Let me begin by saying that I am a staunch supporter of local businesses.  My husband will attest to the fact that I support them to a very high degree.  That said, I began to use Amazon a lot during 2020 – when the pandemic stranded me at home with little to do but clean or on-line shop.  Clearly, I made the appropriate choice.

               As the pandemic has waxed and waned – or as we’ve adapted to it – I didn’t realize how much I still used on-line shopping until July of this year.

               In July, we cancelled our credit card and got a new one.  [Let me digress to say that that is a story in and of itself, and best saved for ….never!]  So, we had no credit card to use.

               Honestly, we don’t go very many places, and we had cash, so I wasn’t concerned.  But without a credit card, you can’t order things from Amazon.  Well, you can order them. But they won’t ship them.

               The second day we had no credit card, I had two items in my online “cart.”  So I began to research just how long it would take to get our new card.  I called the bank and was told it would take 3 – 5 days.

               On day three of no credit card, I had four things in my “cart.”  I called the bank again, and a different (but similarly unhelpful person), told me it would take 5 – 7 days. 

               On day four of being card-less, I called the bank again.  Yet a different customer representative (and let me digress again to say that I didn’t feel I – as the customer –  was being represented) told me it could take up to 10 days.  Ten business days.

               By day five, I had seven items in my cart and I was going a little crazy.  Human nature being what it is, I felt like every item I even glanced at was becoming something I just had to possess.  I mean, who doesn’t need a new napkin holder?  And I felt compelled to try the new 7-power-mushroom coffee.  Who wouldn’t?

               Then I was notified that Amazon had received an item I had returned earlier in the month.  Of course they did.  I hadn’t returned anything in ten years, but the month I don’t have a credit card, they want to credit my account with $21.17.

               So I began to stew and worry and fret.  Would I actually ever get that credit?  How would I be informed?  I attempted to call Amazon (that’s yet another story for another day) and/or use their FAQ page, but I wasn’t able to talk to a real person or get my question answered. I just started checking my bank statement every day to see if I had actually received the credit on my account. 

               By day eight, I had been waiting for the mail person every day at the mailbox, eager to sort through the junk and find my new credit card.  She was beginning to get worried that I would jump in the mail truck, I think. 

               It finally did arrive on the ninth day, and I immediately activated it and rushed to my cart – now laden with twelve critical items.  Before pressing “buy now,” however, I took the time to evaluate.  Did I really still need each of this items?

               As it turns out, no, I did not.  But what I do need is to never go another week (or nine days) without my personal spending power.

               There’s a Christmas tradition in our house that I don’t love, but it happens every year whether I love it or not.  Every year – every single year – we break an ornament.  Sometimes we drop one when we are putting up the tree (or trees), and sometimes one falls to the floor when we are taking down the ornaments.  But every year, we are guaranteed to lose one ornament during the season.

               Some years it was more likely than others because some years we put up three (and once, four) trees.  But even during 2020 (the PANDEMIC), when we only put up one little, pre-decorated tree, I managed to drop an ornament and it broke.

               So, traditions continue, whether we like them or not.  One year, it was a small glass ball.  It was pretty but old and when it hit the hardwood floor, the little devil split into about six thousand small slivers. They got everywhere – in the rugs, in the tiny slits between floorboards, and – about six weeks later – into the bottom of my bare foot as I rushed downstairs in the morning.  [So that morning, instead of going through my normal routine, I spent a couple of excruciating hours in urgent care.  I was unable to get close enough to see it with my glasses and my arms were not long enough to extract it without my glasses, so off to urgent care I went. A nice doctor removed the oddly large and elusive glass splinter from my foot and I silently cursed the tradition of ornament breaking.]

               The dropsies aren’t limited to Christmas décor, of course.  We’ve noticed that while we don’t often drop things in the kitchen, when we do they are nearly always either (a) yogurt containers (which burst apart like firecrackers if a strong wind hits them, let alone a stone floor) or (b) a glass container.  Most recently, it was my husband who dropped a nearly full jar of salsa.  It hit the floor like a grenade and glass and salsa were all over the place.  It looked like a small mammal had exploded in our kitchen.

               But I had the worst dropsie episode of all last week.  We were at a restaurant and decided to take a glass of wine (me) and beer (him) outside (don’t panic, our town has DORA) while we strolled around an event that was happening.  I was waiting at the door with the plastic glass of wine in my left hand.  My purse slipped down my right arm, making me instinctively raise my right hand to stop it from falling completely to the floor.  In so doing, said right hand hit my left hand and sent the glass flying.  Wine went everywhere – on the wall, on the floor, down my leg, and my left arm was drenched.  (Naturally, I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt).

               So, I had to be embarrassed, get a bunch of napkins, try to clean up the mess, and also try to blend in with the dripping wall all at the same time.

               Fortunately, we don’t often drop things in our home, or out in public.  But I am aware that Christmas is fast approaching (just over a hundred days away at this writing). Somewhere in my attic is an ornament that will not be around much longer.

We had a culinary adventure this week that taught me several important lessons.   We went with friends to one of our favorite Mexican restaurants.  These are folks who have eaten with us countless times over the past 25 years and know me fairly well.  Of course, my husband, who knows me like a book, was present, seated next to me.

               The adventure started when I was looking for one of my favorite dishes on the menu.  It’s called Tortilla Loco, but for decades we’ve referred to it as “taco loco.” There’s no reason for this, it just is.  Anyway, this dish is a flat tortilla shell covered in meat of your choice, beans, tomatoes, and cheese.  It’s very good.

               But, I couldn’t find it on the menu.  I did find a dish called a Mexican Pizza, and its’ description was quite similar to the taco loco.  I discussed this with my husband and my friends at length, because people of a certain age spend a lot of time talking about what they can and can’t and will and won’t eat. My husband reminded me that we had had the pizza in the past and neither of us was fond of it.

               When the waiter arrived to take our order, my husband asked if they still had the taco loco (but he used the correct name).  We were assured that they did have it, but I didn’t want to make trouble, so I decided to order the Mexican Pizza.

               I ordered and was careful to specify to leave off the refried beans (as my older digestive system prefers a bean-free diet) and the tomatoes.  Again, my digestive system is picky about things.  I love tomatoes, but they are not my friend.

               So I was feeling pretty hopeful for a great meal and didn’t notice the three people at the table giving me puzzled looks.

               When the food arrived, the waiter was holding a large plate of food out first.  It looked heavy (and hot) and he said, “Mexican Flag?” to me.  I shook my head and pointed to my friend across the table. She quickly claimed the enchilada and he extended the heavy plate towards me, apologizing because there were a few tomato chunks in the corner.  I was puzzled but he continued to put the plate down in front of me, saying again, “Mexican Flag.”

               When he left, I said to the group, “But I didn’t order this.” All three of them assured me (practically in harmony), “yes, you did!”

               I ordered a Mexican Flag!  Well, it’s a large plate of food, very heavy and hot.  It has a shredded beef enchilada (spicy) with tomato sauce; rice; a spicy chicken enchilada; rice, and a grilled chile releno with ground beef.  Oh, yes, and a small lettuce/tomato salad on the side.  Normally the second rice would be refried beans, but they had listened to my request and left them off.

               So I had a large plate of food, of which I could eat only a small portion – the chile releno.  Well, I thought I could eat it.  I found out about 8 hours later that chile releno is another dish my digestive system wants me to avoid.

               My friends and husband expressed surprise that I had changed from the two dishes I had discussed at length, but they thought I was just branching out.  My husband, especially, said he had almost said something when I ordered, but didn’t want to be presumptuous.

               Please, be presumptuous.  I’m getting older and sometimes the words that come out of my mouth aren’t the words I’m thinking.  Mostly this isn’t a problem, but when it comes to food that gives you heartburn, you need to speak up!

Last week I was working in the kitchen and said to my husband, “I am one of the craziest people on earth.”  He was reading the paper at the time and mildly commented, “Well, not really, but you’re certainly in the group.”

               It was so mildly said that I almost missed the fact that he was agreeing with me! 

               While I’d like to take umbrage, in all honesty, he has had ample reasons to form this opinion.  There was the day I called him from a parking lot in a panic, telling him (tearfully), that I had lost my phone.  Yeah, the phone that I was using to call him.

               More routinely, I find myself wandering around large parking lots, trying to hear my car beep when I press “lock.” Because of my hearing loss on one side, I find it difficult to localize sound.  So I just walk around aisles, punching the button and turning in the direction I think I hear the beeps coming from.  Let me digress to say that it would be more helpful if car builders made a button for “finding car” and made the beep rather loud.  In fact, having a flag extend out of your roof would be useful, too.

               But at any rate, I never see anyone else strolling around, pushing their remote buttons repeatedly, so I’m thinking this is a “me” issue.  And before you say it, yes, I could try to remember where I’ve parked.  In my defense, not every parking lot has cart corrals or big lettered signs as airports do.

               I’ve made the mistake of relating these adventures to my husband, so he does have those examples to ponder.

               He’s actually witnessed first-hand my response to GPS – both in the car and on my phone.  I have a tendency – actually I do it all the time – to talk to the GPS voice. I know it’s just a computer, but when the voice starts telling me “turn in 1 mile, turn in ½ a mile, turn in 1000 feet,” I respond back.  Sometimes it’s just “Ok, ok, I know,” but other times it’s more colorful.  I get especially talkative when GPS tells me I’ve “reached my destination,” but it’s an empty lot.

               The craziest thing I do is when I prepare eggs.  Doesn’t matter if they are scrambled, fried, or going into a cake, I always remove the white stringy thing from the yolk.  Over the years, I’ve used two forks, strawberry stem pinchers, and knives, but I will get those things out of my eggs and toss them away.

               I only know one other person on the planet who does this and (in my opinion), he’s totally sane.  However, that person is not my husband, so he may not understand this behavior.  The fact is, there’s a name for that stringy thing – it’s called “chalaza.” 

               My logic is this:  If they named it, it means it’s not a normal, acceptable part of the yolk to which it is attached.  And it’s disgusting, so I’m getting it out of there.

               I may be crazy, but I’m chalaza free!