While it’s taken nearly a full week of recovering getting a grip on my new, temporary situation, here I am, back at my keyboard. I’m raring to go!

Given all of my whining and angst in the days leading up to my foot surgery, one would think it involved amputation. A long-time friend contacted me a couple of days before I was to have my surgery and gave me a pep talk. Lean into it, she told me. Make it an adventure, she suggested. And then she added that she had spent an entire hot and humid Nebraska summer and fall in a thigh-to-ankle cast after slipping on a piece of fruit on the floor of a Walmart and breaking a kneecap. (It’s called perspective, people.) I asked her if she hadn’t had her kneecap broken by Rocky “Knuckles” Gambino seeking late payments of school fees, but she assured me it was slipping on fruit. My idea would be more interesting.

I have now had a total of four surgeries in my life if you count the hernia operation I had when I was 7, (and why wouldn’t you?). I have nearly no recollections about my youthful operation except that the doctor allowed me to take my dolly with me (though I’m pretty sure she didn’t go into the OR). But the other three surgeries all were the same. The anesthesiologist (who comes and goes like a ninja in the night, never to be seen again) says nighty-night, and I wake up a second later in the recovery room…..

This time there was no dolly by my side, just a cheerful nurse who assured me that my sister Jen and the doctor had enjoyed a lengthy conversation about my foot (and maybe the Cardinals’ chances of getting into the Super Bowl).

It was outpatient surgery, so Jen drove me home. My foot was wrapped in an Ace bandage, and it was like I had no foot at all. I kept glancing down to make sure they hadn’t done the aforementioned amputation. The numbness lasted until 2:30 Saturday morning, when I woke up and thought, gosh darn, I do have a foot, and it really hurts. Never fear, because a pain pill was near.

Since Saturday, I have not had the need for any pain medication, not even ibuprofen. My siblings say Gloors have a high pain tolerance. I nod, like I’m Superman, but the reality is that it really doesn’t hurt. And frankly, I prefer my nightly glass of wine to a narcotic. The ability to poop is often underrated unless you are prone to bowel obstructions, and narcotics are constipating while red wine is health food.

Tuesday, my sister Bec took me to my post-op appointment, where I got to see my new, improved foot for the first time. My big toe is as straight as a Mormon bishop, but my foot modeling career is over as I have two unsightly incisions. Oh, and a foot that is so swollen it looks like a balloon. But I’m happy to say he was pleased with my progress, and quite impressed with my pain tolerance (which, see above, is really virtually no pain at all, but I’ll let him be impressed). “I like my more mature patients,” he said. “They don’t whine as much.” Bill might disagree. I left wearing a bright pink cast. Why wear white when you can wear pink?…..

By the way, I never forget how impressed I am with my siblings, who have all pitched in in their own ways. Bec lifted my very heavy knee scooter in and out of her trunk so many times I thought she might participate in weight lifting in the next Olympic games. My brother brought me freshly-baked krispies, and let’s face it: krispies are healing. Jen helped me prepare, get to and from my surgery, and has provided cheerleading from Fort Collins after she went back home on Sunday.

As for Bill, he has provided yeoman services to me, though I haven’t yet had him feed me grapes. Still, I point, and he does my bidding. I might get used to this.

Thanks to all my friends and family who have prayed, cooked, and generally cheered me on. I’m on the road to better feet!

As the old saying goes, growing old is not for wimps. Bill and I are testing to see just our how well we score on the wimpiness scale, all in one week.

After a lovely couple of weeks of frivolity, during which we felt practically like teenagers, we spent yesterday afternoon gathering up the necessary accoutrements for the next month-and-a-half for this wary blogger…..

Both pieces of equipment are designed to keep my left foot from touching the ground for a period of up to six weeks, beginning this Friday. Though apprehensive, I admit that I was also somewhat excited to use the knee scooter on the left. I’d seen it used by others, and they always looked peaceful and accepting of their temporary fate. Why, it might be fun, I thought to myself.

Until I tried using it to get to the car. My balance was off, the scooter weighs a lot more than I thought it would or should, and folding it down to fit in the trunk takes a Master’s degree in Engineering, something I don’t possess. I have trouble folding a piece of paper to tuck into an envelope. It became clear to me that riding the knee scooter would be a lot harder — and a lot less fun — than riding my little gas-powered scooter back in Denver on sunny summer days.

By the way, I had a grudging acceptance of the walker (a bargain acquired for a mere $8 at Goodwill) until Bill began talking about the need to put neon green tennis balls on the front. “It will keep you from slipping,” he assured me.

I told him that if they could put a man on the moon — or even more timely, if Jeff Bezos can go into space — surely they have invented something that one places on the front of a walker that isn’t neon green and fuzzy, and doesn’t scream I am old and decrepit, and I’m not afraid to knock you over if you get in my way. Bill was quiet for a few moments, and then he answered, “You know, I’m not sure they ever have. I’ve always just seen the green tennis balls.”

Damn. I might risk slipping.

And speaking of Bill, he had oral surgery done yesterday under general anesthesia. He was pretty out of it when I brought him home, but, being Bill, he was underneath his sports car tightening bolts by mid-afternoon. You can’t keep a good man down.

He was sent home with far fewer teeth (which will eventually be replaced by implants) and an order to eat soft foods only for a few days. I bought him a chocolate milkshake to lift his spirits. By early afternoon, he was eating what he considers to be acceptable “soft food.”…..

I managed to convince him that soup also counted as soft food, and that a lifetime of eating donuts and drinking milk shakes is what brought him to his current situation. Well worth the trouble, he undoubtedly thought.

As the countdown for my surgery continues, I am using my husband as a model of how to think positive. “You will just have to buck up,” he told me yesterday when I was fretting about the knee scooter. My answer to him included a word that rhymes with buck, and I don’t think he will provide that particular piece of advice again.

By the way, after we got home with the scooter, Bill commenced to drive it in circles around our house, making NASCAR noises.

Until he crashed, and it once again became a scooter. And demonstrated to me that it will likely kill me.

Yep, no false hopes for one disappointing year ending and another year beginning. Even the long-enduring Betty White said, “Nope, I can’t stand the pain of hope only to be kicked in the teeth with another Greek letter in a few months. I’m going home.” God rest her soul.

This year I think everyone is approaching the turn of the calendar page with a much more realistic attitude. We’re not going back to the casual naivete of, say, 2018, but we’re ready to face the year head-on, undeterred by whatever comes our way. Because we have learned that almost certainly, something unexpected will come rear its head.

Here was one of the best things about 2021, and one of the happiest moments of 2022 thus far…..

Our newest family member — Zoe — was one of the party-goers at my sister Bec’s house on New Year’s Day. Though her daddy Joey has covered her shirt with a bib while giving her a bottle, rest assured she was dressed for the occasion with her New Year’s top and fashionable leggings.

It had been a few years since we had gathered for this annual celebration on New Year’s Day. In fact, I think the last time the whole fam damily gathered was January 1, 2020, just before the world as we knew it changed. Alas, little did we know.

Zoe was one of the stars of the show (the aunties and cousins couldn’t get enough of holding her, often much to her chagrin), but the other star was the roast beast itself…..

…..a massive six-bone masterpiece that was prepared by Bec and carved by Erik. It wouldn’t be New Year’s without the sound of the electric knife in Erik’s firm grip.

Of course, for this family, New Year’s Day means something else as well. One of Zoe’s big sisters — Lexie — turned 9 on January 1. She will grow up assuming everyone has a massive party with a gigantic prime rib for their birthdays. Oh, and fireworks, which her Great-Aunt Jen always contributes. I have decided that one of the most embarrassing moments of our life is when the candles are lit and the dreaded birthday song is sung. Could she look more embarrassed?…..

COVID has made strangers of friends and family, so it was good to see the cousins gather…..

Let 2022 bring us hope and joy and patience and good health. And an end to the pandy!

I was driving home from my first filling-the-larder shopping trip yesterday when the announcer on the country music radio station playing in the car announced that newlyweds Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani celebrated their first Christmas together as husband and wife by making what the announcer called “domed pasta dishes” with Gwen’s Italian family.

“Timpani!” I yelled out loud, talking to no one but the announcer since I was all by myself. I was simply very excited — tickled pink, in fact — that I knew exactly what he was talking about. I had made a timpano with my sisters and several nieces many years ago, way back in 2014.

Timpani (the word comes from the fact that the enormous bowl resemble the timpani drums often found in symphony orchestras) are literally every sort of Italian food all stuffed into a huge metal bowl, and baked. Once they are fully baked and cooled sufficiently, you dump them out onto a big tray and slice into them, revealing total and complete yumminess.

Timpani are traditional in Italy, where they are called timpalli. I don’t know why Italian-Americans changed the name. Frankly, I don’t care because a timpani by any other name would taste delicious. (My apologies to William Shakespeare.) Americans became familiar with the dish after watching a movie called Big Night, starring the wonderful actors Tony Shalhoub and Stanley Tucci. In the movie, Shalhoub and his brother — both immigrants from Italy — open an Italian restaurant. Shalhoub’s character wants to offer food prepared they way it is in Italy, while his brother wants to offer the more Italian-American food, like spaghetti and meatballs.

The movie is clever and touching and I wish everyone could watch it. It culminates in the brothers’ “Big Night” which they think will save their restaurant. The “Big Night” features a timpano.

As for our version, we lined the timpano bowl with pizza crust, and proceeded to fill it with a layer of cooked ziti in marinara sauce, a layer of cooked Italian sausage, a layer of mozzarella cheese, a layer of prepared meatballs, a layer of grated pecorino cheese, some beaten egg over it all, and a layer of red sauce. And then we did it again. The bowl was filled to the brim.

We baked it for an hour-and-a-half at 350 degrees. After taking it out of the oven, we left it to sit for a bit. We did so to give it a chance to cool. I think part of the reason we did so was because we were terrified that we would turn the bowl over onto the tray, and a mess of Italian slop would fall out.

We finally gathered our nerves and prepared to turn the bowl. We each took a turn at giving the bowl a lucky knock…..

We lucked out, because the bowl emptied perfectly. I don’t think Blake and Gwen’s could have been any better….

As I heard about Blake and Gwen’s holiday celebration and recalled our ladies’ night timpano, I began to wonder what ever happened to that bowl. It’s not exactly something that could get lost in our little house. The location remains a mystery. Next time I want to make a timpano, I may have to give the Sheltons a call.