What Happened??

The big movie premiere of “The Hunger Games” happened last week. And there was a ton of hype and media coverage surrounding this movie. Local TV stations sent talking heads to interview teenaged girls waiting for the midnight premiere.

This basically amounted to a reporter asking inane questions like, “How excited are you to see this movie?” And a teenager screaming into the mike, “I’m just, like, SO excited to see this movie!” Which was apparently the cue for all her teenaged friends surrounding her to start screeching incoherently and jumping up and down in unison. Yikes. I had to change the channel to a Seinfeld repeat.

Evidently I was not quite so exuberant when I was a teenager. Either that, or I have a faulty memory.

Nevertheless, at some point during the middle of all this coverage, it occurred to me that I have absolutely no clue what The Hunger Games is all about.

Sigh. You know what this means, don’t you? I’m old. Yes, it’s true. I’m no longer hip. No longer fresh. And the fact that I just used the words “hip” and “fresh” to discuss my with-it-ness clearly illustrates the point.

Up until now, I’ve been pretty good at keeping up with trends. I mean, I know who Nicki Minaj is and how to spell her name correctly. I’ve downloaded Adele’s latest single. I read the whole Twilight series to see what all the Team Edward vs. Team Jacob fuss was about. (Team Edward. I’m a sucker for true romance.) (Sucker. Ha. Get it?!)

And I even forced myself to watch an episode of Kourtney and Kim Take New York just so I could figure out if there were any redeeming qualities whatsoever to the whole Kardashian phenomenon. (There aren’t.)

So when the media frenzy started about the The Hunger Games I realized I was behind the times. I don’t even know the name of the author who wrote the book. Or is that plural and it’s a series of books? See. I simply don’t know.

True, I realize that it’s aimed at a MUCH younger audience. But so were the Twilight and Harry Potter series, and look how many “old” people read those books and flocked to see those movies.

I guess there just becomes a point in life where keeping up with current trends is no longer as important as it used to be. Probably it’s self-preservation. After all, if “mature” ladies walked around sporting the current fashions, like, say, those new sky-high bright color-blocked heels, they’d injure things and end up in traction. And it’s pretty hard to glam up a hospital gown, so then you’re back at square one and might as well have gone for the sensible shoes in the first place.

Plus, when you get old(er), there are bigger things to worry about. Like finding the right moisturizer lest you end up looking like a Shar Pei.

Or like wondering where you put your reading glasses so you can read your prescription bottle to find out if you’re supposed to take your pain medication with food or without food. Or like worrying about being able to retire before your 90th birthday. Or worrying that you might actually have to begin a second career as a WalMart greeter.

Personally, I tend to worry about facial hair. I can’t help it. Errant hairs have started popping up on my chin and other embarrassing places on my face where ladies are not supposed to sport facial growth. The only redeeming quality about them is that they’re either blond or white (probably the latter), so they aren’t quite as easy to see. On the other hand, they’re either blond or white, so I cannot see them to pull them out with the tweezers I’ve taken to carrying with me at all times.

So it pretty much comes down to this: All the time I used to spend keeping up with the latest in Hollywood and the New York Times bestsellers list has been usurped by tweezing. Sad, but true. And if you young’uns think it won’t ever happen to you, let me assure you. It will.

Back when I was a young’un myself (and had to walk 10 miles to school, uphill both ways, blah, blah), I used to marvel at some of the older ladies I worked with. I’d wonder if they knew they had a big blob of mascara on their right eyelid or if they’d done it on purpose. Now I realize it’s because of the whole Shar Pei thing that happens with aging eyelids. It’s hard to apply mascara properly when your eyelid is practically folded over your lash line.

What I didn’t realize then – but am very clear on now – is that older ladies really don’t care that they have a big blog of mascara on their eyelid. They figure they’re dressed and are relatively presentable. And they made some sort of effort with the mascara and all, so that should count for something.

So on with their day they go.

But sometimes they will surprise you. They might show up in a new fashion trend that won’t make them look ridiculous or cause serious injury. And they might actually read The Hunger Games to find out what all the hype is about.

Just please don't point out any stray facial hairs growing on an old(er) lady. After all, she is probably clutching those ever-ready tweezers and I suspect those suckers could do some damage...

I Think Mother Nature is Messing With Us...

What’s this? A new blog for Jane’s Domain? Finally?!

As my mom used to say, “Will wonders never cease?” (And now that I think about it, she used to say that with more than a touch of sarcasm…)

Anyway.

But, yeah, it’s been a busy month. I’ve had lots of little projects to work on – and lots of big projects, too. My poor head is about to explode with all the things I’m doing, need to do, or haven’t gotten done.

But busy is good – right? I mean, it’s way better than being bored. If you had a childhood like mine, the “B” word was NEVER used in our house. Because if we used it, let me tell you, we regretted it the instant the word left our mouths. Our mom would say, “You’re bored? Well, honey, we can take care of that right now…” And then she’d hand us a list of chores that little Miss Cinderella herself would have found daunting.

So bored I’m not.

But because we’ve had such a mild winter and unseasonably warm temperatures so far this spring (even though it has only just arrived), I have a major task that just shot to the top of the list.

Yep, I have to haul out the bins that hold all my spring/summer clothes and switch out my closet. This was a task not scheduled until at least April. But everything – and I mean everything – in my closet is winter wear. It’s all fleece, corduroy, wool and velvet.

Nothing is 80 degree weather-worthy. So I’ve been a soggy, sweaty mess all week. How will I possibly survive August if it’s this warm in March, for cryin’ out loud!

Let’s just say that getting ready for work this morning was a challenge. I think I stood in front of my closet for about 10 minutes just shaking my head. Finally, in desperation, I pulled a long-sleeve jean shirt from the back of the closet and put it on. This is the shirt I normally wear to clean on Saturdays. In the winter. It even has a small(ish) bleach stain on the bottom, but I was so desperate, I wore it anyway.

As I walked through the garage to my car, I eyed the clear plastic bins that hold all my lightweight and airy cotton tops. I looked longingly at the boxes before getting in my car and driving away. In my bleach-stained jean shirt.

The bad news is that those bins are at the bottom of the stack in the garage. So it’s not a minor task we’re discussing. It’s a major undertaking. As I recall, I had back pain for several days last November after I hauled all those bins to the garage. And then when I moved things around in January and put away the holiday decorations, I oh-so-cleverly moved the clothes bins to the bottom of the stack of boxes holding all our Christmas paraphernalia.

There was more room to maneuver in our garage, but still. Now all my clothes are at the bottom of a big stack of boxes.

What was I thinkin’?!

So this weekend, you’ll find me in the garage with boxes strewn all around trying to reach the clothes bins. I’ll drag them upstairs to our bedroom. I’ll probably have to wash them all before I hang them in the closet. And then I’ll have to fold all my winter stuff, put it in the same bins and haul them back to the garage.

Sheesh. Just writing all that makes me tired and achy.

Perhaps I should just go shopping instead. I think I can handle a good half dozen shopping bags, or so. I mean, really. I think I’m up for that!

But whatever I end up doing, you surely know what will happen if I fold up every single piece of winter clothing and put it away, don’t you? Yep, we’ll have an April snowstorm. Of biblical proportions and all that.

So maybe I’ll leave a fleece jacket or something in the back of my closet. A little insurance couldn’t hurt.

White Lexus Guy

Unlike today’s sunny commute, my drive to work yesterday morning was a little crazy what with all the wind and the rain. Before I even left my neighborhood I had to dodge two trash cans that were rolling around in the street. And, no, I didn’t get out in the driving rain to put them back where they belonged. I figured they’d just blow over again and I, in the meantime, would arrive at work looking all soggy and bedraggled. Apparently I only do good neighbor deeds when the elements outside are favorable.

So once I detoured around the runaway garbage cans, I faced the fun that is rainy day freeway driving. Turns out that we weren’t driving as slowly as I expected, which was a nice surprise, but we weren’t cruising along at 65 MPH either. If you subtract about half of that speed you’d be just about in the right range. Which is also known as “slow-and-go” but is not nearly as bad as “stop-and-go.”

On the other hand, I had my wipers on the fastest setting, which is something I rarely do, so it was raining pretty hard out there. Slow-and-go was probably not a bad thing.

Naturally, there was at least one crazy driver out there keeping me entertained. Well, either entertained or annoyed. Depended on the moment.

This guy, in a white Lexus, started out two cars ahead of me in the center lane as I entered the freeway. After a few minutes when there was a half a car length between two vehicles in the left lane, he swooped in and bridged the gap. The car he pulled in front of had to slam on his brakes, of course. So this annoyed me right off the bat. I mean, what an idiot. I even shook my head and muttered, “What an idiot.”

I don’t think he heard me, though.

Immediately thereafter my attention was brought back to my own lane. It was, after all, raining pretty hard and I didn’t want any drivers around me slamming on their brakes because of something I did and looking at me and muttering, “What an idiot.”

Anyway, under normal circumstances, I’d promptly forget all about White Lexus Guy. Except that the center lane (where I was) started moving ahead faster than the cars in the left lane (where White Lexus Guy had just bullied his way into). So he swooped back into my lane – right behind me. I’m not positive, but I have to assume that the person in the car that had previously been directly behind me had to slam on her brakes.

So now White Lexus Guy was front and center in my thoughts. I didn’t think he was impaired as I’ve sometimes thought of drivers on the freeway – but he was driving recklessly all the same and I just wanted to get away from him.

We all continued on down the road and White Lexus Guy managed to behave himself for approximately 3.2 seconds before he got tired of following me – and he swooped into the far right lane.

More brakes were hit. There was probably more swearing and muttering. And “idiot” might have been a term of endearment rather than what folks were by now calling White Lexus Guy.

Now, in my opinion, the right lane is never a good idea since cars are merging onto the freeway and the right lane is usually the slowest as they have to allow those cars in. So White Lexus Guy was now several cars behind me.

By this point I was laughing at White Lexus Guy. He was spending so much time switching lanes, he was now about five cars behind where he was when he started. He was losing ground rather than getting to his destination faster by all that swooping from one lane to the other.

And, yes, I did, as a matter of fact, count how many times White Lexus Guy switched lanes. Thirteen. Thirteen times. He started out ahead of me and, by the time I ditched him and exited the freeway, he was pretty far behind me.

What an idiot.

I’m a Believer. Goodbye, Mr. Jones...

Aw, man. I just read that Davy Jones from The Monkees died today of a heart attack at the age of 66. I’m sure his death won’t be as newsworthy or as shocking as the death of, say, a Whitney Houston or a Michael Jackson, but there is a large group of women of a certain age who will be really sorry to hear the news.

It makes me especially sad, since Davy didn’t know that I planned to marry him one day – and now he never will.

Actually, it’s probably a good thing he never knew I existed. At age 10, I was still shorter than his height of 5’3”, but by age 13 I was nearly half a foot taller than he was. Since I’m not real comfortable towering over my man, I’d probably have had to move on to one of the taller guys in the group, even though Davy was my first and ultimate tweener crush.

Still, I have many fond memories of singing Daydream Believer and Last Train to Clarksville. I even recall a really embarrassing incident when my best friend Michelle and I were standing by the record player belting out the lyrics to Valleri when my older brother came into the room and started making fun of us. When he wouldn’t stop, we trotted downstairs to complain to my mom, but she very gently suggested we tone it down a little. Huh. We thought we sounded pretty spectacular, but I suppose we could’ve been a “little” pitchy.

Oh well. My brother had cooties at the time, so what did he know?

Michelle and I spent countless hours holed up in each other’s basements decorating appliance boxes as the houses we would share with Davy when we became Mrs. Jones. Of course, since even at the tender age of eight we knew both of us couldn’t be Mrs. Jones, we’d have to call dibs. The loser had to be Mrs. Tork or Mrs. Dolenz or even (ew) Mrs. Nesmith. (What was with the green beanie knit cap with the pom-pom on top, Michael Nesmith?)

Anyway, while I can’t exactly recall, I’m sure being a little slow to call dibs now and again had one of us stomping home in a fit of pique when we didn’t get to be Mrs. Jones that day.

I don’t remember what day of the week The Monkees television show aired, but I remember being glued to the TV whenever it was on. This was, of course, decades before the advent of TiVO and Hulu or even videotape, so if we missed an episode, we were out of luck.

I can, however, clearly remember saving up my allowance until I could afford to buy my first record album, which was simply titled, The Monkees. We played that record until it was worn out, but it was one of my most prized possessions.

Critics might have called The Monkees a “fake” band put together from a casting call, but we couldn’t have cared less about any of that. We just thought they were cute and our crushes were completely sweet and innocent. And it didn’t matter one little bit that the only musical instrument Davy ever really played was the tambourine and the maracas on occasion.

By the time I turned 13, however, I’d lost all interest in The Monkees. Part of it was because, like I said, I towered over Davy Jones, but it was more likely due to the fact that I was 13. Thirteen-year-old girls are not known for the longevity of their crushes. As a matter of fact, I’d already blown through crushes on Bobby Sherman and Donny Osmond and David Cassidy (although it was hard for me to move on from David).

But by this stage, we were spying on the live (and potentially more accessible) teenaged boys in the neighborhood who played basketball at the house across the street.

Over the years, there have been a few reunion concerts for groups like The Monkees, but I’ve never been interested in attending one. Mostly because I couldn’t imagine being a grown woman with more than her share of wrinkles jumping up and down in excitement like a giddy schoolgirl belting out the lyrics to Valleri along with the band. (Probably I’m still a “little” pitchy…)

Instead, I preferred to remember fondly those first crushes while maintaining a little dignity, even though my dignity might already be blown by admitting publicly that I had a crush on Davy Jones.

And whether they admit it or not, there will be a whole lot of women around my age who will feel a little sad when they hear the news that Davy Jones is no longer with us. So rest in peace, Davy. You made a lot of little girls daydream believers.

You Can’t Eat Yogurt with a Fork And Other Life Lessons

So the other day I was sitting in my car all ready to eat lunch and read the latest John Grisham novel when I realized I had forgotten a spoon. Since my lunch consisted of an apple, a piece of string cheese and a container of yogurt, that particular utensil was a fairly integral part of the operation. And given that it wasn’t an overly substantial lunch, I didn’t want to forego the yogurt. So I rooted around in the glove box, but couldn’t find a spoon. Instead, I found a plastic fork.

Convincing myself that yogurt is thick and would be edible using a fork instead of a spoon, I unwrapped the utensil and mixed the yogurt. And then commenced eating. The first few bites were pretty successful and I was congratulating myself on my ingenuity. But then about halfway through the container it happened. A blob of yogurt slipped through the plastic tines of the fork and landed in a big splotch smack dab in the center of my black turtleneck.

Wonderful.

Thank goodness I carry a Tide Stick in my car for just such laundry emergencies.

So I learned that a fork cannot really serve as a substitute utensil when eating yogurt. Probably not pudding cups either, although I can’t remember the last time I even thought about eating a pudding cup.

Anyway, it made me think of things that I’ve learned over the years.

Like, for instance, you should always carry a spare outfit in your carry-on bag if you’re checking your luggage. Sure, you can say that airlines don’t lose luggage that often, but you’d be wrong, Skippy. Besides, when it happens to you, it’s a big deal.

I’ve had luggage go missing on the return leg of flights, but I don’t care so much about it by then because it’s just a suitcase filled with dirty clothes. But one Christmas I flew to New Mexico to spend the holiday with family. My luggage, conversely, had other plans and took a side trip to Kansas City.

My brother and his wife were staying in a small, remote town about two hours away from Albuquerque while he managed an architectural renovation for a local college. It was a beautiful area, but the shopping situation was not ideal. We drove an hour to find a Walmart where I bought an ugly pair of pajamas and a couple pairs of socks. I figured I could wear the same outfit for a day or two as I was loathe to spend any more hard-earned dollars on stretch pants and a turtleneck with little reindeer printed all over it.

But my suitcase must have enjoyed its visit in Kansas City because it didn’t arrive until the day before I left New Mexico. By then I was so sick of washing my clothes every night and putting the same things back on every morning, I vowed to burn the clothes once I arrived home.

Believe me, it was the last time I made that mistake!

Another thing I’ve learned over the years is that you should never wait until the low fuel light has flashed more than once to refill the gas tank. This holds true even if it takes your entire paycheck to fill up. It’s just way too embarrassing to be stuck on the side of the road with no fuel.

This happened to me for the first time when I was a rookie driver and didn’t realize my dad’s car had a broken fuel gauge. We didn’t even have flashing lights in our cars back then when we were low on fuel, so we had to rely on common sense and we had to pay attention to the little arrow on the gauge. But what did I know? So you can imagine my consternation when I stepped on the accelerator and nothing happened. Okay, it wasn’t “consternation” so much as “blind panic.” But 16-year-olds tend to be a little overly dramatic anyway.

I can tell you that I haven’t run out of gasoline since that day long ago. But that doesn’t mean others have learned this lesson. About a month ago, Vince was called on to rescue a friend of ours who had ignored the vehicle’s little flashing light insisting that it was low on fuel. He just as adamantly insisted he could make it a little while longer before refueling.

Not so much.

It’s hard to have as much sympathy for a 40-year-old who runs out of fuel as it is a 16-year-old, but you probably will assist either one when they ask. It’s difficult not to start lecturing, though.

And now, whenever we see our friend, he loudly announces that he has plenty of gas. The comment makes us laugh – and even more so when the crowd around him take a collective step back.

So the big lesson here, boys and girls: ALWAYS carry both a plastic fork AND a plastic spoon in your glove box for emergency utensil coverage. And if you can’t remember that simple rule, you’d better make sure you’ve stocked up on the Tide Sticks.

Oh, and one other thing. Don’t expect to buy cute PJs at a Walmart in a remote part of New Mexico. I just threw that in as a bonus. You’re welcome.

My Interest in Pinterest

Oh boy, what have I started now?

Yesterday someone suggested to me that with my blogging and the quotes I put on Facebook every day, I should get on Pinterest. She even said she’d follow me.

While I’ve heard of Pinterest, I really have no idea what it’s all about. I mean, I assume it’s another social networking site. And I know you can “pin” things to it. What things I have to pin, I have no idea.

So I clicked on the site and asked for an invitation to join. And I was sent an email that said I was on the “waiting list” to join. That kind of irritated me because (a) I have to ask to be included in their super-secret society? And (b) someone then gets to decide if I’m worthy of being a member?

Whatever.

Yet a few hours later when I received an email telling me I was invited to join, I immediately clicked on the link.

What does that say about me? That I can’t stand not being “in” on things? That I am without a modicum of pride and I jump at every opportunity to be a joiner? Perhaps. But I prefer to think it says that I’m simply curious and I’m trying to learn about and keep up with modern trends. Yeah, I think I’ll stick with that answer.

So apparently I now have a Pinterest account. I don’t know what it looks like because I haven’t seen it. But I’ve gotten several emails telling me people are following me. Really? They must be bored or something to be following me since I have no idea where I’m going. Not yet, anyway.

Of course, it was only a couple years ago I wasn’t so sure about the whole blogging thing. And here I sit writing my 254th blog. This is an activity I thoroughly enjoy, so I don’t imagine I’ll stop using Blogger.com anytime soon.

Unless, of course, some bigger or better blogging website comes along. Which I’m sure is in the works as we speak.

So joining Pinterest means that I now have one more user name and password to remember. It probably means I have to add another app to my overcrowded iPhone. And it means that there is something else on the computer that will divert my attention and keep me occupied instead of, oh, I don’t know, talking to people face-to-face.

So let’s see. I have a Facebook account (well, actually, three accounts – but two are for work). I have a Twitter account that I haven’t accessed in well over a year. Probably I can’t even get back into it because I’m sure I’ve forgotten the password. But that’s probably not a bad thing because I am really lousy at trying to write a message using only 140 characters.

I have Gmail, Yahoo, and Hotmail accounts. I have a Google+ account that I’m not even sure I’ve ever used. I am a member of Plaxo and LinkedIn. I email, text, IM and I have about a bajillion accounts on various things like bank sites, travel sites, shopping sites, and X-Rated video sites.

I have an Etsy account and an eBay account…

What? Oh, so you WERE paying attention! Yes, I’m totally kidding about the X-Rated video sites. I so don’t need that kind of trash on my computer infecting it with all sorts of viruses and stuff. As it is, I get enough SPAM from places like the Central Bank of Nigeria telling me I’m the beneficiary of some inheritance and I only need to send a nominal fee of $630 to cover administrative costs associated with the release of the funds. Or that I’m an international lottery winner, which is weird because I don’t even play the lottery in my own home state. Or that I can get 20% off my order of male enhancement pharmaceuticals if I order by midnight.

Anyway, you get the idea. I – like many folks – have way too many online things going on. No wonder we freak out whenever we see the “low battery” signal or panic at the thought of a power outage.

Nevertheless, I am sure that I’ll get the hang of Pinterest. I will probably even enjoy the experience and find interesting things on the site. But for now, I’m a little stressed about my first “pin.” What to do, what to do? Oh, hey, can I possibly pin a link to this blog? Wow, now that’s a GREAT idea…

The Beef Stroganoff Situation

Vince called me on his way home from work the other night and asked me if I’d eaten dinner yet. Since his schedule is so varied these days, there is never one correct answer to the question. It depends on what time it is when he asks. It depends on what time I get home from work. And it mostly depends on how hungry I am when I get home from work.

But, since I had just returned home from my weekly loop around the library, grocery store and gas station and hadn’t yet had a chance to forage for food in our fridge, the answer – on this particular evening, anyway – was “No.”

He said he had a craving for beef stroganoff, which is the Wednesday special at The Rusty Bucket. Not being a big fan of mushrooms, I didn’t have the same craving, but I was happy to accompany Vince while he indulged. Okay, mostly I was happy that I didn’t have to cook.

So Vince picked me up and we headed to the joint. All the while he’s practically rubbing his hands in anticipation, which was a little tough since he also had to shift while he was driving.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to get clear in my mind the difference between The Rusty Bucket and the Old Bag of Nails restaurants. What’s with these weird restaurant names in Columbus, I’m thinking. And why can’t I ever remember which is which? Usually I combine the two and it becomes The Rusty Nail. This makes me remember the time when I was a kid and stepped on a rusty nail and had to go to the hospital to get a tetanus shot, which was pretty traumatizing. This memory does not exactly evoke happy thoughts of food, so then I muse that it's a good thing neither restaurant called themselves The Rusty Nail.

Yeah, I know – what can I say? I have a pretty fertile imagination and my mind takes weird detours from time to time.

Anyway, we get to the restaurant and what happens? We sit down and Vince, not even cracking open the menu, tells the server he wants the daily special. But oblivious to the impact her answer will have on my husband, the waitress breezily chirps, “Oh, we’re completely out of the Beef Stroganoff!”

The silence at our table was deafening.

Vince was so let down he very nearly stood up and walked right out of the restaurant. I believe he only restrained himself because I was with him.

He ended up ordering something else that he said wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t beef stroganoff. The poor guy was so disappointed. Even worse, he had had lunch that day from the same restaurant chain at the location nearer to his office. And he specifically didn’t order the beef stroganoff just so he could have it later that evening at dinner with me.

Yeah, I’m thinkin’ he won’t make that mistake again.

Meanwhile I was still happy I didn’t have to cook. Or clear the table. Or do the dishes. So basically I would’ve been happy sitting there drinking a glass of water and munching on a carrot stick or maybe even a piece of cardboard.

Um…on second thought…maybe not. There really aren’t a whole lot of pots, pans, dishes or silverware to wash with either a carrot stick or a piece of cardboard, so what would be the point? Plus, I don’t think cardboard would be very tasty – not that I’ve actually ever tried it. No, not even when I was a stupid kid doing stupid things like stepping on rusty nails.

So the impulse to learn how to cook beef stroganoff for Vince is kind of strong right now. But I’m trying to tamp down the impulse since I really don’t know the difference between button and morel mushrooms – and I’m not sure I want to find out.

Besides, I’m not sure I could take the disappointed look on Vince’s face when my version of beef stroganoff can’t compare to The Rusty Bucket’s version.

So instead I think I’ll just drive over to The Rusty Bucket next Wednesday and get a Take Out order of beef stroganoff for my dear husband.

(Better get there early, though.)