For decades, I have believed that I was impossibly thick when it came to understanding directions.  Actually, I do have trouble with directional concepts such as left/right, north/south, and east/west.                

               This problem was underscored for me when I married into a family in which every member spoke in directional terms.  For years, my husband would ask me to “mow the north yard,” but never made a comment about the fact that I was actually mowing the east yard.  I had to find this out in an embarrassing manner.

               I mean, if he had said, “mow the yard with the cedar tree” or “mow the yard next to the road,” I would have understood completely. But alas, I didn’t get it.

               His mom would frequently tell me to go get something in another room.  My favorite was “please go get Aunt Mandy’s bowl from the dining room.”  When I inquired where it was, mom would say “in the southeast corner.”  That narrowed the field down to four corners, but in a room that had glass bowls all over the place.  Every corner had a shelving unit, tea cart, or table with at least one bowl, and often several.

               Again, not helpful to this directionally-challenged woman.

               Then this year, we had an interaction that made me question if this problem was all mine.  My hubby and I were moving a chair – a very large, heavy chair – from the family room into the dining room.  This was due to some renovation work that we had going on (which is a story for another day).  To get the chair to the desired location, we had to move it through a door way to the hall, through the slightly narrower entry way to the kitchen (which was next to built-in open shelves holding glass bowls), and down three stairs through another narrow doorway.

               We were doing fairly well with this through the first doorway.  Then we came to the kitchen entry, next to the shelves.  We had to tip the chair up and move it kind of diagonally through the area to allow for the base to get through.

               Remember, this chair was pretty heavy.  So I was doing my best to lift and turn it at the same time, but apparently not efficiently enough.  My dearest began to say to me, sort of sternly I might add, “bend around, bend around.” This chair didn’t “bend” in any manner.

Secondly, he kept saying “bend” to me, when what he really meant was “tilt.”  Or at least that’s why I would have said.  In any event, we began laughing so hard we nearly dropped the chair.  We finally got it through that narrow spot and down the stairs and into the dining room.

Last night, however, the clincher happened.  Hubby drove to town after dark and noticed that one of the candles in our front window needed a new light bulb.  So he called me and said, “Could you replace it?  It’s on the right as you come into the living room.”

There is no window on the right as you come into the living room.  You come in through the front door and on the right is a desk and a wardrobe.

Then he said, “It’s the one near the piano.”  Oh, well, that’s on the left.  If you go into the living room (from the hall), it’s on the right.

He could have just said “by the piano” to begin with, but no! He had to give “directions.”  My contention is that this instruction problem is not all me.

We can battle that out when the renovation is over, and we have to move that big chair back to the family room.

               In my youth, I had a variety of exciting, and sometimes even dangerous, accidents.  Some were so terrible that I’m grateful to be on the planet to remember and share them.  For example, when I was just a child of 8 or so, my bicycle brakes went out.  On a hill.  Toward a busy highway.  I managed to fly down the hill, across the road and up an incline to railroad tracks without hitting anything.  When my front tire hit the railroad track, the bike stopped but my body continued onward, landing painfully in a sticker bush.  (I learned later it was a nest of thistles).  I was stinging all over my legs and other parts as well, but lived to tell about the adventure.

               In my twenties, I was driving down the road when a tire appeared out of nowhere in front of me, rolling rapidly toward my car’s grill.  I could swerve to the right (and go into the Ohio River), or swerve to the left (hitting the oncoming car).  I braked, and the tire hit my grill, bounced up and hit my windshield, and then flew over my car to roll to a stop many yards later.

               I ended up with a bruised knee, a stiff neck, and a black eye, as my head had hit the rear view mirror.  It was perilous and I nursed those injuries throughout the week to get sympathy, free food, and a lot of attention.

               Many of my injuries have had a colorful story to accompany them.  But I realized this year that I have finally reached that age where there is little excitement, not much color, and not a scrap of danger to incidents that give rise to my injuries.

               For example, I broke my toe last summer.  I’ve broken toes before, of course – once when a large and heavy book was tossed on my foot and once when I was riding a bike.  Exciting and funny stories, those were.  What was I doing this year?  Walking.

               Yep, I was walking across a flat, even floor and rammed my foot into a wooden crate, breaking the little toe.  It hurt like crazy and was not the slightest bit interesting to tell people.

               Later this summer, I wrenched my back.  Nothing that a lot of ibuprofen and a few nights in the hot tub didn’t cure.  But was there a great adventure to share? Sadly, no.  What happened you ask?  Well, I sat down wrong.

I. Sat.  Down.  Wrong.

There’s just no way to make that a rousing tale.

And finally there was this past Monday.  I sliced my arm up but good.  It bled on and off for a couple days, but since it was on my forearm, there just wasn’t enough flesh to worry about going to get a stitch.  I just put antibiotic cream and bandaids on it and tried not to lean on tables and desks with that arm.

Was there an exciting and slightly dangerous account of this?  You decide:  I reached into the refrigerator for Parmesean cheese, scraping my arm on the edge of the shelf.

Not exactly Indiana Jones, huh?

Guess I’ve reached the time in my life when “how did that happen?” will require me to make something up.  At least that’s something I do well!

               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.