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"!

Photo-Op?

For a year I’ve kept the same profile photo on Facebook. An entire year. And I had formerly been one of those people who changed her profile pic pretty much as often as she changed her undies.

 

Well, okay, so that’s not true. I’m not THAT narcissistic. (And, yes, I DO change my undies every day – don’t be gross!)

 

It’s not that it was such a wonderful photo of me that I just held onto it. But it was taken at Gervasi Vineyard, which was the last trip that Vince and I took together as well as the last photo of the two of us.

 

So it felt like I was being disloyal to him to think about taking it down and changing it up.

 

What I’ve realized in the past year is that some of the spark has gone out of my eyes and my photos aren’t nearly as good anymore. That’s probably because in the “before” I was either in a picture together with Vince – or he was the one taking my photo. And he took those photographs with such love, I couldn’t help but be happy – and that happiness was reflected in my pictures.

 

Well, either that – or I’m just getting too old and wrinkly to take a good photo anymore. Haha.

 

Besides, frankly, I don’t have anyone aiming his camera at me constantly, so there are far fewer pictures from which to choose.

 

But I know I must look forward and can’t constantly dwell in the past. Am I guilty of plunking myself smack dab in the past and refusing to move on? Sure, from time to time. But only momentarily. I have to believe we all do this on occasion. Memories are powerful and we know that our past has helped shaped us to be the people we are today.

 

Yet I know I don’t want to be one of those people who, because she lost the love of her life, can’t get out of bed in the morning and continue to live her best life. Vince would hate that for me.

 

So I finally changed my profile picture. It’s a selfie and, thus, a little too close-up for my taste. But, because I actually fixed my hair and applied makeup, which is not an everyday occurrence anymore, I decided it was a good time to give it a shot. (So to speak.)

 

But, um, I’m standing in front of Vince’s T-shirt quilt, so I guess I haven’t completely moved on.

 

Oh well. Baby steps.

 

Before I changed my photo, I was talking about it with a friend. And I related the story about how Vince and I met. Which was online. And he didn’t even have his photo as his profile pic. It was a shot of a coral reef that someone who had set up his profile for him, plugged into the spot where his photo should go. But as this was the beginning of the Age of Social Media for Old(er) Folks, Vince didn’t know how to change it, so he left the coral reef.

 

For the first couple weeks during our online correspondence, I didn’t even know what “vncord” looked like. And that was okay. I maintained back then that I wasn’t looking for a date – just someone to talk to. Yeah, in retrospect, I’m so very glad that (a) Vince was persistent in asking me out and (b) I came around to the notion of going out on a date with someone I met online.

 

I know a lot of people don’t use their own photos in their profile. They substitute their pet or a flower or a picture of their latest tattoo. I even had one friend use a close-up picture of her eyeball as her profile pic. I have to admit, that was a little disconcerting, even though it was a lovely eye.

 

Maybe I’ll branch out and stop putting my own face out there. I could instead use a picture of my big toe? Yeah…no, I don’t think so. Even with the pretty nail polish, my toes are not exactly photo-worthy.

 

Or how about a photo of the spiky weed that is growing near my garage that I refuse to pull since I’d have to dig out the gardening gloves that I promised myself I wouldn’t need again?

 

Again, that’d be a “no.”  People will get the impression I’m lazy. And that would be a shame since my message is supposed to be: I don’t like digging in the dirt!

 

Oh well, for now I guess I’ll just stick with my own imperfect, too-close-up face. Tomorrow I can decide if that weed is photo-worthy. 

A Sad Anniversary

For some time I’ve known I was going to write a blog on this, the one-year anniversary of my Vince’s death.  I think I had even roughed out a draft in my head. Which is a complete waste of time because I can never ever remember my perfectly phrased and clever composition when I finally sit down in front of the computer.

 

But when I opened my blog document and entered the date, I found I couldn’t get past it. No words would come.

 

So I forced myself to at least start.

 

And that’s what the past year has been. I’ve been forcing myself to start – over and over again. Every day.

 

It’s hard. And it’s painful. And I can’t believe I’ve done this for an entire year.

 

But what I’ve discovered is that I’m stronger than I thought I could be. And I’ve managed to accomplish a lot – even though I didn’t think I could get beyond waking up and brushing my teeth and walking the dog. Hair washing was optional. And the only reason I wore actual clothes instead of my pajamas every day was I figured the neighbors would start talking and worrying a little bit about my sanity.

 

In the past year, I cleaned out and sold my too-big house. And I’ve managed to make my smaller abode a nice haven that feels warm and welcoming.

 

Experts say one shouldn’t make any drastic changes in their life after the death of a loved one. Well, I’m apparently not one to listen to the experts.

 

Because moving – for me – was one of my better decisions. I’m completely and utterly relieved that I don’t have to worry about keeping my too-big house clean on the inside and repairing and replacing things on my own. Not to mention maintaining the outside – pulling weeds or planting anything. (If you know me, you know I do not like digging in the dirt!)

 

I knew I’d miss my neighborhood. The friends I’ve made there are special.

 

But, without Vince, I knew I needed to simplify my life.

 

Certainly, I didn’t accomplish this all on my own. I had a squad of friends, family and neighbors who were there to support me – in person or via calls, texts, cards and notes. The in-person ones were especially appreciated as they helped me focus as we pulled boxes and bins from every nook and cranny in that too-big house. And, believe me, there were a LOT of nooks and crannies!

 

My sister Denise dropped everything to be with me when she heard the terrible news about Vince. She also scrubbed the grout in my kitchen and later helped clear out and box up my many drawers, cabinets and closets. (And she could only shake her head at me as she pointed out the multitude of cleaning products I possessed.) My brother Andrew also drove more than 10 hours to be with me after Vince passed and helped me get through those first few incomprehensible days.

 

My friend Joe painted my incredibly high living room ceiling and lent support as I made arrangements at the funeral home. Sue carefully packed Vince’s clothes to donate to Dress for Success and helped pare down countless rooms and Debbie helped pare down boxes in the overflowing attic and the lower level kitchen. She also made many runs to donation centers for me. My brother- and sister-in-law came over numerous times to take things out of the house that I wasn’t going to use and helped it become a little less overwhelming to plan for the movers.

 

Once my house sold and I was now on a deadline, my neighbor Susan helped pack up the garage. And my neighbor Suzy (tried to) help me catch my cat Jinx and put her in the carrier as my final act in that house – but neither of us could catch her as she streaked from one floor to the next and back again. When I had a meltdown after Jinx (in her terror) scratched me, Suzy sought out reinforcements in the form of neighbors Barb and Dave, who came over wearing thick gloves and carrying a blanket. They calmly and efficiently coaxed Jinx into the carrier and put her in the car for me. And Barb tended to my wounds so I wouldn’t contract cat scratch fever and wind up in the ER hooked up to IV antibiotics.

 

I hadn’t planned to name people who helped me because I know there are many others that lent a hand or a shoulder or an ear – whenever I needed it. And I don’t want them to think their contributions weren’t incredibly appreciated. Because they were.

 

In the past year, I’ve learned that asking for help is not a bad thing. So often we try and do it all on our own – and we can make a mess out of things by doing so. At least that’s true of me.

 

So I’m grateful for the life lessons I’ve learned.

 

All this is not to say that I don’t desperately miss my Vince. I do. Every minute of every day.

 

Up until recently, I cried every single day. But then, I’m a big baby and cry easily. Sad movie? Check. Sappy song on the radio? Check. Little kid giving his mommy a weed he picked for her thinking it was a pretty flower? Check.

 

Many times they were silent tears. But sometimes it was a full-on ugly cry…so I was grateful that I was usually by myself when that happened.

 

There are some days when I don’t cry now. Or the utter sadness I feel doesn’t last quite as long. And sometimes I can get through an entire evening with friends without tearing up.

 

I used to think that meant I wasn’t being “loyal” to Vince. And I worried when someone said to me, “You’re more like your old self again.”

 

What does that even mean? I certainly don’t feel like my old self. I’m not sure I ever will again.

 

I feel like I lost part of myself. I can’t tell you how many times something has happened in the last year and my first thought is I can’t wait to tell Vince… only to remember I’ll never again get to tell him.

 

And I get very sad when I know that we will never plan for and take that dream trip to Italy together. I miss his companionship and know future cruises and vacations will seem…I don’t know – "lacking" – since he won’t be with me.

 

I miss the meals he lovingly prepared for us. Walking past the meat aisle at Costco can reduce me to tears when I see packages of chicken wings or racks of ribs. (He was the best cook!)

 

I’m so sad his grandchildren don’t get to Facetime with their Grandpa – and will grow up without him.

 

I miss the simple act of sitting next to him in the morning on the loveseat drinking our coffee and planning our day. And I miss seeing the look on his face when he told me he loved me. Because I felt loved. Every day.

 

Now I have to settle for pictures. And my memories.

 

Fortunately, I have a lot of the former, since Vince was the snap-happiest guy I’ve ever known. And we crammed an awful lot of memories in our short thirteen years together.

 

So I’m grateful for that, too.

 

I’ve said this before (and I’m sure I’ll say it again…!), but I know that I had true love with Vince. I hadn’t known what that was like before I met him. And many people never get to experience that kind of love. So I was incredibly blessed.

 

Now I just have to keep on going without him. And I have to revise my future from a “Vince and Jane” life to just “Jane.”

 

But I know I don’t have to go it completely alone. I have that squad, remember?

 

So my dear Vince? I wish you were here. What I wouldn’t give to spend more time with you. But I know you’re in a better place. And you don’t have to shed any tears.

 

I’ll close with this poem I used in the program for Vince’s Memorial Service:

 

Until We Meet Again

We think about you always,

We talk about you still.

You have never been forgotten,

And you never will.

We hold you close within our hearts,

And there you will remain,

To walk and guide us through our lives,

Until we meet again.

                            Author Unknown

 

 

Who You Callin' "Tech Illiterate"??

I had a longer break from blogging than I intended. Why? Well…um…I guess I’m not as tech savvy as I thought I was.

 

See, my Microsoft Office subscription ran out in February. I needed to renew it. No problem. Bought a subscription card back in early January. Figured I was being a good Girl Scout and was all prepared well ahead of the expiration date. I was just waiting ‘til the last possible moment to add it so I wouldn’t “squander” the last days of the old subscription.

 

But here’s the problem. Vince had purchased Office 365 as a family plan. It was associated with his Microsoft user ID and password – and he had added me as a family member so I could have Office on my laptop as well. I didn’t know his user ID or password – and I didn’t want to use that anyway as it needed to be associated with MY user ID and password now.

 

Plus, I had purchased a Microsoft Office 365 as a Single plan since I didn’t need to add any other computers to my subscription.

 

So I (attempted) to follow the instructions. No luck. I entered the code and stuff was downloading or uploading or whatever loading. I was just assuming the magic would happen and I could get back on my Microsoft Word and start writing again.

 

Nope. I turned my computer off and on. And off and on again like a kid playing with a light switch. I Googled and YouTubed 'til I couldn't listen to one more person telling me how it was an "easy installation." 

 

By this point I could pretend to clearly explain to you all the other steps I took to fix what wasn’t working, but really I can’t. It would come out as Word Spaghetti. I have no clue what I did or how I did it and in what order I did it.

 

All I know is that nothing worked.

 

Every time I tried to get on my Blog document, my computer (metaphorically) smacked my fingers and said the software program had expired and I needed to pony up for another subscription.

 

This is when I’d screech at my computer, “I already bought it! I downloaded it! It’s there!!!” I might have even gestured a little bit. But I’m not confirming that – and Maggie Minx isn’t talkin’ either.

 

Yet despite my histrionics, the computer wasn’t swayed and didn’t seem to care one little bit. It didn’t even seem to mind my screeching, although I’m sure Maggie would have preferred I used my “indoor voice” as she has big ol’ sensitive ears.

 

So for my sanity – and my raw vocal chords – I had to walk away. But for good measure I gave my computer dirty looks every time I got a glimpse of it sitting calmly and quietly on my desk. Probably I even muttered a bad word or two under my breath.

 

I considered calling the Geek Squad, but that was going to be my last resort as I really hate computer techs mumbling “user error” (or worse) under their breath.

But when I couldn’t access any of the documents I needed to have my taxes prepared, I knew I had to figure out the problem.

 

So I stumbled around on the computer again and eventually got to a screen that asked for my subscription code. Shrugging my shoulders because I figured it couldn't hurt, I entered it once again. I worried it might say that the code had already been used and I’d be out some bucks unless I was able to find an actual human to talk to who could help – but I gave it a shot anyway.

 

I then shut my computer down, turned it back on and – lo and behold – I was able to access all my documents that had heretofore been held for ransom. (Cue the angels singing from on high.)

 

I was ecstatic! 

 

Well…except that suddenly all my documents were showing up with black backgrounds and white text. My poor old eyes were bugging out of my head – so I had to Google how to fix that weird glitch.

 

Once I remedied that problem, everything seemed to be well and good in Jane’s Domain.

 

Now I just need to catch up on all those blogs I was writing in my head.

 

I just hope they don’t come out as Word Spaghetti…