It’s also a good idea to choose friends who are really savvy shoppers, like Tracy and Jessica.

I am so fortunate to have A) good friends and B) good friends who give good gifts, but this present is practical AND funny. T&J have either been paying close attention, or else I don’t blather on much about any topic except my latest passion, which is live auctions. And so for my birthday, my friends presented me with these lovely presents.

Everything a fledgling auction attendee could want, including food for the road trip AND a big white hand, thereby saving my own big white hand. (There were more treats, including some made of chocolate, but those unfortunately became eaten.) I’m pretty sure the “Krabbie Patties” are purchased strictly for their nutritional value, and are not in any way related to either my name or occasional temperament.

What fun!

I’m attending another auction tomorrow and will write about it later. I’ll try to remember to USE my camera, now that I am in the habit of taking it along. There is one auctioneer I so badly want to photograph, but can’t think of a way to do it without embarrassing both of us.

I’ll figure it out, though.

Meanwhile, I’ll leave you with this Halloween and/or household hint: If you manage to sneeze while applying mascara, you can end up looking like that guy in “A Clockwork Orange.”

So that’s how they did it!

Josie already has a big sister, Gabriella, who is nearly 2. Here is a photo that is probably the first family picture showing all four of them:

Heather, Gabby, Mike and Josephine Claire

Imagine the fun those girls are going to have together! My sisters (one older, two younger) were always my best pals, and remain so today. It’s a family tradition.

Here’s the proud dad and his girls:

Mike always reminds me of Sean Penn. But I digress.

Here’s Heather, just home from the hospital:

So welcome home Heather, and welcome home Josie, for whom “home” is the entire world. We love you and we eagerly anticipate watching you grow.

Last summer the aunties and nieces and great-nieces Gabby and Madison took a little trip up the shore for lunch and sightseeing, which is when Heather announced she was pregnant. This summer’s trip will include Josie, and we hope the tradition will carry on for many years to come.

That’s what family’s all about, isn’t it?

****

PS: It’s an odd day when I get up early to update my blog, but life has been hectic. So happy belated Easter to all of you, and have a look at my concoction which turned my fingers blue, and which wasn’t really very tasty after all. But pretty!

Don’t hate me because I’m clever!

(My friend Kim would of course say “That’s not the reason.”

How was your Easter? Got pictures to share?

Well, I’d better get dressed and off to work. No time to proofread, but my fingers are crossed. (Not literally.) More to come!

All that snow shown in my last post? ’tis but a memory.

Meanwhile, I have been busy with stuff like work, auctions, volunteering, and “Modern Family.” So you can see where a lot of time gets eaten up. Time that a gal could use constructively, unless the gal is someone who occasionally makes bad choices.

So! All this to say: I’ll be back soon. I’ll be writing about auctions or hospice work or maybe both of those or none, and I hope to get it done this weekend. But I haven’t disappeared. Hope your lives are going swimmingly!

Winter came late to the party in Minnesota, but it’s been having a blast. Take a look!

The front of the house. Thank goodness for strong teenage boys who enjoy shoveling. Or maybe it’s the money they enjoy. Whichever it is, I don’t care. I’m just happy I’m not the one doing it.

Here’s my former lovely winter flower pot. It’s taken a beating:

It’s easy to lose white cars in a snow storm, too.

And here’s the view from the back deck. (Not that I have a front deck, but you know what I mean…)

So we have our work cut out for us. We’ve needed the snow and most of us are glad it’s here, but geez… enough already.

And PS: Don’t forget to feed the birds!

My friend Jill called this morning, much to my surprise. I like to think of her as my friend, but I haven’t been a very good friend in return.

Just as I was thinking of updating my blog with some vague, un-gelled thoughts of Uncle George’s funeral, the phone rang, and there was Jill, just calling to chat. Without meaning to, she managed to focus my entire thought process for this entry.

Jill and I worked together at HBJ, which then became Edgell Communications, which then became Advanstar Communications, which is now partly Advanstar and partly HCL. (But I digress.) We always had an easy friendship, partly, I think, because we both understood the absurdity of most things, and we both liked to laugh. We were each laid off during a downsizing event in 1992, and since she lived in my neighborhood at that time, we stayed in touch by phone, or going for walks, or wandering down to Lester River to sit on the rocks and discuss all matters large and small. Those were fun times.

Once, while looking for some distraction from unemployment, we decided to attend a court hearing. I’m not sure how we chose the particular case we ended up viewing, though I remember it involved a lot of young men in prison garb, and one in particular who caught our eye. Not sure who started the giggling, but I’m going to blame it on Jill. Of course I couldn’t resist, and the quick telling of the story is that common courtesy demanded we leave the courtroom immediately (before the bailiff threw us out) and I remember walking out with my hand over my face. I’m pretty sure some people thought I was someone’s distressed parent in tears. It was my first and last court appearance.

But then Jill got a job, and I got a job, and she moved to another part of town, and our lives took different paths again. I missed her, but I was too lazy to do much about it. We became Christmas card friends. After a few years of “we should get together for lunch” notes, I felt guilty about my inaction, and wrote “You could do a lot better in the friend department.”

We once ran into one another at the Duluth Clinic, though not literally, which is a good thing. I was going in one door with a broken arm, and Jill was going out the other door with a broken ankle, so of course we had to stop and laugh about that, too. (It’s wonderful to have a friend who doesn’t see you for a few years at a time, but then you can catch up on stuff in about 2 minutes.)

So, my point. (And I really do have one.)

Stay in touch.

Stay in touch with the people who matter to you. Call them or write them or go to their homes, but make time to stay in touch with the people who matter to you. Don’t assume they will always be there, because they won’t.

This past weekend I attended the visitation and the funeral for my uncle George. I saw so many relatives that I no longer spend any time with. People who meant so much to me at one time (and who still do, of course) are now relegated to the occasional wedding, funeral, or Christmas card note. I heard stories about my uncle that I’d never heard before, and wished that I’d talked to him about them, but of course it is now too late. And that’s just how quickly everything is over.

My uncle, it turns out, kept all the cards and letters and photos that were ever sent to him. Imagine that treasure. (And I’m so glad I’m still a letter writer, at least, and kept in touch with him by sending occasional cards with family news.) He kept in touch with his friends and neighbors, and he kept in touch with his church, despite an alleged disagreement that kept him away for many years. The number of people who showed up for both services was overwhelming to me. Uncle George understood the importance of keeping in touch.

So contact someone you care about. Write a letter or make a phone call or do whatever you have to do to let them know you are still out there, still thinking of them, still caring. They will be gone way too soon.

If you are too busy to keep in touch with the people who matter to you, then you are simply too busy. Rearrange your schedule. Remind yourself of what matters.

And Jill, if you’re reading this, let’s REALLY have lunch some day soon. Really! I miss you.

My uncle George Swor died yesterday afternoon in St Luke’s Hospital in Duluth. He was 88 years old, my mother’s youngest brother, and the last survivor of her immediate family.

That hardly covers it. My uncle George was a one-of-a-kind family treasure.

I have a photo at my desk showing the Swor family in 1954, which includes my mother and her sister Katherine (my beloved Auntie Kay, whose recipes I sometimes publish) and their six brothers: Sam, Jack, Mitchell, Nick, Henry and George. I imagine in their youth, the Swor kids were a force to be reckoned with. When I was a kid, they were a happy, boisterous bunch, gathered at Grandma Swor’s house every Sunday for chicken dinner. I thought my uncles were marvelous. They all seemed strong and capable, with swarthy Mediterranean good looks, and they seemed to be joking and laughing all the time, which made us kids feel safe and protected, and part of Something Big.

All those people grew up and married, raised families, and then most of them died way too soon.

Uncle George and Aunt Betty raised four sons, while my parents raised four daughters. For some years our families lived across the street from one another on Fern Avenue in the Kenwood area. My sisters and I spent some time with our cousins, especially with Aunt Betty, who loaded up her navy blue Cadillac (she always drove a Cadillac) with all 8 of us, taking us swimming at Park Point or to a cabin at Lake Minnisuing in Wisconsin. While I remember her large metal Red Dot cans filled with peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies, I also remember Uncle George burying silver dollars in the sand for us kids to find.

I remember being in the car with my cousins when Uncle George would say “Hey, kids, let’s have a contest to see who can keep their eyes closed the longest!” I always wanted to win that contest. We only found out years later that he did this any time we were in the vicinity of a Dairy Queen. Other times he drove us over Superior’s “singing bridge,” always telling us to put one hand on the car’s ceiling and make a wish, because bridges were good luck.

Uncle George owned a Texaco station on Sixth Avenue East for many years, and during childhood I spent  happy hours there with my sisters and cousins, picking apples from the huge apple tree and throwing them (ineffectually) at passing traffic, or playing in the creek behind the station, into which my cousin Barbara was known to toss her much-hated eyeglasses. I can’t see a red Texaco symbol without thinking of my uncle in his dark green attendant’s uniform, running out of the station to clean windshields, check oil and fill gas tanks. (The man who wore the star is now among the stars.) Years later he opened a motel across the street from the station, which soon went from a regulation motel to a sort of shelter for local misfits. I doubt he collected as much in rent as he ”loaned” to others, but he helped so many with housing, transportation, food and protection from the elements. Despite his happy association with more than one snarling rottweiler, he was robbed at least once, and perhaps more than that, but he never lost his faith in humanity, and he never stopped helping anyone with a sad story.

My uncle never forgot his nieces. He was especially close with my cousin Barbara, sharing a love of adventure and gambling with her. They often traveled to Vegas together, and I’m sure each trip was memorable. Every Christmas my sisters and I received gifts from my uncle, even though we hadn’t spent much time with him, and in our later years there were always Christmas gifts of cash. Family meant the world to my sentimental uncle, and he never wavered from his love or loyalty.

Depsite the death of his brothers and sisters, and the early and unexpected death of his son Greg, my uncle soldiered on. He and my aunt separated in the late 1960, but never divorced. Though he lived alone, he was never really alone. He always had a smile for every person he met. Though I’m sure they must have happened, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t see my uncle smiling.

I didn’t see my uncle much in the past few years, a fact of which I am not proud. He was always accessible and I was not. The last time I saw him feeling well was at the last Swor Christmas party at the Depot in December. He always made you feel as if you were the very person he wanted to see at that very moment. His health was failing, but not his generous spirit, his wonderful smile, or his love of family and tradition.

And so last Wednesday, when he wasn’t feeling well, he had the presence of mind to call an ambulance for himself, and to call my cousin Barbara (my mother’s namesake) to let her know something was wrong. At the hospital he suffered a heart attack from which he was unable to recover, despite vigilant medical care and the love and prayers of family.

It is sad to know he is gone. But I think we are all relieved that he did not have to linger in a bedridden condition for days or weeks on end.

I wish I had a scan of a photo to post here so you could see his smiling face. But I don’t. I do have memories of him that will last the rest of my life.

Rest in peace, Uncle George.

We love you.

You can trust your car to the man who wears the star...

Yesterday I was on the road to Gordon (Wisconsin) to pick up my sister Kim who had graciously invited me to another auction, after I begged her to let me come along. Our usual meeting place is Gordon’s  ICO station on Hwy 53. I arrived there before Kim and bought a few newspapers and some nutritional road food, Hershey’s chocolate and a bag of cashews. My purchase rang up at 666 on the cash register, and after our initial surprised glance at one another, the cashier and I agreed we would not let it cast a pall on our days, although I did consider buying a pack of gum to change the number.

Got a chance to talk to the very nice man who gets up at 2:30 AM in Trego every day to deliver newspapers around small towns in Wisconsin. Every single day. I don’t even get up at 2:30 AM to toddle to the bathroom, so I don’t know how he does it, but I’m intrigued by people who drive places for a living, even when the roads are icy and treacherous. Hats off to them. (Though I hope they keep their hats on in winter.)

Our destination was a large auction house in Webster, Wisconsin. Kim figured how long it would take us to get there, but she forgot to factor in my lead foot, so we ended up with plenty of time to look around. “Show, don’t tell,” my writing instructors always advised me, so if you’re ready for more bad photography, I’ll show you what we saw first.

Was this my lucky day or what? A garage sale? In February? YES!

Kim bought a clarinet or flute or piccolo, or some shiny silver instrument in a beautiful blue velvet lined box. (What do I know? I was always in chorus back in my school days.) My find, which fit very nicely into the back seat:

ONE DOLLAR, people. No kidding. Score!

I bought this lovely brass headboard, for which I have no use. I think it would look great in someone ‘s garden next summer, so I will probably end up selling it. For one dollar, I could not pass it up. Frankly, I would not sit in a chilly town hall all afternoon to make one dollar for this lovely items, but that’s just me. I think it’s gorgeous.

After the sale, we followed another sign down a country road to find bison in a frosty field in Rusk, Wisconsin. This guy in the front couldn’t take his eyes off me, or else he was considering making a lunge for my big red car. Either way, we were both kept our manners, and I didn’t stay long enough to fully annoy him. But I thought he was a beauty.

It was still early in the day, so the frost hadn't burned off yet, and I think it added a lot to the photo.

On to the auction. It wasn’t a very good one, according to my serious-buyer sister (whose husband had gone to a separate auction in Amery, Wisc.) but for me they are all good ones, because I never really have a purchase in mind, but like to be surprised by what I find. This one was crowded, and at first we sat way in the back, but later walked up to the front for serious bidding. (Kim’s, not mine.)

You can barely see the auctioneer way up front, but he was there. Favorite auctioneer line of the day when the bidding slowed down: “Anyone else have the miserable winter cold? Raise your hand.”

I did see one thing I wanted, and my sister managed to get it for me for just $8. It is a Japanese salt and pepper set on a tray, with a little pot in the center that probably could hold preserves. Or M&Ms, at my house.

Isn't this gorgeous? I love it so much. Not a chip on it, either. Would love to know its history.

The day was gorgeously sunny. At one point I was standing at the car wrapping pieces of china in some of my 666 newspaper, and realized it was February 6, and the temperature was about 45 degrees. Amazing. One for the books. (In case you’re writing a book about weather. You can quote me!)

We didn’t stay too long at the auction, but decided to drive other places to see stuff. We were close to the town of Siren, so we went to have a look. This sobering sight was the most serious moment of the day:

I can not imagine a force so strong to have created that scene, nor the strength that wrapped it so tightly that it has stayed there for 11 years. I imagine there are happy days for Siren residents that are suddenly sobered by the memory of that storm. I don’t remember seeing any trees along Siren’s main drag, either.

But another “sign” quickly took our minds off the tornado.

No major purchases, but always fun to look at other people’s castoffs. I bought a movie whose name I’ve forgotten, and I’m too lazy to walk to the living room to look.

We visited another thrift shop, but came away empty-handed, and headed for lunch. We found this really good sports bar, Adventures, and the daily special was a fabulous patty melt sandwich, so my life was complete. The sandwich was served on marble rye bread with fries, and was so large that I took half of it home for dinner. Yum!

On the way out of Siren, we turned around to photograph this very tall cowboy with a stick that may explain why some cowboys walk the way they do. It’s a very tall cowboy, and I told my sister that the photo would be more impressive if she’d go stand by his feet, to which she replied “Why don’t you trot across that snowy field and I’ll take your picture?”, and so of course it never got done. But trust me. He’s tall. He should also be holding something, like a lasso for Rodeo Days, or maybe a very large basket of kittens. Though it’s hard to improve on a tall cowboy, most everything looks better with a basket of kittens.

I rest my case.

See?

On the road again, our next stop was the charming little town of Spooner, where Kim has friends who have antique shops. Walnut Street in Spooner contains a two block stretch of interesting shops, and if you love antiques, you must stop at The Red Door Antiques and More Shop, which sort of reminds me of Vic & Sade’s Little Tiny Petite Pheasant Feather Shoppe, but that’s another story for another day, though it, too, is an antique.

I didn’t take a photo of it, but The Red Door is not hard to find, and is surrounded by other interesting shops. The greeting from Kim’s friends Carla and her husband, Joe, was so friendly and cordial that you want to pull up a chair and settle in for a chat, but there wasn’t time. The shop is filled with floor to ceiling treasures from various sellers who like the same kind of stuff I do, and I could have spent hours wandering around there. Even if you didn’t buy anything, the wide assortment is sort of like a museum tour of your personal history, where every dish and tin evokes things from your childhood that you didn’t forget after all. I loved it. And I bought something that I love.

This charming old cookie cutter has a slightly off-kilter handle, which makes me think it had been used a lot. I love it’s fluted edges, and it’s deep and large enough to be used for baking scones or biscuits. It’s perfect. I like to imagine a farm wife using it for Sunday breakfasts.

Carla has the kind of job I’d like to have if I ever reach retirement. I’d love to go places to buy things to bring back to that lovely shop to sell. I’d love to spend some winter afternoons surrounded by the memories of past lives. Carla seems pretty happy to be doing it. So would I.

After reluctantly leaving the shop, we headed back to Gordon, where I dropped Kim off at her car, and made my way back to Duluth, completely forgetting to give her the $8 I owe her for the Japanese pieces. Got home while the sun was still shining, and had a lot of fun going through the day’s treasures, which also included a loaf of home made bread and some chicken stew from Kim. A delicious end to a lovely day.

Get in the car and go somewhere soon. Take pictures and tell us about it!

And say hello to the bison.

Me, for instance.

After my car would not start the other night, I found myself standing out in the nearly-empty parking lot after work on a frigid (-26 degrees) evening, looking under the hood at a cheap and now dead battery stamped September 2009, wondering why I hadn’t noticed it earlier, as I have been driving this particular car since late summer.

Stunned by its newness all these weeks, blinded by it’s lovely red coat, I neglected something important, like checking the condition of a battery that might have to see me through a Minnesota winter. I waited for one of the coldest nights of the year to discover it wouldn’t even see me home.

Not too bright. I admit it.

I figure I’ve proven many times over that I am just about bright enough to be hazardous to my own well-being. Let’s just say foresightedness is not my strong suit.

Chivalry is not dead, as it happens, but by the time people showed up to help, I had already called a tow truck, who got it started right away and advised me to let it run for at least half an hour before shutting it off. Which I did. 47 minutes, to be precise.

And so imagine my surprise this morning when I was happily planning to pick up my sister in Gordon and drive to an auction in rural Wisconsin, when I turned the key and heard that dreadful click click click.

The second tow truck driver was equally friendly as the first, and cheerful, given the chill in the air and the fact that I hadn’t backed into the garage, which a brighter person may have done, considering the events of the night before. (See paragraph five.)

“College battery,” he said. “We call them ‘May Starts.’”

Not my battery, though it was probably on its way.

Another battery jump and a trip to a service station for a new battery, and I was on my way to meet my sister, who by now had driven herself to the auction and was already bidding on stuff. And so I arrived, a few hours later than I’d planned, a bit poorer, but by now better equipped for cold weather. Lesson learned. The hard way.

Giving credit where credit is due, because I so adore people who do what they say they’ll do: My thanks to Thompson’s Express on 27th Avenue West (unfailingly cheerful service every time I go there) and K/J Auto Service at the top of Woodland Avenue. Good fellas. (But not in that “I’m gonna smash your kneecaps” kind of way.)

But oh, the auction! I almost forgot.

My sister Kim and her hubby are avid auction attendees. They sometimes allow me to tag along. It’s hard for me to keep up with the action, since I’m always afraid I’ll bid against myself (see paragraph 5) and so it’s that rare instance when I get to tell people my sister Kim will do my bidding.

Not OUR auction, but could have been. I kept my camera in my purse. Its battery was charged, I hasten to add.

Farm and rural auctions are not the hoity-toity places where scratching your nose will cost you $1,000. They are social events, casual and fun, great for people watching, and (for me) filled with high humor. If you bid on something by mistake, or you bid and then change your mind, you can just say say, and the sale moves on without you, no harm done.

There are a lot of men at auctions. A lot.

Also, they usually sell things like chocolate cake, hot dogs and Coke.

How can this not be a fun day?

My sister is a serious bidder, undaunted by my nattering about dead batteries, chipped fingernails and friendly men, and she ended up with lots of very cool stuff today. While she was hauling treasures out to her car, I bought two turn-of-the-century toasters and an old coffee pot for $2. Not by bidding, but because the auctioneer stared at me until I said “Sure!” which is how we bid for ourselves in Duluth. “Sure! I’ll take ‘em!”

They’re pretty. And I do love old kitchen appliances. But that’s another story for another day.

Here are people you would have recognized at the auction: Santa Claus (who has trimmed down since December) and Wild Bill Hickok. You might think they have similar attributes, but I tell you the are two separate men, and they were both there. I had my camera with me, but I didn’t think it would be polite to take photos of them. Wild Bill looked at me once, and I think he was saying “If you won’t go to Deadwood, Deadwood will come to you.”

Sadly, I did not see Calamity Jane, though I did see a calamity between a husband and wife, which sort of surprised me in its decibel level. But hey: been there.

Well, that is my story of car batteries and farm auctions. I spent $2 at the auction, and well over $200 just getting there.

Not too shabby.

And not too bright.

So I was in the grocery store the other night (one of my favorite things to do) when a bunch of food mysteries crossed my mind. A few nights before, I had prepared some citrusy chicken wings for dinner, and they were delicious, but they were enormous. It made me think about the rest of the chicken. It made me think of chickens in general. How do they get so big? What kind of miserable, fast lives do they have to live to produce enormous wings that someone will throw under the broiler a few days later and then forget about? Where do these chickens come from? Some kind of Giant Chicken ranch?

I promise I will not begin any sentence with “When I was a kid.” But years ago (when I was not an adult) chicken was smaller, and chicken was tastier. No matter where I shop these days, and no matter how I prepare it, chicken tastes plasticky to me. It is not the chicken I remember. It is twice the size of chickens I remember, but that’s probably because American dinner plates are now the size of what my mom used to call a “platter.”

This is not my mom, but it's probably how she'd look if she wore glasses and if she happened to see the size of dinner plates in 2012.

Speaking of chicken, did you know there are about 75 varieties of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup? I didn’t, either, because I don’t eat canned soup and I don’t buy cereal, so those aisles are largely foreign territory for me. But I had a coupon for 4 cans of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup which I was going to donate to the food shelf. Naturally I became dazed and confused trying to find them, and of course picked up four cans of the wrong stuff, and then had to hold up my grocery line while I ran back for the right ones. (I know. I hate when someone else does that, so I apologize to everyone in that line who had better things to do with their time than to wait for me. I saw you rolling your eyes, but I forgive you. Been there.)

There is Homestyle Chicken Noodle, Old Fashioned Chicken Noodle, Chicken Noodle with Vegetables, Healthy Choice Chicken Noodle, Low Sodium Chicken Noodle… God. I thought of simply running out of the store, but I figured security would be all over that. So I get back to the counter, breathlessly apologize to everyone, and leave with my (probably 15 cent) savings. Mission accomplished.

When the clerk told me I’d picked up the wrong cans, I thought about just buying them to be done, until she told me they were $1.55. Apiece. That would be about $6 for four cans of sodium-enriched plasticky soup. Who buys that stuff? For $6 you could buy an entire (again, plasticky and genetically enlarged) chicken, roast the thing for two dinners and still have parts left to make your own soup. Tasty chicken soup, too.

Meanwhile, down the meat and poultry displays, I am saddened to relate that you can no longer buy a pork or beef roast with a lot of marbling in it. You know what marbling is, of course… it’s fat. It’s the stuff that tastes good. It’s the stuff that makes roasts juicy and tender, taking you back to winter dinners at your aunt Kay’s house. (Okay, MY aunt Kay.) The reason we can no longer buy these is that the public demands less fat in their cuts of meat, and farmers have responded, and the resulting product is generally dry and stringy. I weep for a 1950 pork roast.

Yeah. I don't know, either.

In the produce department, I have to wonder what’s happened to lemons over the years. I remember those small pretty yellow lemons that had thin skins and you could squeeze juice out of them. Remember? Maybe it’s just where I shop, but I can’t seem to find them anymore. The lemons I find these days are huge, with pebbly skins that are about half an inch thick, and the lemon itself is dry once you finally get to it. Where are the good lemons?

Oh, pretty juicy lemons ... how I miss you!

Limes seem to have been spared this fate. You can still buy good limes.

Whew! That was close.

Can you even buy yellow grapefruit anymore? The pink ones are good; juicy and sweet, but where are the tart yellow ones? Did America give up on those, too?

(Where was I when this vote was taking place?)

I can remember when you could buy celery that came with a thick rubber band around it, and I remember when each piece of fruit did not have to have a sticker on it.

Yeah, that’s how old I am.

And really: do we need that many brands of cereal? Cereal at my store takes up both sides of an entire aisle, except for Bob’s Red Mill oatmeal, which is found in the health food section. What does that tell ya? (“Yeah, we know this is all sugary non-food crap, but the kids seem to like it….”)

Do I need to start shopping elsewhere?

Those are my grocery store gripes for this week. Do you have any? Dish, she said, keeping with the food theme.

That's the kind of crop circle I'd like to leave.

After careful review, I realize they still do make me crazy, though I hear them less and less. (Imagine the feeling of power!)

Anyhoo, I read Lake Superior State College’s list of words we should banish for 2012, and I agree with most of them, although I still think “occupy” is a viable word; I’ve never heard anyone say “trickeration,” and I don’t think “amazing” is quite as overused as the one that starts my list. Please stop saying these things immediately:

“Awesome.” This still tops my list of words that can make my brain hurt. Having soup for lunch is not awesome. Seeing snow or rain outside is not awesome. The second coming of Christ… That would be awesome. Save that word for then!

“Bucket List.” Probably cute for a movie title, but if there are things you want to do before you die, go do them. Don’t make movie titles a part of your daily speech. Use your brain and live longer.

“Push back (or push up) the date.” Maybe it’s just me, but I never understood that phrase. If you push back a meeting, doesn’t that mean you’ll meet in July instead of June? Or is it the other way around? It’s a confusing term. Let’s never use it again.

“No problem.” This is not an appropriate response to “Thank you,” though it’s a lot better than “whatever,” which is also dismissive and tends to stop you in your tracks. When someone says “Thank you,” the correct response is “You’re welcome.” We learned it as children. It still pertains!

“Nazi,” when applied to anything but an actual Nazi, is really a terrible word. Despite Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi, it is not humorous to call anyone a Nazi, and if you can’t figure out why, look up the historical meaning. Being strict about something doesn’t make you a Nazi.

“Beautiful inside and out.” When I hear this expression used to describe anyone, I cringe. I can only imagine body parts like livers, lungs, stomach linings and intestines. I don’t know what you look like inside, and frankly, I don’t want to. You may have a wonderful personality (and face to match) but what you look like inside is something I don’t want to know.

“Preheat oven,” which I may have used in some of my recipes, though it is a confusing phrase. Pre-heat it? Heat it before what? Heat it before you heat it? If you heat your oven to 350 degrees before you bake something, isn’t that a heated oven? Why would you pre-heat it? How would you pre-heat it? If you want to bake on Friday, do you pre-heat on Thursday? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

“Suck it.” It pains me to even write this one. “Suck” alone was bad enough, but we had to add the “it,” which makes it 20 times worse. I don’t care how many times we hear this on TV (sorry to note that “Modern Family” took the low road) but it’s just all wrong. Eeeewwwwww.

“Put a fork in me, I’m done.” Thank you, Judge Milian, and everyone else who thinks this is cute. We put forks in things to find out if they ARE done, not to indicate that they are done. Stop saying that. You (Judge M) already look like a nitwit for losing your temper at odd moments. Don’t add to it with unacceptable phrases.

So those are mine. I’m sure there are many more. I probably have a list somewhere, but my desk is piled high with other important notes that I’ll never be able to find when the time comes.Surely you must have a few. Let’s hear them!

A parting thought that reminds me of a door sign I saw as a child, and have never been able to forget:

“If you call when we’re not home,

Leave a note and we’ll atone.”

So leave a note and I’ll atone. Which reminds me… if you haven’t seen “Atonement,” see it.

But I digress.

Happy New Year!