Holiday Happenings 2022. Subtitle: Spontaneous Jane Strikes Again.

 A few days ago I was busily working on Christmas gifts (you know – the creative kind that require time, attention and focus? The ones that during the middle of the project, you wonder if you shouldn’t have just headed to the mall?)

 

But, anyway, during the midst of those 14-hour days, I got a voicemail from my friend, St. Nick, inviting me to their Christmas party on Friday.

 

I didn’t have time to answer him – until the day before the party.

 

And I hadn’t really decided for sure if I was going since, well, the planner in me hasn’t been spontaneous enough to toss a quick overnight bag together and head off into the great unknown (a.k.a., Wintersville, Ohio) since the early 90s.

 

In the end, I knew that if I stayed home alone all weekend, I’d be kicking myself for not at least making the effort.

 

So I sent Maggie off to play with her doggie friends, gassed up the car, and hit the road.

 

It was full-on dark when I started my journey and I wondered if it was a smart move for a 63-year-old to be driving by herself at night – especially since I wasn’t overly familiar with the route.

 

And when I hit an area that had snow flying at my windshield hard enough that it looked like a meteor shower, I was seriously questioning my decision-making skills.

 

And, yeah, the planner in me realized I should have at least checked the weather report.

 

Nevertheless, I persevered until I arrived safe and sound at their beautifully decorated home with its twinkle lights and massive live Christmas tree flanking the entryway.

 

By then the party was in full swing – and I was able to hug my long-time friends – some of whom I hadn’t seen since before COVID.

 

I had planned to stay with one twin but ended up staying with the other since the first one spent a little too much time in the hot tub imbibing Christmas “spirits” – and was not up, perhaps, for hosting out-of-town guests. I’d say he had a good reason for the overindulgence, but for dignity’s sake, I won’t go into details.

 

(Hey, I try hard to keep my lifelong friends. And this is precisely why I would have never made a good reporter or gossip columnist!)

 

In between his, uh, “bouts of nausea” (let’s say), he had us laughing by admitting that we hadn’t seen him this bad since a certain Halloween party in the mid-80s when he overindulged and was lying in the dark in a pile of leaves. When his mom – “Mrs. B” – arrived at the party and was asking for him, we made some excuse to her, rushed out to the tree, and covered him up with the leaves.

 

Whether he remembers it – or has just heard us tell the story enough times that he thinks he remembers it – he still makes us laugh whenever he retells it.

 

And, by the way, that’s the last of the Steubenville Adventures I’ll share. Because he has ammunition against me, too, and might start talking about my one and only attempt at roof jumping. Which makes me sound crazy when he tells the story, but it makes a lot more sense when I tell it. (Sort of.)

 

Anyway…

 

The rest of us stayed up ‘til nearly 3 a.m. sharing stories and noshing on the sweets and Italian treats they had so thoughtfully provided for their guests.

 

Since I drank way more water than wine during the party, there was no hangover aftermath for me. Woohoo. Score one for the old broad who realizes that she’s no longer in her 20s – even though she’s hanging out with friends she’s known since her teens.

 

And, okay, so I only managed about three hours of fitful sleep and maybe wasn't feeling all perky and wide awake. But still. I felt pretty good.

 

Eventually, we all gathered in the kitchen drinking coffee and talking about plans for the day, which consisted of crossing state lines (well, truthfully, only across the bridge to Weirton, WV), to do a little Christmas shopping and then out to lunch.

 

We ended up in downtown Steubenville at an Antique shop and had lots of fun looking at all the treasures for sale.

In all the years I’ve been to Steubenville – including the three years I lived there working with Nick and Joe – I’d never seen the downtown filled with so many people. The Nutcrackers Display  may have something to do with that and it was a wonderful sight to see. Gotta love small town ingenuity and growth.

 

I have to admit that driving home was a little dicey, too. Again in the dark, but at least I was a little more familiar with the route. Again I saw a meteor shower snow spectacle, but at least the roads didn’t get slick until I was closer to home. So I simply slowed down and drove carefully and made it home safe and sound to my own little abode with its twinkling lights and miniature iridescent Christmas tree.

 

But spending time with friends who are more like family was the absolute best thing about this trip and I’m so very glad that Planner Jane was overruled by Spontaneous Jane.

So the best pieces of advice I can give you?

1. Take the trip. But maybe check the weather report first. And driving in the daylight hours couldn’t hurt.

2. Make the gift (if you can). It will make the recipient(s) feel good. And will make you feel even better.

 

Oh, and one more thing. Hot tubs and booze do not mix.

 

You’re welcome!

Thankful, Grateful and Blessed

On this Thanksgiving Eve when we turn our attention from all the Christmas decorations that are already on display to focus on mounds of turkey and stuffing and green bean casserole…er, I mean, we focus on all the things we have for which we are thankful – I thought I’d share a little story that happened to me just today.

 

I had met some friends for lunch in Powell and we had a great time catching up with each other. Unfortunately, we couldn’t make it a marathon gab session all afternoon as they had places to go and people to see. Which sounds way fancier than saying they had to pick up the grandkids and/or take a nap. Nevertheless, those were still important enough tasks that they had to run.

 

And so did I. Because I had some errands to run myself before the end of the day. Like stop at the bank. And the gas station. And the car wash. 

 

But before I could get to the first stop on my list, I spied with my little eagle eye the Home Goods store. Ohhh - my Happy Place. I love, love, L-O-V-E that store!

 

And Home Goods at Christmastime with all manner of shiny, sparkly things? I can’t even begin to tell you how much dopamine and serotonin flood my little brain.

 

So I parked and headed inside to snag a shopping cart even though I had only an item or two on my list should they happen to have those items in stock. With Home Goods, one can’t make any assumptions.

 

Except that one can always assume I will come out of there with things I had no idea I absolutely needed. Therefore, a shopping cart is mandatory.

 

Once inside, I found a plethora of shiny, sparkly things that called to me with their siren song of shimmer and glitter, but I practiced discretion as I no longer have the need (or desire) to decorate every square inch of surface space in my home. And I truly do have more than enough holiday décor.

 

But that didn’t stop me from winding my way around every single aisle in the store.

 

As I was wandering down the picture frame and candle aisle, a woman stopped me and asked if my name was Jane.

 

Surprised, I said it was. Meanwhile, my dopamine- and serotonin-filled little brain was frantically trying to place her. Did we meet recently at the Twig Bazaar? Was she someone I met at the widow’s group meeting I’d recently attended?

 

Had I – God forbid – run into her car in the parking lot in my haste to enter Home Goods and she had a friend at the BMV who told her who owned the grey Passat with the sparkly license plate?

 

Evidently, she saw the gears turning because she quickly pointed out that I didn’t know her.

 

Then she went on to say that she had been friends on Facebook with Vince. Her husband was in the car business and she inadvertently asked to be Vince’s friend. He asked her if he knew her and she explained who her husband was. And she graciously told him he didn’t have to accept her friend request.

 

But of course, he did.

 

And she said she just loved how idyllic our life seemed to be. That it made her heart happy that Vince loved me (“His Janie”) so much. And that we were always doing something fun and interesting – and that she enjoyed reading about our dinners out or our adventures on the trips we took.

 

Clearly, she knew me by the multitudes of photos Vince took of me on every occasion – whether it was a simple meal or a fancy wedding or a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

 

And then she told me how truly sorry she was that he had passed.

 

I cannot begin to tell you how much it meant that she stopped me. She even said she was not sure she should because she didn’t want to make me sad.

 

I told her I’m already always sad – but that I was so grateful that she did stop and talk to me. It made my heart happy that Vince had such an affect on people that someone who never even met me before recognized me in Home Goods.

 

If there is a list we’re compiling tomorrow on things for which to be grateful, having had my Vince for thirteen years tops mine. And having someone remember him to me is also incredibly special.

 

So however you spend your Thanksgiving holiday – eating lots of candied yams and pumpkin pie – or watching football – or dropping a turkey in a vat full of boiling oil – I wish you (well, besides a lot o’ luck with both your football team and the deep-fried turkey thing), lots of love and happiness.

 

And I hope you spend the day with people you love.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Oh, and PS. If you ever wonder if you should talk to someone about their loved one who has passed – always, always talk to them. We yearn to hear that others remember them and miss them, too.

Mom's Heavenly Birthday

 

I just got back from Maggie’s second walk of the day. It’s a beautiful, sunny morning and it’s supposed to get up to a high of 74° today. However, when I referenced my Apple watch for the current temperature at my location, I was given the information that it was only 54°.

 

So then I played the Coat Guessing Game. I opened the closet door, spun the wheel and asked: do I wear the jean jacket? The winter jacket that’s not as heavy as the winter coat? Or just the thin windbreaker?

 

Probably I need to consult more than my Apple Watch because wind velocity also plays a crucial factor in the Coat Guessing Game.

 

This time I guessed wrong. Oh, who am I kidding? I guess wrong a lot. I’m either sweating or shivering on any given day – and sometimes I can be both on the same day. Heck, sometimes on the same walk!

 

I opted for my winter jacket, which would have been fine if it had been windy – but there was not a puff of breeze to be had.

 

So I sweated while walking the dog and chose to cut it short lest I melt into a big puddle on the sidewalk. I mean, I don’t want to ruin my “Incidences of Losing Maggie” record here. Which I’m proud to say remains at “Zero.”

 

But, I contemplated life during my walk, which is always an interesting exercise. And, today, I thought about my mom.

 

See, today would have been her 98^th birthday. So as I walked along, I thought about her. I thanked God for her being born. For being my mom. For loving me. And I thought about all the birthday celebrations we had for her through the years since she lived to just shy of her 96th birthday. 

 

Not that we had major bashes for her. Mom was not exactly the sort of person who wanted a big deal made about turning another year older. She was far too pragmatic. And birthdays were just another day.

 

But when she got older, I have fond memories of celebrating mom on her special day either in Columbus or in Alliance. And when she moved to the Glen at Parkside, my sister and brothers were sometimes here to help her celebrate. Or Vince and I, with balloons and flowers and cake in hand, were there to warble off-key Happy Birthday To You to her. (Okay, it was mostly me being off-key. Vince had a pretty decent singing voice.)

 

One of my favorite memories, though, is the year Vince met my parents for the first time. He and I had been together by that point for about eight months, but my parents had been at their cottage at the Cape most of that time and had never met him in person.

 

I figured mom’s birthday would be a good opportunity. Dad suggested we go out to eat, but Vince wanted to make a good impression, so he said he’d handle the kitchen duties.

 

And let me tell you – he pulled out all the stops. He bought steaks to cook on the grill with all the sides and fixins’. We brought wine, of course. He picked out a beautiful bouquet of flowers. And a card. And a gorgeous double-layer cake. I think he stopped just short of jewelry as he didn’t want to overdo it.

 

(Where’s the eye-rolling emoji when I need it?!)

 

But they thoroughly enjoyed that dinner. They weren’t sure they had enough room for cake just then and wanted to wait for a bit.

 

So Vince regaled them with stories of “his Janie” as mom did a bit of eye-rolling herself as, for some reason, she never liked the name “Janie.”

 

But they could tell Vince loved me. And that I had finally met my match.

 

Eventually, he brought out the cake with a single lit candle and the three of us sang her happy birthday as she made a wish and blew it out. Vince told me to sit – that he’d bring the cake to the kitchen, plate it and bring it out to the dining room. Mom called after him, “just a small piece!”

 

I had forewarned Vince not to cut big pieces as mom and dad didn’t like to waste food and were not big eaters.

 

So imagine my chagrin when he brought out these huge slices of cake. Mom was staring wide-eyed at the amount of cake on her plate while dad was busy wolfing his down before mom had a good visual of how much cake he was eating.

 

I was just shaking my head and rolling my eyes at Vince with a wry smile. And he was grinning back at me with a devilish, “gotcha!” look on his face.

 

The funniest part about the whole thing was that mom finished every bit of cake on her plate.  It was probably the most sugar she had ever had in one sitting in her life. So she was on a bit of a sugar-high as the celebration winded down and Vince and I got ready to head for home.

 

It was certainly not the last birthday celebration we had for mom – but it was the most memorable.

 

And I miss having them. I miss mom, dad and Vince. But I’m happy that I have such fond memories.

 

So Happy Birthday in heaven, mom. Hope they’re plying you with lots of birthday cake. And wine.

 

And I’m sending you a virtual hug from here. Give one to dad and my Vince, too, would you? xo

 

Who’s Ready for Fall?

I really didn’t want summer to end as I’m not looking forward to the snow and ice that will all too soon be in our Ohio future. Sure, we’ve gotta get through the craziness of all things pumpkin, the falling of the leaves and the simultaneous putting away of the flip flops and unearthing of the boots. But I’m mentally preparing myself for these events, so it may not hit me as hard.

 

Especially when I realize that I have absolutely no responsibility this year of raking up the fallen leaves. Yahoo!

 

Well. Not that I ever actually took rake in hand and arranged the leaves in a neat pile near the street to be collected by the city. We either hired someone to handle the task – or Vince got out his handy-dandy leaf blower and did the job himself.

 

Last fall, the yard guy was busy, so I tried my hand with Vince’s leaf blower. This was not a good move since all I managed to accomplish was to blow the leaves in a bigger circumference around the very large tree in our front yard. The leaves were nowhere near the street and in no way would anyone have considered them arranged in a pile, so all I did was create more work for the yard guy. Oops.

 

I’m guessing he’s glad that I moved.

 

Despite my hanging on to the last possible vestige of summer, the calendar has inevitably turned the page and it is now officially Fall. To underscore that fact, this morning’s walk with Maggie Minx had me busting out both a sweatshirt and a fall jacket since the outside temperature was a brisk 43°.

 

I don’t like words like “brisk.” The very word makes me shiver.

 

Some people I know have been fully decorated for the fall season since early August. But me? Well, I’m not one of those people.

 

I had my hot pink wreath on my front door along with my hot pink and black and white-striped urn and matching welcome mat out until I reluctantly removed them from the front stoop only today. Gasp – one day after the beginning of the Autumnal Equinox. For shame, Jane. For shame.

 

All the front doors in this neighborhood have been displaying their wreaths of oranges, yellows and reds for a few weeks now. I started getting a little worried that the Decorations Police would cite me for my inappropriate seasonal display.  Yikes. We wouldn’t want that.

 

So I’ve placed an appropriate Welcome sign, mat and wreath that all shout “Fall.” Since Halloween and Thanksgiving both feature pumpkins as décor, I will keep this display up until it’s time for the Christmas stuff. And that changeover will occur only after Thanksgiving Day. Martha Stewart, I’m not. And I can’t be bothered to put up separate Halloween and Thanksgiving decorations.

 

Nevertheless, I do seem to have a Martha-like penchant for hot glue guns and today I got mine out. I took some inexpensive pumpkins and glue-gunned them together, slapped on some fall-appropriate ribbon and some picks of berries, pinecones and leaves and placed the whole thing in a stand to sit in the corner of the porch.

 

Now I just have to keep my fingers crossed that this creation won’t blow away with the gale-force winds that are soon to arrive. The trees in this neighborhood are way smaller than the ones in my old neighborhood and I just remember being so very C-O-L-D from the icy wind when walking Maggie last winter.

 

See? I’m already bypassing the Fall season and going straight to Winter.

 

Hmm. Maybe I should’ve just gotten the Christmas trees out of storage, set that up in the corner of the front porch and been done with it?

 

Nah. I’m not one for bucking the system and I really don’t want a citation from the Decorations Police.

 

I fear that my community service might be leaf raking. Best not to risk it.

 

Happy Fall, y’all!

 

It's All in the Timing

I was at the pool recently wringing out every last little bit of summer. The opportunity to float in the lazy river is something I dream about in mid-February when I’d kill for a little warm sunshine on my face. But while we all know that Fall doesn’t officially begin until September 22^nd, the pool closes long before that.

 

So I hit the pool arriving with my towel, 24 oz double-insulated tumbler of ice water, can of ultra-high SPF sunblock and my pool floatie. I kicked off my flip-flops, dropped everything on a lounge chair but the pool floatie – and I waded in.

 

You should know that it could be 90 degrees outside and I still do the toe-dipping thing where I test the water in which I’m preparing to submerge myself. It could be as warm as bath water, but my face wears the same expression as if I were participating in a Polar Bear plunge in frigid January.

 

Fortunately, that expression lasts only seconds before I’ve acclimated to the water temperature. I close my eyes and peacefully float as the water jets carry me along and the sun shines down upon me.

 

Ahhh.

 

This euphoria lasts only as long as the little hooligans stay out of the lazy river. Once the pool is overly filled with splashing pre-teenaged boys, I get out. And then I eagerly await the announcement every hour that it’s the time-out period for all children under eighteen.

 

Believe me, we diehard lazy river fans who have purchased our own floaties positively live for those brief kid-less moments in the lazy river.

 

After a couple hours of floating and sunning, I was relaxing in my lounge chair reading a book and awaiting the next adult only swim, which was about 10 minutes away. I was also shamelessly eavesdropping on a man and his son sitting next to me. He was telling his son that it looked like a brief thunderstorm was headed our way and the boy wasn’t allowed to go back in the water.

 

I looked up and, sure enough, there were some clouds in the sky that didn’t look too friendly.

 

The woman on the other side of me asked me what the pool’s policy was for rainstorms. Clearly, she assumed I was the professional pool-goer amongst us what with my super-duper pool floatie leaning next to my chair.

 

I told her that everyone would have to take shelter. And if the storm involved thunder and lightning, the pool would close.

 

And then, because I didn’t really feel like hanging out under a crowded shelter hoping the rain would stop and the sun would come out again – I decided I’d probably had enough lazy river time that day.

 

So I packed up and headed to my car.

 

No sooner had I latched my seatbelt and put the car in gear when the skies opened up and it rained like Noah was making a comeback. There were brilliant flashes of lightning and booming cracks of thunder. And as I left the parking lot I could barely see the road in front of me.

 

Talk about timing. That was just about perfect. And, yeah, sure, I had a little hint from my lounge neighbor with the doppler radar app that the weather was going to take a turn…but had I left even a moment later I would have been soaked.

 

And I know what you're thinking. But, no, I wasn’t still wet from the lazy river. I’d changed into street clothes in the restroom since I had planned to run some errands after my afternoon at the pool.

 

There are so few instances in life that I have perfect timing that when they happen, I marvel.

 

On the other hand, there are many instances where my timing is off. Yin and Yang, perhaps?

 

Let’s compare and contrast, shall we? Let me tell you about my most recent journey to the pool.

 

It was this past Friday. August 12^th. Still well over a month before the end of summer, no?

 

I looked at my handy weather map and determined that Friday was going to be the best day to go to the pool. Saturday, conversely, was going to be cloudy and there was a greater chance of rain.

 

So I made arrangements to visit my father-in-law on Saturday and invited a friend to join me at the pool on Friday.

 

Alas, she couldn’t go at the last minute, but that didn’t stop me. I slapped on the sunblock, grabbed my pool bag and floatie and headed for the pool.

 

Once there, I was surprised that the parking lot wasn’t more crowded as it was an absolutely perfect summer day to lounge by the pool.

 

But I forged on ahead and walked up to the gate. Only to be stopped by a big sign indicating that the pool was closed until 4 pm. Unless I wanted to swim laps. Which I didn’t. I haven’t swum laps since my late 30s when my shoulder naggingly suggested it was time to stop swimming laps lest I was interested in signing up for a little rotator-cuff surgery.

 

Thursday had been the last day that the pool was open at noon. The stinkin’ day before!

 

Sigh.

 

So I turned around and headed back to the parking lot. I stowed my floatie in the trunk and then headed home. All sad and dejected because I might have missed my last opportunity to float in the lazy river for the season.

 

I had snapped a photo of the sign because I wanted to read it more thoroughly to see if I might have any more opportunities to hit the pool again. And – lo and behold – I discovered that the pool is open on the weekends from 12-6:30 until Labor Day. I swear, I may have heard an angel or two singing in my head when I read that news!

 

But here’s the thing about timing. There has been a definite chill in the air the past few mornings when I’ve taken Maggie for her first walk of the day. And the sky isn’t so bright either leading me to acknowledge that a time change is headed our way before too long.

 

So it’s starting to feel a little like Fall. And I’m guessing that the whole Pumpkin Spice Phenomena is about to descend upon us poor folk who are not remotely interested in any manner of Pumpkin Spice. Drinks, candles or otherwise.

 

Maybe I should hold out hope that we have a resurgence of a late summer heat wave so I can eke out a few more times at the pool over the next couple weekends?

 

We’ll see.

 

As long as the timing isn’t off and we don’t get that heat wave until after Labor Day.

 

Then the sound you’ll hear from way over here? Yeah, it’ll be the air coming from my deflating floatie. Along with perhaps the sound of sweat splashing on the fabric as I fold it up and put it away for another year in the middle of the after-Labor Day heat wave.

My Right Foot Vendetta

I think I might have a secret vendetta against my own right foot. More specifically, against the toes on my right foot.

 

I know – weird, right?

 

But let me explain.

 

The other night I was trying to squeeze a newly purchased industrial size bottle of extra-virgin olive oil into my already overflowing pantry. It was on sale and these days I can use all the sale prices I can get.

 

There really wasn’t any room in the pantry, so when I maneuvered the olive oil container onto the shelf, a large can of tuna fish popped off the shelf and fell onto the floor. But to cushion the blow, it first landed directly on the fourth toe of my right foot before bouncing off and settling on the floor.

 

Lucky for the can of tuna fish; not-so-lucky for my foot. There’s a nice big purple bruise adorning that fourth toe. But at least I still have decently polished toenails thanks to my cousin Cathy who treated us to pedicures when I went “up north” in Michigan a few weeks ago.

 

But back to the pantry problem. When I moved in here last December and my friends and I opened the mountain of boxes that were stacked chest-high in the kitchen, we just shoved things in the pantry for temporary storage to “deal with” later.

 

I’m ashamed to say that “later” hasn’t yet happened.

 

And now it’s so overwhelming, I barely look whenever I take something out or put something in.

 

And this is a BIG pantry, folks. I mean, I can walk in and turn left or right.

 

Well, right now I can’t. The floor is warehousing all sorts of things that I’m hoping I can get to one of these days. Including storage bins and canisters to corral some of the very items I want to store properly in the pantry.

 

Everything is all piled in there willy-nilly without any thought to organization.

 

What I need to do is spend a day (at least) pulling everything out of the pantry and then starting from scratch. Clearly, I need to allow more storage space for things like bottles of olive oil and cans of tuna.

 

And, no, I’m not going to show you a picture of my pantry in its current state. Maybe once I get to organizing it, I’ll be brave enough to show a “before” photo – as long as I have an “after” photo for contrast.

 

So, anyway, back to this vendetta against my right foot.

 

It’s not the first time I’ve injured myself, thus, I'm labeling it a vendetta.

 

The last time was just a few short years ago when Vince and I were hosting a family gathering for Father’s Day. I even wrote about it here. I was lugging an armful of party items to the lower level and Vince asked me to bring a plate of frozen steaks to thaw in the downstairs fridge. I told him I was full up and couldn’t carry anything else on that trip – but he thought I could handle one little plate of frozen steaks.

 

Yeah…not so much.

 

As I started walking on the ceramic tile floor hallway toward the stairs to the lower level, the plate of frozen steaks slid off whatever it was stacked on and fell lip-first onto the second toe of my right foot.

 

The good news? The plate didn’t break. The bad news? My toe broke. I had a good-sized cut on that toe that took weeks to heal, and the toenail is permanently split and damaged. (So pedicures aren’t nearly as fun as they used to be.)

 

But at least Vince felt badly enough about it that I didn’t have to do much to get ready for that party – and he even took a few extra dog-walking shifts so I didn't have to hobble around while sporting that big white bandage.

 

I’m not sure it was an even trade, but whatever.

 

The final incident that I’ll discuss to further prove my vendetta took place the day before my wedding in September of 2009.

 

I was packing to head down to the hotel and was filling bags and suitcases with all the “stuff” I needed (and stuff I didn’t really need but wanted to have “just in case”).

 

I picked up my 4-inch Wedding Planning binder to put it in a carrying case all its own since it was so thick and heavy. It was a “just in case” thing because if I didn’t have everything planned by that point, it wasn’t going to get done.

 

Possibly I was thinking it had all the vendor phone numbers in case the caterer forgot which entrée they were serving – or the DJ forgot which song I wanted him to play for the father and daughter dance.

 

But at any rate, I dropped the 4-inch binder onto the floor. Nope, not on my foot. And at that moment, I thought to myself, Whew, was that lucky – or what?!

 

And then when I bent down to pick it up, I somehow took a step and kicked the thing – and felt a pain like you can’t imagine. A 4-inch wedding planning binder is NOT something one wants to kick the day before one’s wedding.

 

Fortunately, this injury didn’t preclude me from wearing my wedding shoes and I didn’t even limp walking down the aisle. So major crisis averted. The purple bruise I sported on (again, the second toe of my right foot), at least matched my wedding accent colors of red and purple.

 

I wanted to find a better photo of the wedding day "ouchy" - but I didn't have any luck searching through Facebook. So I thought perhaps I'd posted a blog about it. I couldn't find it, but imagine my surprise when I found yet another picture of a stubbed toe. (Here) And it was my third toe. So if I find a picture of my big toe and baby toe with bruises on them, I'd have a full house of injuries to that foot!

So maybe I don’t have a vendetta against my foot so much as I have a vendetta against my toes?

 

Either way, I need to be more careful against flying cans of tuna fish or frozen steaks or wedding planning binders.

 

Well, I’d better run. It’s time for me to change the sheets on the bed. That’s usually a good opportunity to stub my toe on the frame.

 

Hmmm. Perhaps I should invest in a pair of steel-toed boots?

 

 

The Great Peanut Butter Recall of 2022

Last week I cruised over to Costco to fill up my gas tank. I’ve been filling it back up once the gauge hits the halfway mark in an effort to fool myself into believing that gas is not as expensive as it really is.

 

Yeah, like that works.

 

Nevertheless, it has been my practice in recent months and it’s hard to change.

 

While there, I decided I simply had to purchase a 10-pound bag of Buttermilk Pancake mix along with the requisite gallon jug of maple syrup. You never know when a phalanx of pancake-hungry breakfast eaters is going to descend upon my little abode expecting a stack of flapjacks. And I wanted to be prepared.

 

And, okay, so that’s not really true. Most of the hungry breakfast-eaters I know are going to studiously avoid my place as they know I won’t have the provisions to feed them. And even if I did, the pancakes would either turn out burned or undercooked. Bleh.

 

Oh well. I’ve never professed to being a cook. If ever I invite anyone over for a meal, they’re probably going to be fed a salad. (But, hey, they’re pretty good salads, if I do say so myself.)

 

Anyway, as I walked into the Warehouse, I noticed a long line of folks waiting for Customer Service. Normally, I mind my own business and try not to be a looky-loo, but I have to admit I was a little curious. After a quick peek at what these folks were holding in their arms, I saw an awful lot of jars of peanut butter.

 

And then I remembered seeing something about salmonella and a peanut butter recall.

 

And then I remembered that I had actually purchased a two-pack of Jif from Costco in recent months.

 

And THEN I remembered having a stomach ache a couple weeks ago, which was memorable only because I rarely have stomach aches.

 

I had eaten a spoonful of peanut butter that I had just opened, so – yeah – the wheels were turning.

 

Once I returned home I looked up the lot codes of the jars in question – and, sure enough, the two jars in my pantry were affected. (See photo below for Lot #'s affected.)

 

Great. I pretty much automatically toss my receipts once I get home from a store, so I knew I didn’t have proof of purchase.

 

Since there are no toddlers in my home and my small dog doesn’t scarf up a whole lot of peanut butter, I don’t go through a jar quickly. Consequently, I may buy a jar of peanut butter once every year or two – so it was a little painful tossing a large unopened jar and a second jar that had literally one spoonful out of it.

 

On the other hand, I wasn’t even remotely interested in seeing how badly salmonella would affect me – and I didn’t relish the idea of ending up in the nearest Emergency Room.

 

So out they went.

 

And then later someone told me that Costco would have allowed me to return them for refund even without a receipt.

 

Oh well. Live and learn.

 

Meanwhile, I’ve heard that some of my friends also had salmonella-infused jars of Jif in their cupboards that had to be tossed. One friend had even made a peanut butter pie before learning that the peanut butter was bad. Sad.

 

But I suppose that’s better than eating a delicious peanut butter pie that makes you sick.

 

Strangely, over the past few days I’ve been craving a slice of peanut butter toast. Power of suggestion, perhaps?

 

So maybe I’ll have to make another trip to the grocery store and try again.

 

But maybe I’ll go with a jar of Skippy this time…

 

“Lucky” Friday the 13th?

 

Yesterday was Friday the 13^th. Anyone out there have suspicions about that date?

 

Normally, I don’t prescribe to a lot of hocus-pocus, although I can clearly remember as a kid avoiding cracks in the sidewalk because I didn’t want to “break my mother’s back.” Probably I figured I’d get saddled with kitchen and laundry duties should mom find herself in traction.

 

I also avoided walking under a ladder, but that seemed to be rooted more in practicality than in superstition. I was always tall for my age and I could easily have smacked my noggin’ on the crosspiece. The ladder my dad used to dig leaves out of the gutter wasn’t all that high.

 

I’ve never thrown salt over my shoulder because, well, then I’d have to sweep up the mess from the floor. Broken mirrors are only concerning because glass shards are nothing to trifle with. So I don’t remember ever being too concerned whenever a Friday the 13^th rolled around on the calendar.

 

But when I woke up yesterday morning after a measly 2-1/2 hours’ sleep, that may have been my first clue that the day wouldn’t go smoothly.

 

I blearily started my morning walk with Maggie Minx who, by the way, acted as if she hadn’t been walked a mere four hours previously, which was the middle of the night for most normal folks.

 

We started down our regular path when Maggie suddenly went nuts, barking and pulling at the leash. There were no other live animals or people nearby that I could see, but I did see what looked like a big pile of fluff on the grass near the sidewalk. And Maggie was desperate to get to it.

 

It looked like there had either been a major skirmish between warring geese gaggles – or a small predatory animal had disrupted a duck nest somewhere close by.

 

I suspected the latter, although I had to chuckle at the image in my head of a Goose Turf War.

 

Earlier this spring Maggie had been intensely interested in the small hedges by a neighbor’s front door. She nosed into it and came out with some sort of fluff that may have been part of a nest, which was my first clue to pull her away. My second clue was when a duck abruptly flew out from inside the hedges and took off for the sky.

 

That startled me enough that I took off as well – dragging a reluctant Maggie along with me. And since that incident, I make sure Maggie doesn’t get anywhere near the hedges.

 

So the fluff on the grass looked a lot like the fluff that Maggie pulled out from the hedges.

 

Instead of dealing with a crazed dog, we turned around and walked in the other direction. And encountered no other issues with our morning walk.

 

But as soon as we got home and Maggie was happily munching her morning kibble, I made a beeline for the coffee maker. Two and a half hours’ sleep does not make for a perky Jane. Yeah, like when am I ever “perky”?!

 

My laptop, which has recently taken up residence on my kitchen table since I’m helping a friend with an upcoming event, was plugged in where the Keurig is usually plugged in. Don’t ask me why – I probably figured my laptop was only plugged in temporarily and my need for coffee isn't usually quite so urgent.

 

Anyway, I started to pull the laptop’s plug out of the wall, but was met with some resistance. So I pulled a little harder and the plug pulled free quickly enough that I lost control – and my hand hit the Keurig and my favorite iridescent double-walled coffee mug. The mug then hit the side of the fridge and promptly shattered.

 

Sigh.

 

All this before my first happy jolt of caffeine.

 

Nevertheless, I cleaned up the mess, pulled my second-favorite coffee mug out of the cupboard and proceeded to make myself a cup of coffee.

 

If you’re imagining that I spilled that scalding cup of coffee in my lap a few moments later, you’d be…wrong.  No humans or animals were harmed by the cup o’ joe.

 

A few hours later, I was meeting a friend for an early lunch. Whenever I’m meeting someone, I start a complicated math equation in my head…if I’m driving at 45 MPH in a northwesterly direction and my destination is 8.2 miles away, what time do I absolutely have to be in the shower to be presentable?

 

All sorts of other details factor into this equation, too. Like is hair washing a necessity? Do I have a relatively good idea of what I’m planning to wear? Does my purse remotely match my outfit, or do I have to begin the complicated process of switching purses so that I don’t fly out the door without my cell phone and car keys?

 

Fortunately, I was on-point with my calculations and was ready to go at the appointed time. Except I got a phone call that lasted a little longer than I realized, and then I knew I had to hustle to get to lunch on time.

 

But it was a beautiful spring day and I was enjoying the drive…

 

…until I reached a certain part of the road that changes from 45 MPH to 35 MPH (before shortly changing back to 45 MPH).

 

I spied out of my little eagle-eye a little too late, the police cruiser hanging out by the side of the road.

 

Who promptly turned on his lights and started after me.

 

I am not a person who gets pulled over, so I was immediately filled with dread.

 

But I turned into the next parking lot, which was conveniently close. Turned off my radio, opened the window and had my wallet in hand so my ID was at the ready. I was a little panicky wondering if I’d put the car registration and insurance card in my center console or in the glove box, but I didn’t want to fumble around looking for that while the officer approached.

 

I don’t know if it was the terrified look on my face that alerted him to the fact that I’ve only been pulled over once before in my life – or he’d actually had time to run my plates to see my squeaky-clean driving record.

 

But he was nice and gave me a break. Told me to slow down – and he let me go. I didn’t even have to show him my driver’s license or fumble around for that registration card.

 

I thanked him profusely – and went on my way. Of course, the speed limit hiked back up to 45 MPH a block later, but I was so rattled, I continued to drive along at a precise 35 MPH. I’m sure I made lots of friends in the cars behind me, but I didn’t much care. I only had a couple more blocks to go before I reached my destination anyway. 

Fortunately, the rest of the day went smoothly and I encountered no more calamities. So I'm calling this Friday the 13th a lucky "win"!