Category Archives: Whimsies

Saturday Smile: Welcome Hugs

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Bill and I got in around 10 o’clock last night, grabbed our suitcase, and ordered a ride from Lyft. Our driver kept us awake with stories — most likely fake — of all of the rides he’s given to big sports figures and other famous folks  visiting Denver. He purports to have given a ride to Jim Carrey, who supposedly paid thousands of dollars to ride with him. Right.

Yesterday morning Jll and Maggie Faith stopped by on the way to school. I can’t believe I didn’t take a picture, because Maggie was photo-worthy. Her school was having a St. Patrick’s Day party, and she was dressed quite literally from head to toe in green. She even had a headband that sported shamrocks on her antennae. We were happy to get some smiles and hugs on her way to school.

Last night Court and Alyx came for dinner with Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole. We all caught up with each other’s business, laughed, and reminisced about such things as Court’s early days of driving. I managed to capture this photo before they all left for the evening….

Hard to take a serious photo!

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts

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This is When I Need a Hover Car
I had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for yesterday afternoon at 1 o’clock. At 12:50, I’m sitting in my recliner reading the wonderful novel that, despite it being about WWII, is bringing me much joy because it’s how people fought back. Suddenly my cell phone makes a distinctive beep. Distinctive because I know it reminds me that I have an upcoming appointment. The reminder default is 10 minutes. If I’m smart, I change that default to something a bit more useful like an hour. The reminder, of course, was for my doctor’s appointment which was a minimum of 25 minutes from my house. I moved remarkably quickly, crazily putting on shoes while at the same time scrolling down my contact list to find the telephone number of the doctor’s office. As I scrambled, I was trying to think of a good excuse for missing my appointment. It finally occurred to me that there simply wasn’t a good reason and that I probably should just tell the truth. Go figure. When the receptionist answered, I said, “Hi. I have a 1 o’clock appointment. I ain’t gonna lie; I spaced it out.” I held my breath. They couldn’t have been nicer, and had an opening at 3. I’m blaming it on morphine brain left over from the hospital. Yeah, Kris. Nice try.

Time Flies When You’re Blabbing
In the course of trying to find something I knew I had written about in my blog, I came face to face with the fact that I wrote my first Nana’s Whimsies blog post on August 14, 2013. That is a mere four years and seven months ago. That’s almost impossible for me to believe because it seems that I have been writing this blog for a heck of a lot longer than that. Perhaps I’m confused because I briefly wrote a cooking blog that was a complete failure in large part because I’m not a great cook. I also wrote a travel blog while Bill and I were on our big European adventure. However, maybe that’s why it seems like I’ve been blogging for longer than four years. We bought this house in 2010, so my blog wasn’t even a gleam in my nana eye when we bought our AZ escape with Jen.

Vroom
Last night Bill and I went out for dinner, despite my best intentions to cook at home. I was yearning for a burger. We had been told about a restaurant not far from our house that cooked a mean burger. Stay tuned for more about the restaurant. For my purposes right now, let me just tell you that it appeared from the outside to be a biker bar. So as we waited for our table, Bill told me that he had recently read that Harley Davidson was having financial troubles. It seems Millennials are not swept up in the Harley mystic. I’m not sure if they aren’t interested in motorcycles at all, or just not Harleys in particular. It would not surprise me if they are buying BMW motorcycles instead. Young whippersnappers…..

Hugs and Kisses
Bill and I leave this evening for a quick trip back to Denver to see our family. I generally make it until late February or early March until I get homesick and need some hugs and kisses. In the next few days, we will be getting hugs from all but two of this bunch, and then return to AZ on Tuesday….

Ciao.

Chewing

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In January 2016 (which was the last time I was in the hospital), I announced via this blog that I was embarking on a low-fiber diet. That’s what the doctors had suggested could potentially mediate my stomach problems. While there is no fool-proof answer to preventing the situation that puts me into the hospital, a low-fiber diet seems to be a step in that direction.

You might notice, by the way, that I am going to great lengths to prevent using the word bowel. If I could drink a shot of whiskey every time I used the word bowel in the past couple of blog posts, I would be in desperate need of a nap. So my euphemisms will have to suffice.

Sunday, while Bill was at the NASCAR races watching cars go around in a circle, I was home researching my condition. I am challenged by the notion that all of my hospital visits involving my small intestine have been here in AZ. I have not been able to find anything to address my questions, but I did stumble upon a message board consisting of comments from people like me. Hospital visits and surgeries and NG tubes were a running theme. They all shared my frustration that there doesn’t seem to be a lot to do to prevent hospital visits, but they also all talked about low-fiber diets being helpful. Many, like I, had been told to keep fiber to a minimum by their doctors.

I like to eat. I also like to cook what I eat. For the most part, preparing low-fiber meals is not fun. The whole concept is counterintuitive. Nutritionists and dieticians tell you over and over to eat high-fiber meals and lots of protein to fill you up. Though the days of the Atkins’ diet are mostly in the past, cutting down on carbohydrates – especially so-called bad carbohydrates – is still considered a good way to lose weight and stay healthy.

Unfortunately, while protein is generally low in fiber, it is suggested that steering away from red meat – especially tougher grilled chops, etc. – is the way to go. The truth hurts, because this is what I had for dinner the night I went to the hospital…..

Yep. Chops and broccoli. On the contrary, fish and chicken: rah rah rah. Also high on the list are potatoes, white rice, white pasta, white bread, canned vegetables and fruits. Mashed potatoes and milkshakes every night of the week would be splendid for my digestion! Gah. No fun to cook.

I did learn that the fiber that is the most troublesome for me is insoluble fiber. That’s the fiber that doesn’t break down. Eating insoluble fiber is a great way to feel full for a long time. But for people with my condition, it can cause all sorts of problems.

For a long period of time after my January 2016 incident, I was a zealot about steering away from fiber. Fiber was evil. I didn’t touch a refried bean. I peeled my celery before cutting it up for soup. I avoided broccoli and cauliflower like the plague. I took tomatoes from my salads or sandwiches and gave them to Bill.

But as the months went by and I had no health issues, I became lax. As of late, I had pretty much limited my fiber restriction to nuts, popcorn, and sweet corn. And once, when Bill wasn’t looking, I put a spoonful of sunflower seeds on my salad while visiting a salad bar. He has a way of looking disappointed and saying tsk tsk tsk when I cheat.

But, as we used to say to each other when we were kids, “Mom knows, and God knows.” So beginning immediately, I am back on the low-fiber band wagon. In addition, my new message board friends suggested small meals, tiny bites, lots of chewing……

By the way, today is National Potato Chip Day. And the good news is I can eat all the potato chips I want. No edamame, but keep those greasy fiberless chips coming!…..

 

Who’s the Boss?

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Thanks to all of you who presented me with nice responses full of good wishes to yesterday’s blog post about my health scare. In addition to words of encouragement, I also got several stories of experiences that paralleled mine. Apparently navigating the health care system – never a glorious experience – has gotten considerably more difficult in the past decade or so. Maybe Baby Boomers are ruining it for everyone!

I promised in yesterday’s post that I would give some thoughts on what I wish I had done differently and what I will do next time. (Perhaps the first change I should make is with positive thinking and instead of saying will do next time, I should say would do next time in the unlikely event that an ER visit is required!)

Interestingly, all three times that I have had small bowel obstructions, I have been in AZ. I find this quite astonishing because we live here for less time than we live in Denver. What are the chances? I don’t know if this is purely circumstantial, but it is interesting nonetheless. Anyhoo, I have gone to the same hospital each time. The first time I admitted to that hospital, it was because the Urgent Care I visited sent me there for a CT scan. When the scan indicated an obstruction, I was immediately admitted to that hospital. Subsequent admissions have all been simply because it seemed to make sense given they have my history.

Next time, I would choose a different hospital. Why? In part, because it is a Level 3 trauma center, and therefore it has a busier ER than a regular hospital. I have mixed feelings about saying that, because if a bowel obstruction isn’t traumatic, I don’t know what is. The truth is, however, that my trauma definition didn’t seem to be the same as the medical staff at the hospital ER. And who’s to say who is right? Perhaps the competition for the lone doctor’s attention was people who had been in car accidents and were bleeding to death. My takeaway, however, is that I am going to do some research right now on what hospital in this vicinity has a good reputation and is part of my insurance network.

If at all possible, I wouldn’t wait until 2 o’clock in the morning to head to the hospital. While I realize I only have limited control over the time I head to ER, it makes sense that 2 o’clock in the afternoon might be a bit quieter than the late night/early morning hours. Not only that, but as a result of waiting this time, I lost an entire night of sleep. My tiredness certainly didn’t help matters when it came to thinking clearly or healing.

I’m lucky that Bill is with me when I head to the ER. Even so, he wasn’t with me the entire time. For a number of very legitimate reasons, it turned out that Bill was out of the room or out of the hospital for every important conversation I had with a doctor or nurse except for two. He was there when the ER doctor finally examined me. He was also there when the surgeon came back to tell me that the obstruction had resolved and surgery was no longer necessary. But he wasn’t there when I learned that the CT scan showed an obstruction; he wasn’t there when the surgeon told me about the need for an NG tube for the contrast after I had been admitted. At that same visit, the surgeon told the nurse that he should put me on his surgery schedule for the next day without even giving me a second glance. He was out of the room when the ER nurse told me that I was in control of my medical care and I shouldn’t let myself be bullied into an NG tube without a lot of thought. My takeaway? I always have my cell phone in my hot little hand both in the ER and in the hospital. Whether or not Bill is there, I would turn on the recording device on my phone and record the conversation. After all, I am scared. I am sick. And I am under the influence of narcotics. Not a good combination for getting every detail right.

I would no longer assume that the left hand knows what the right hand is doing. The night after the doctor had deemed surgery unnecessary, the head nurse came in and informed me that I would be given no food or water after midnight because of surgery the next day. I, of course, panicked. “I’m having surgery? I was told it was no longer going to happen!” He checked and learned that I was right and he was wrong.

But perhaps the most important thing that I would keep in mind is exactly what the ER nurse told me: I am in control of my medical care. To me, that means not assuming I have to do exactly what a doctor tells me. As my grandkids would say: They aren’t the boss of me. They are, however, folks who are a lot more knowledgeable about medical stuff than I. I certainly am not saying I would ignore them. But instead of rolling over and allowing another attempt at the insertion of an NG tube, I elected to drink the contrast despite the surgeon’s warnings of its nasty taste and the possibility of vomiting and asphyxiation. The stuff did, in fact, taste incredibly nasty but I didn’t toss my cookies. So there.

One of my blog followers – a woman approximately my age – commented on yesterday’s post. “I have had medical challenges the past 9 months. More than I have ever had in my life (including challenges with giving birth). I don’t know if it is my age or what but I have had to learn to stand up for myself with the medical staff. “No, I don’t want to do that. What do you mean by that or what does that term mean? Yes, I would be willing to do that.” I am not a super bold person so it hasn’t been easy – but necessary. And, I have tried to learn to listen closely to what they are saying and ask questions. I have also had some wonderful nurses taking care of me, a few PA’s and doctors as well. Some just so so, you have to just roll with it I think.

Good advice.

I have only one more story to tell you and then I promise I will not write another word about my hospital visit. At one point I was still in the ER awaiting a room assignment and Bill had gone home to get a bit more sleep. By that time I had finally been given morphine. I was alone, scared, and high on pain meds. My curtains parted, and a very cheerful person pushing a computer on a stand walked in. Despite my condition, I knew immediately that Accounts Payable was making its first appearance. After confirming that I was who I was, she happily informs me that after insurance pays its share, “you owe us $5,827.62, payable immediately.

Blink. Blink. Blink. (That’s me, not she.)

I glance down at my hospital gown, and inform her, “Well, I don’t actually have that much on me right this minute.”

Blink. Blink. Blink. (That’s her, not me.)

It’s Really a Pain

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There are a number of things that are bad about bowel obstructions, nasal gastric tubes and the danger of death being the most obvious. Less obvious, but nevertheless quite odious, is the fact that they come on unexpectedly and inexplicably.

Bill, who – God bless him – trudges sadly along beside me as I enter the hospital emergency room in great pain, unfailingly asks me, “Why do you think this happened?” Despite knowing that he asks that question because he loves me, my answer is always, “If I knew, I wouldn’t do whatever it is that causes it.” And that’s the truth.

This past Wednesday, immediately upon finishing dinner, my stomach began to hurt. While stomach pain isn’t an everyday occurence for me, it does happen more than I would wish. It has since I had a colon resection in 2011. Most of the time, the pain goes away after a short bout. Two times in the past couple of years, the pain took me to an emergency room, where it then promptly went away. CT scans showed no bowel obstructions in those cases.

This time, the pain was persistent. Finally, at 2 o’clock this past Thursday morning, after I was comfortable that he had gotten a few hours of sleep, I awoke Bill and told him I needed to go to the ER. While he woke up and got dressed, I packed my bag for what I suspected was going to be a hospital stay. This time I was correct. I hate being right.

There is no good reason to be out at 2:15 in the morning. And there is CERTAINLY no good reason to enter an ER at that time of day. It was us, and many, many others who were perhaps in worse shape than I. Or – dare I say it? – on the lookout for pain meds.

If you don’t know that opioid addiction is a national crisis, then you are living in a bubble. But this is the first time my hospital visit placed me face-to-face with the challenges faced by the hospital staff, by non-opioid-addicted patients, and I guess even by those who are addicted. In the past, when I told the front desk that I had stomach pain and a history of bowel obstruction, I was addressed in short order. This time, rather than quickly getting me in front of a doctor or PA and some much-needed pain medication as well as a diagnosis, I was basically told to get in line. They assume everyone coming in complaining of pain is looking for drugs.

I finally was taken to an ER room where they inserted an IV tube (but no IV) and collected blood, but it was nearly two hours before I saw any type of medical personnel. The woman who took my blood told me the name of my nurse, and added that he was at lunch. I naively pictured him standing in the break room shoving some noodles from a cup into his mouth so that he could get to the woman with the bowel that could potentially explode at any moment. Instead, it was an interminable period before he stuck his head through the curtain, introduced himself, and told me he would be back in a bit.

At this point, I took matters into my own hands . “Whoa there, buddy,” I said, as he turned to go. “Does it matter to anybody on this staff that I probably have a bowel obstruction?”

He seemed quite taken aback, as apparently that information hadn’t been relayed to him – or to perhaps anyone past the front desk. He scurried off, promising to see about an x-ray.

He came back rather quickly and told me I was going to be taken down for a CT scan.

“Is there any way I could get something for the pain?” I asked. The answer, I’m afraid, was no. Hello opioid crisis. Meet Kris.

I was informed that no pain medication could be given until I met with a doctor. I understand the reasoning, I really do. Unfortunately, I was three down in line to see the man who apparently was the only doctor on staff at 4 in the morning at a Level 3 trauma hospital in a metro area. Perhaps someone should reconsider the staffing allocation. A PA would have done the trick. Or perhaps the doctor could have made a quick visit just to ascertain that I really was sick. My distended tummy was a dead giveaway.

I had the CT scan, and after I returned, I waited a bit more before I finally saw the doctor. He asked me what part of my stomach hurt, and I told him everywhere. His examination confirmed this. At one point, however, I was rubbing the left side of my stomach out of habit. When I have stomach pain,that is usually where it rears its ugly head. The doctor snapped at me, “You told me it hurt over here,” pointing elsewhere. It did. See above. It hurt everywhere.

I reminded myself that on a daily basis, the doctor meets people faking pain for Percocet. The nurse who inserted my IV tube told me hours earlier that there had been a recent patient who had broken his own leg to get pain meds. But heaven help those of us who really need the medication.

I won’t bore you with much more of my whining. I will tell you, however, that I did, indeed, have a bowel obstruction. I will add that though the lunch-eating nurse (who ended up being the kindest and most understanding medical person I met the entire time I was at that hospital) attempted to insert the NG tube, he was unsuccessful.

“Your nasal passage is too small,” he told me. “You tell them I said that when you get upstairs and they say you need to have a tube. You are in control of your care.” God bless him. I think the tears rolling down my face helped convince him.

Tomorrow I want to tell you what I learned from this visit and what I would do differently. I’m no expert, but medical care is changing daily, and we can learn from each other.

And here’s the man on whom I always lean and who is always at my side when times get difficult. He deserved a day at the NASCAR track yesterday…..

Thursday Thoughts

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Beep, Beep
I’ve talked before about the interesting variety of birds we enjoy here in our AZ home. There are the ever-present mockingbirds, one of which has once again built a nest in the tree in our front yard. Bill knows this because the other day when he was cleaning up the yard, Mommy Mockingbird was scolding him like crazy. We have hummingbirds (because the neighbors feed them) and quail. We see the occasional hawk flying high above us in the sky. We have seen turkey vultures who once in a while hang out if Bill is working in the back yard. They are waiting for an accident to happen. This year we have a new addition to our bird family – a roadrunner. He/she is seen frequently running – as road runner are wont to do – across the our back yard cement block fence as it makes its way across all of our neighbors fences. The roadrunner  is very cute and it makes us laugh every time we see him (or her) run past. We, of course, think about the famous cartoon Road Runner and his nemesis Wile E. Coyote. We await the coyote’s arrival and watch the skies for a dropping anvil. See the resemblance?…..

Barbie Has to Use the Bathroom Too
I often stop and shop at the Dollar Tree store where everything is – ONE DOLLAR. I love the dollar store, but I have learned some lessons by shopping there. Some things are good to buy and some things are good to pass up. Greeting cards, for example, are great to buy at the dollar store because who really reads greeting cards anyway. If I’m taking food to a potluck and want to have a relatively pretty bowl, I will buy a clear plastic bowl at the dollar store because it’s fairly pretty and I don’t have to worry about cleaning it up or somehow getting it home. Toss it away – it was only a dollar. However, gift wrap – no; cleaning products – not so much; canned goods – I’d be too scared. Anyhoo, I recently was buying something at Dollar Tree and came across the teeny-tiniest package of toilet tissue I have ever seen. I don’t know if you can tell how small the rolls are in this photo where they are sitting next to my regularly-sized tissue rolls…..

The size made me laugh, but what really made me laugh is the notice on the front of the bag: 60% MORE SHEETS PER ROLL! My heavens, the rolls must seriously have only had about 25 sheets to them.

Surprise Visit
Jen was scheduled to fly home on Monday after spending the week out here visiting. We said our good-byes Sunday evening because she spent the night with Maggie and Mark and her grands. Her plane was to take off around 10 in the morning, so I was surprised to see my phone ring indicating a call from her around that time. Her flight had been canceled due to high winds in Denver. Jen’s son BJ lives in Fort Collins, and he said the winds were so high it could blow away a small dog! So she spent one more night than she expected. Her grands got a surprise when she was with Maggie to pick them up from school. Lilly was happy, but sternly told Jen, “Grammie, my grandpa is coming tomorrow, so you have to go home.” Mark’s dad arrived Tuesday from Chicago for a visit. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Our grandkids keep us honest.

Something For Everyone
Bill’s membership in the Screen Actors’ Guild allows us to see most of the movies that are ultimately nominated for Academy Awards. So we were able to see Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri, Lady Bird, I Tonya, and many others. The Shape of Water, which won the Oscar for best picture, is also available for us to watch, but no thanks. I am not interested in a love relationship between a mute woman and an amphibian/human creature. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Ciao!

Got Staples?

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Before I go any further, I need to say God bless medical personnel. All medical personnel. Doctors, nurses, respiratory or radiation technicians, CNAs, phlebotomists….you name it, I admire them. More than I would wish of the last 10 percent of my life has been spent with lots of medical people. What I feel when I spend any time around folks in the medical field is gratitude and a strong understanding that if you offered me an annual salary of $500,000, I could not work as even a Candy Striper.  Blood makes me woozy. Vomit makes me throw up. Needles give me the willies. I accidentally drop pills down the drain.

Yesterday afternoon I took Bec for her two-week surgical follow-up. If you are counting on your fingers, you are correct that it has not been two weeks since she had surgery. In fact, yesterday was a week and a day. Still, she had scheduled her follow-up for Thursday (which, of course, is still not two weeks; just sayin’), but an issue with her bandage arose that required an earlier appointment. Because of the appointment change, she knew she would not be seeing her surgeon, but a physician’s assistant instead.

We were put into an examination room, and within minutes, a young man in perhaps his early-to-middle 20s wearing a track suit comes in and cheerfully greets us. He asks all of the right questions. How are you doing? How is your pain? Are you getting around alright?

He then instructs her to pull down her pants so he could look at her surgical site. She did so.

“You have staples?” he said with great surprise in his voice.

Despite his apparent surprise, he left and returned with a medical version of a staple remover, and began snipping staples. As he snipped, he offhandedly said, “So this is your two-week follow-up?”

Bec replied that it really was only a week plus a day, but she had an issue with her bandage that brought her in earlier. He immediately stopped snipping. I sensed a bit of panic.

“Does that change your thoughts about removing the staples?” I asked him. He admitted that it might, and went to get Someone More Important.

After he left, Bec and I looked at each other. Who do you suppose he is, we wondered. Bec swallowed hard. Maybe the maintenance man?

Our friend returned with someone who certainly looked at least a bit older, so hopefully more experienced. He looked at her surgical site and said with great surprise in his voice, “You have staples?”

At this point I began to wonder if perhaps the surgeon had been rummaging through a drawer the morning of the surgery looking for some Lifesavers and found some unused staples and decided that waste not, want not was a motto by which he would live.

This man left to get Someone Even More Important. At this point Bec and I were just hoping it would be someone not wearing a track suit.

The two of them return with a woman who seemed very experienced, and she looked at the surgical site. Bec and I held our breath. The staples either didn’t bother her or she had been forewarned before entering the room that perhaps gasping at the sight of staples wasn’t doing anybody any good.

“It looks great,” she said. “Keep snipping.” Not a word about staples.

The bottom line is that Bec got a great report, she no longer has staples in her leg (and perhaps never should have), and instead of surgical gauze, she has little bandages that will remove themselves at their own pace. By next week, she can drive a car.

But the best news is that as the young man in the track suit left the room, he didn’t grab the trash can on the way out. It gave us great hope that he wasn’t actually the maintenance man.

No Neighbor Problems

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To get to Lincoln, Nebraska, from my home town of Columbus, you drive south out of town on state highway 81; 81 ends as it meets state highway 92 just east of Osceola; you turn east on state highway 92 until you get to David City; you then turn south on state highway 15 until you get to Seward, where you then make your way into Lincoln.

At least that’s how I remember it.

Somewhere before you get to Seward, there was a small two-lane road that signage told us would take you into the town of Bee, Nebraska if you turned left. Population 156. I made the drive between Columbus and Lincoln about a million times because I attended the University of Nebraska in Lincoln, and, unlike most of my friends, I was a homesick freshman. So I would catch a ride any weekend in which someone I knew was going home.

My confession of homesickness relates to my story only because as I would drive (or ride, as the case may be) to and fro so often, I would pass that sign for Bee, population 156, and wonder what it was like to live in a town of 156 people. Keep in mind, I didn’t live in a huge metro area; however, my home town had in the neighborhood of 10,000 people at the time, and that felt perfect to me. We had three or four grocery stores, many churches, a city park, a thriving downtown WITH A BAKERY, three high schools (two public and one Catholic), and plenty of places to eat (though no fast food joints when I lived there). We even had a community college.

I’m guessing Bee maybe had a few small homes, a gas station, a post office in need of paint, a teeny-tiny food market, and a bar. Always a bar.

I remember always thinking that I would be comfortable living in a small town. On the other hand, Bec couldn’t wait until she got to a city where everybody DIDN’T know your name. She has told me that even as a small girl, she imagined living in a city the size of Washington, D.C. And she, of course, actually has lived in not just that city, but other cities for most of her adult life.

But not me. To this day, I will imagine how lovely it would be to live in a little village the size of the fictional Mitford, NC. And then I have to remind myself that while Mitford has a wonderful food market with anything Father Tim needs to make a gourmet meal, in real life that same market would have canned goods, snacking chips, a small variety of meat, beer and pop, and sad looking fruit. There would be no multi-plex movie theaters, no pho (unless you lived in a village in Vietnam), and no liquor store with an enviable wine selection. The hardware store would be the only place to buy ladies’ underwear and toothbrushes.

Recently a friend of mine posted a story on Facebook about a very real town on the north border of Nebraska called Monowi. In Nebraska, the town/city boundary signs list the name of the town/city and its population. As of this photo, you can see that Monowi had 2 residents…..

According to the story published by the BBC, there remains only one – 84-year-old Elsie Eiler. Since the photo was taken, her husband Rudy died. She is the only remaining permanent resident, though the tavern seems to attract a bit of a crowd. According to Elsie herself, she “pays taxes to herself, grants her own liquor license, and is the only remaining resident.”

She goes on to say, “When I apply to the state for my liquor and tobacco licenses each year, they send them to the secretary of the village, which is me. So I get them as the secretary, sign them as the clerk and give them to myself as the bar owner.”

The story is worth the effort it would take to click on the link, if only for the photography.

By the way, I checked the population of Bee, Nebraska. It had 191 people in the 2010 Census. A population boom from the days when I drove past the sign, wondering who could possibly live in Bee, Nebraska. Perhaps it’s on its way from a village to a township. Maybe it will even be on the map someday. Go Bee.

Every Day’s a Holiday

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Recently, Bill and I decided to have breakfast out. Pancakes sounded good to me. We had some errands to run, so we began talking about where to have our breakfast. There was an IHOP in the vicinity of our errands, and since I love their double blueberry pancakes, we decided that would be our breakfast destination.

That particular IHOP – and really, all breakfast places in east Mesa – are quite busy on weekends what with people wanting breakfast after church or families with working parents enjoying a relatively low-cost meal out on a weekend morning. Sometimes you can wait up to an hour at even mediocre restaurants. But this was a random Tuesday and it was a little after 9 o’clock in the morning. We decided that all the seniors will have eaten and men and women conducting business over breakfast will be long gone.

When we pulled into the IHOP parking lot, it looked busier than I had anticipated. Still, ever optimistic, we parked behind the restaurant and headed towards the front door. When we turned the corner, much to our surprise, there were people everywhere. Waiting outside; waiting inside; milling about in the parking lot. Lots of folks.

I made my way to the front counter to put our name onto the list, jockeying past wheelchairs and walkers and little kids running here and there. The wait was longer than we expected, and since we had those aforementioned errands, we decided to go elsewhere. As we turned to go, we began wondering aloud just why the restaurant was so busy on a random weekday morning.  Suddenly I saw the sign on the window. NATIONAL PANCAKE DAY. A FREE STACK OF PANCAKES FOR EVERY DINER.

In the words of my favorite fictional Episcopalian priest of Mitford fame, Father Tim, “Aha.” Seniors in our part of the East Valley are not ones to turn down a free stack of pancakes. As for Bill and me, we would pay cash money for our pancakes and go somewhere with a shorter wait. Village Inn’s pancakes sufficed just fine, though they were not free…..

Did you know that every day of the year is National Some-Kind-of-Food-Or-Another Day? For example, today is National Cheese Doodle Day. Since I had to look up what a cheese doodle was, I am not going to feature a recipe…..

Turns out I eat cheese doodles all the time (though admittedly I prefer the crunchy kind). I’m not sure one can actually make one’s own cheese doodles. It appears a corporation had enough money to buy itself a food day. They look like Cheetos to me, but whoever makes Cheetos wasn’t foresighted enough to get itself a “day.” I wonder if IHOP is giving away a free bowl of Cheese Doodles today.

I was marginally aware that there was such a thing as food holidays, but it still caught me off-guard when Bill dropped this hint this past January 26: Hey Kris, did you know that tomorrow is National Chocolate Cake Day? Just sayin’.

As it happened, I had inadvertently purchased a box of Ghirardelli Chocolate Cake Mix a couple of weeks previously when I thought I was purchasing Ghirardelli Brownie Mix. Bill is a fan of the chocolate brownie. Oddly, the cake mix only made one layer, but I knew that if I added a chocolate ganache, it would make him smile…..

…..and it did. He was caught off guard since he had no preconceived notions that his hint would actually be heard by his loving wife. How he knew that January 27 was National Chocolate Cake Day remains a mystery. Perhaps he has every National Something-Chocolate Day marked on his calendar.

If I forget to tell you tomorrow, Happy National Oreo Day (another holiday about which Bill can get excited).