paint and Mod Podge and such. But, in my opinion, they still wouldn’t be pretty.

So what could I possibly have to say about Trash Cans, you ask? 

Well, see, last week – while we’re still in January and I’m in the “Let’s Get Organized!” mode – I decided that I couldn’t stand our trash can situation any longer. 

So I ordered a new one. More about this in a minute.

When we moved into this house three and a half years ago, the previous owner left her trash can here. It is functional, true. And it has wheels, which seem as if they would be handy, but the can is not very sturdy and the wheels don’t roll very well.  So we are usually forced to half carry, half drag the can to the curb.

And – most importantly – the can doesn’t hold very much.  Perhaps the previous owner was better at leaving a smaller trash footprint than we do, but we frequently discovered that we couldn’t fit all our weekly trash into that one can.

So we (meaning “I”) often left the trash in bags on the floor of the garage until it was Garbage Night and then we (meaning “Vince”) had to figure out how to fit five bags of garbage into a can that holds about three.

Needless to say, neither of us is fond of Garbage Night.

Plus, a few months ago, the garbage men, er, “sanitation workers” hauled away our trash, but ran over the lid to the trash can.  Thanks, sanitation workers! 

So even though I struggled to push the lid back into its original shape before it got run over, it never fit correctly on the trash can again.  Which meant that once the lid was down on the can, it could be lifted off only with a winch and/or a body-builder on steroids.  As I have neither of those handy on a routine basis, I rarely attempted to remove the lid in order to deposit a bag of trash into the can. 

So last week I compared prices for new trash cans.  And, boy, was I shocked.  Lemme tell you: trash cans ain’t cheap!  Nevertheless, I was determined to solve our trash situation. 

Normally, I would simply order from Amazon.com using my Prime membership (and “free” shipping), but their prices were significantly higher than the local Lowe’s Home Improvement store.  Plus, it would be nearly a week before the can would be delivered.

Instead, I knew I could order online from Lowe’s and go pick it up that afternoon without paying a delivery charge.

And the benefits!  The can from Lowe’s has a permanently attached lid, so that it would never again get run over by sanitation workers.  It has sturdy wheels so we never again have to drag the can to the end of the driveway. It is large enough to hold all our trash. And the reviews were overwhelmingly positive.

Satisfied that I’d made the correct move, I purchased the can and drove to Lowe’s to pick it up.  It was, by the way, a frigid 18 degrees outside.  But I assumed it would be a quick trip and I’d soon be home basking in the glow of solving our trash problem.

I arrived at Lowe’s and showed the paperwork to the clerk who sent a runner to the back of the store to retrieve my trash can. This took about 20 minutes and, while I realize Lowe’s is a big store, it wouldn’t take me 20 minutes to reach the back.  So I figured the runner maybe took a smoke break while he was back there.

When he eventually wheeled the can up to the Service Desk, I thought, Yeah, that’s definitely big enough.

Never did I think, Hmmm, I wonder if it will fit in my car?       

I should have.  Because it didn’t.

I confidently wheeled it out to the parking lot and up to my car. My four-door Audi A4.  A sedan.  NOT a truck or an SUV, as were just about all the other vehicles in the parking lot. And now I know why. 

But I thought I could simply pull the front passenger seat forward as far as it would go and then slide the can into the back seat. 

Yeah, that didn’t work.  While the bottom of the can fit, I couldn’t get the top of it in.

So then I popped the trunk and I folded down the back seat. And attempted to lift the can into the trunk, but couldn’t even get the bottom part of it in. 

By this point, I knew that pretty much the only way I would’ve gotten that can home with my car was to either strap it to the top – or drag it behind the car. 

Neither of those options sounded reasonable.  Plus, I didn’t have any bungee cords.  And, yes, I was at Lowe’s and could have gone back in and purchased some, but I’m not well-schooled on bungee-cord application.  I’m never really sure where to hook them securely without pulling off important parts of the car.

In defeat, I turned around and headed back into the store wheeling my brand-new trash can. I took a little comfort in the fact that since it was only 18 degrees outside, probably no one was watching me and laughing as I tried to fit a 64-gallon trash can into a small sedan.

The clerk suggested I rent a truck from them for $65  – something I was loathe to do.  Or they could deliver it for – you guessed it – $65. 

I told the clerk that I’d simply find a friend with an SUV or truck and would be back to pick up the can. 

Except that their paperwork showed that I had already picked up the can.  So in order to keep their paperwork straight, they had to “return” the can and then reapply payment to a “new” trash can. Which would then be waiting for me in the back of the store.

This process took another 20 minutes. By this point, I was sincerely wishing I had paid the extra money to Amazon.com.

But I was determined to get that infernal trash can home, so I spent the next two days trying to figure out who would take pity on me and drive me to Lowe’s to pick it up.

Fortunately, I have wonderful neighbors. I explained the trash can situation to Suzy who arranged a trip to Lowe’s with Pat who came to my rescue. 

Pat’s husband has a big red truck (I suppose I should know the make and model for reporting purposes – but all I know is that it’s shiny and new and has a fancy interior and you have to climb up really far to reach the seat.)  It certainly seemed big enough to handle my BIG trash can.

So we walked into Lowe’s and picked up that trash can and confidently wheeled it out to the truck.  We picked it up – and slid it in.

I’d love to report that it fit easily inside the truck, but it barely fit!  We had to bungee cord it in. (Apparently Pat is more well-schooled on bungee cord application than I am.) 

Nevertheless, we were able to close the tailgate and get the trash can home safe and sound. 

So now my trash can situation is solved.  But, strangely, I’m still not excited about Garbage Night.

Hunh.  Wonder if I should check Pinterest for those stencil and paint and Mod Podge ideas?

Nah. I’m just happy the darn thing fits in the corner of our garage. 

And How do YOU Pronounce the Word “A-U-N-T”?

When I was a kid, we were instructed to call my mother’s sister “Aunt Ethel.” And to call my mother’s cousins “Aunt Babbie” and “Aunt Dorothy.” 

The first one was legitimately an aunt; the second and third were, technically, cousins.  We were second cousins or once removed or something like that. But since they were grown-ups and we were kids, we were not allowed to call them by their first names and had to put the “Aunt” in front as a sign of respect.

                                                                                                                             

But that wasn’t a big deal to us. Well into my adulthood, I continued to call these ladies “Aunt” – whatever  – and couldn’t imagine calling them by their given names.  (And, okay, so technically, “Babbie” wasn’t her given name.  But she rarely used her first name, which was Louise.”  I‘m not even sure where the name “Babbie” came from!)

But I digress. As usual.

The difference is that our parents are from New England. And they pronounced A-U-N-T as “Ah-nt” rather than “Ant” as so many of our friends from the Midwest called their relatives.

As kids we didn’t like being different, so whenever we could get away with it, we used the Midwest pronunciation.  And by “getting away with it” I mean whenever my mother wasn’t around.

If she was within earshot and heard us use the “Ant” pronunciation, she’d sternly correct us: “She isn’t an ‘ANT’ that crawls around on the floor,” she’d admonish. “She’s your ‘Ah-nt’!”

If Mom wasn’t watching, we’d usually roll our eyes and then dramatically repeat the title loudly using her pronunciation.

Even though we thought it sounded strange and weird.  We weren’t, after all, from New England.  We were from Ohio.  And Ohioans pronounced it “Ant”!

But we somehow managed to survive our childhood. And rarely was an “Aunt” harmed with whatever pronunciation we used.  They knew we loved them no matter what we called them!

Fast-forward to my sister’s kid, Chloe.  My sister instructed her to call me “Aunt Jane.”  Unlike our mother, however, Chloe was not required to call me “Ah-nt” Jane.

Unless, of course, our mother is within earshot. And then we hear the same ol’ thing all over again.  “She isn’t an ‘ANT’ that crawls around on the floor,” she’d admonish. “She’s your ‘Ah-nt’!”

My sister and I just grin at each other. And, okay, so we still roll our eyes.

Just a little.

Chloe complies with Nanna’s admonishment, but even she will dramatically repeat the title loudly using Nanna’s pronunciation.

Until this past Christmas, however.  Chloe is now 12. And you can’t really tell a 12-year-old the ways of the world without their checking Google.  So Chloe Googled “Aunt” and it spit out the verbal pronunciation as “Ant.”

True enough, there is another pronunciation in Google – the way my mother pronounces it. But Chloe somehow avoided that one altogether. 

Her Nanna, on the other hand, doesn’t really care what Google thinks.  And she continued to remind Chloe about the correct pronunciation. 

Apparently Chloe likes saying my name – so eventually she started spelling it.  “’A-U-N-T’ Jane,” she’d say, “will you play a game with me?”

Eventually it got to the point where she would spell “A-U-N-T” Jane so fast, it almost sounded like she was calling me Auntie Jane – and that just made me laugh.

I started calling her “N-I-E-C-E” Chloe, but that just didn’t roll off the tongue as easily, so eventually I stopped and reverted to my affectionate name for her, which is “Little Missy.”  She usually laughs whenever I call her that, so I haven’t stopped.

It will be all too soon, I imagine, when she’ll just roll her eyes if I use that term of endearment, so when that happens I may stop.

Maybe.

But no matter what she calls me, I know Chloe loves me.  And that’s what counts – right?

Does Strenuous Coughing Count as Exercise?

So an entire week has passed since we rang in a brand-spanking new year.

And I still haven’t taken down my Christmas decorations. Our fully decorated 7-1/2 foot tall Christmas tree stands forlornly in the corner of our living room feeling sorry for itself that we neither light it nor look at it anymore.

Ack, the shame!  Not taking down Christmas decorations by January 2^nd is pretty much a major sin in Jane’s Domain. 

But I have a good excuse. Or at least since I’m the “Jane” in Jane’s Domain and I get to pardon the sins, it’s an excuse I’m willing to accept.

I have, you see, caught yet another cold. This is the second cold I’ve had in the last two months. I barely had time to replenish my stash of Kleenex before the next round of sniffles started.

I’m telling you, if there is a flying germ anywhere within a 20 foot radius, it will find me. Apparently, I’m a great host. I serve snacks. And I must’ve given that ugly green Mucinex Man the wrong impression because he thinks he’s welcome any ol’ time.

So I’m trying to be a little less hospitable.  I’ve hauled out packages of Dayquil, Nyquil, cough syrup, nasal spray, cough drops, and, yes, Mucinex. I’ve taken them at various times and in various combinations in the vain hope of lessening my symptoms.

Yeah, like any of that has worked.

I’ve napped a lot this week, which certainly has helped me catch up on any missing sleep from those pre-holiday late nights.  And I’ve had no appetite, so that has helped the New Year’s diet that I didn’t specifically resolve to start.  And I’ve coughed so much, my core feels like I’ve spent the last week doing continual crunches.

It’s not a diet and exercise plan I’d recommend, though.

For one thing, phlegm is not pretty.  And for another, no energy leads to a messy house with overflowing wastebaskets full of wads of used Kleenex. Also not pretty. Especially when your middle is too sore to bend over to pick up a wastebasket.

And did I mention the fully decorated Christmas tree in the corner of my living room?

That’s enough to drive a somewhat obsessive-type person like me a little batty.

.

We’ve run out of basic food supplies such that I’m feeding Vince chicken noodle soup without the chicken. And I’ve been hoarding the milk to make it last yet another day for coffee (me) and hot cereal (Vince). 

Fortunately, I believe I’ve turned the corner on this cold and while a fit of violent coughing rudely awakened me at 4 am, I woke up no longer feeling like I’ve been flattened by a semi going 90 mph. 

So I think I may be able to venture out and do a little Krogering.  I’m going to need some chicken to add to a new batch of chicken noodle soup.

Because now Vince is sick.

Sigh. 

And so it goes…