Million Dollar Babies

Welcome back! My gift to my followers today is a quick holiday mini blog post from jan:plainandsimple.

Since one of the more recent traditions our extended family has adopted has been to celebrate Christmas over the weekend following the 25th, I realize this idea is late for most of you. I prefer to think of it as an early suggestion for you to consider implementing in 2021, primarily if you are interested in downsizing and simplifying your holiday gift-giving, your budget and your lifestyle. This little trick just might be worth a million bucks! My personal goal is to retire in less than two years at age 62, and not a minute later!

A few years ago, as our family tree branches began expanding exponentially with great nephews and nieces who were inherently blessed with nearly everything they could possibly want or need, I welcomed the opportunity to adopt a creative new tradition that has  made gift-giving much gentler on my wallet, yet still enjoyable for the smallest recipients on my list.

Instead of simply tucking $20 bills inside a stack of money cards, I began gifting them each a million bucks.

It’s simple and painless and you can do it too, and I’m here to show you how easily it is done.

I make it a point to hit up Dollar Tree very early in the season, usually even before Thanksgiving, and grab [in my case] eight of the pictured chocolate bars designed to look like $1,000,000 bills. I buy a multi-pack of eight holiday “money” greeting cards there, as well. My nieces and nephews were considerate enough to stop at this perfect even number, which makes this project even plainer and simpler for me. At least I believe they are all finished, but we’ve had some very well-loved surprises before!

 Now it’s time to get creative with tiny bows, festive stickers, candy canes, etc., which you will use to decorate or personalize your envelopes. Some years I have included a box of Russell Stover miniatures. We aren’t talking about the cheap faux chocolate here. You would be surprised at the brand names most Dollar Trees carry, especially during the holiday season. The $1,000,000 candy bar itself is no slouch in the quality department.

This simple change has made it possible for me to continue to present each of my “greats” with a little gift from “AJ,” rather than simply discontinuing my gift giving to them altogether. They know they haven’t been forgotten and, after all, it is that thought that counts. From my personal experience, I can attest that not one of the bigger kids has ever seemed disappointed and the younger ones were pleasantly oblivious to the change. Plus, well — chocolate !!! 

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of the gift opening at our growing family gathering, the kids were often overwhelmed, overstimulated and unaware of what they received from whom. There was often a mom or dad heard asking, “Did you remember to say thank you??? Hey, who gave ______ the ______ ???” There was also the very real potential for the cards, envelopes and contents to inadvertently become wadded up and tossed among the crumpled piles of wrapping paper. 

Now there is never a doubt who gave each one of them a million bucks — every single year! Nor is there a doubt which ones demonstrate self-restraint versus who tore into theirs immediately, thanks to the telltale signs of a sugared up tot with evidence of chocolate in the corners of his or her mouth.

I hope my solution shared in today’s blog is beneficial to any of you who may be experiencing a similar issue, providing you with a seamless way to save a few hard-earned dollars while continuing a long held tradition. My greats know they will receive the real deal — legit, authentic, legally tendered currency — in their birthday cards, which is much friendlier on my budget since their birthdays tend to be spaced out throughout the year — well, at least they were until they started arriving in pairs. [Good morning, Kyle and Andrea!]

Merry Christmas to the Talada / Williams / Haines / Platukis / Greer clan. Sending peace, love, light and chocolate from your favorite and great “AJ.”

And a belated Merry Christmas to all of my jan:plainandsimple followers. 

My prayer, wish and greatest hope is for a kinder, gentler 2021 — for all of us. Blessings, peace, love and light to you and yours.

Plain. And. Simple.

They say you can’t go home again.

A warm welcome back to my jan: plain and simple blog. It seems like forever since we crossed paths here on blogger.com, although I have published a few video blogs in the meantime. I’d love to learn to link them to this site to enable one-stop-shopping.

We’re all familiar with the old adage, “you can’t go home again.” 

I discovered a few weeks ago that the tired cliche is spot on ... or at least it was in my case.

Last month, fate led me to drive past the original Haines Homestead: the place where we brought our brand new baby home, once upon a time. To simplify matters, this would be the house before the house before the house we live in now. We purchased it as newlyweds in 1986 as our first fixer-upper; I sold it twelve years later to begin a fresh start. We had indeed slowly “fixer-uppered” it over the years and every wall was transformed with carefully selected paint colors and wallpaper, each window adorned with hand made curtains and drapes. It had slowly evolved into an inviting, warm and pretty house.

Before walking out the door for the last time, I left a tear-stained envelope on the kitchen counter holding a welcome letter to the new owners, along with information about the home’s history I had  learned from my frequent visits with our 80-year-old next-door neighbor, a lonely bachelor with whom I frequently bartered plates of leftovers for his generous supply of  neighborhood legends. Included in the package were owner’s manuals for everything from the garbage disposal to the new automatic thermostat (which I gave up trying to figure out after the brains of the outfit moved out in 1995). On the day of our closing, I took one last walk-through to create a time capsule on videotape. I have never viewed the tape. We had moved on.

We promptly moved into our large Victorian in Athens, where I  would spend the next fifteen years pouring blood, sweat, tears and every penny I could pinch into restoring another home. Despite knowing that this five (later six) bedroom home was simply way too much house for just the two of us, and that the home I had just sold was the perfect size for two, I had dreamed of owning this big, charming home since my aunt and uncle had purchased it 30 years before, and was thrilled for the opportunity to buy when they generously offered me first refusal. It was an awesome place for my son to grow up, with seemingly endless spaces to explore (and wallpaper, and clean, and heat) and a big back yard just begging for a in-ground pool. When my son graduated high school and left for college, I closed off the second floor and moved downstairs. The upkeep and taxes, however, were more and more difficult for a single mom to manage.

I made the decision to downsize, finding myself in 2013 as the owner in a much smaller house. I love this home’s location, living out of town while staying just within the borough limits. I have wide-open spaces, situated between two empty lots, some awesome neighbors, and quite literally LOL when I open my tax bill. This house had everything my last home lacked — new roofing, siding, furnace/central air, replacement windows, my first garage — and it is always warm and cozy. There are no sidewalks to shovel, less lawn to mow, and I have never missed the maintenance of a pool that remained empty much of the time after my son and his friends had grown.

Despite this home’s many pluses, I have not had the time, energy or finances to add my personal touch, finishing only three rooms in five years. The all-white kitchen, where I spend the vast majority of my time creating big, sloppy, colorful messes, is the bane of my OCD existence and I long for the wonderful kitchen I left behind.

But back to the story that inspired this blog post.

After discovering the “for sale” sign in front of our first house, I was unable to get it off my mind. I remembered how convenient it was to live one block from the hospital, a five minute walk from door to door. I could see the big new bathroom my contractors had built not long before I had decided to sell. I pictured my elegantly wallpapered bedroom and the coordinating curtains I had left behind. But I was mostly haunted by the memory of bringing our perfect newborn baby boy home to his picture-perfect nursery. I had a clear picture in my mind of how pretty the house was the day we left, 20 years ago, and how accomplished I had felt, having literally left my mark in every room.

Having become consumed by the possibility of returning to the house that held so many treasured memories, I contacted a real estate agent, recruited a couple very dear friends, and scheduled a tour of my former home. I prepared them and myself for the possibility that our adventure might prove to be an emotional one for me. Immediately upon walking through the door, standing in the entrance hall, my best attempts at stoicism proved fruitless, as I became overwhelmed with more emotion than I had expected. Where my friends saw a simple open staircase, I vividly saw my little boy excitedly peeking through the white balusters to see if Santa Claus had magically visited while he slept. I saw the hardwood treads I had discovered by carefully pulling up an inconspicuous corner of the ugly green carpet that had hidden them. I could hear my former husband telling me that he had driven around our street corner after a long day to discover piles of carpeting lining our curb and was “afraid to come in the house to see what you’d done now.” I saw myself carefully scraping black glue in an effort to restore the steps to their former glory. I recalled him asking me how we were expected to go up to use the bathroom or go to bed with wet polyurethane on the stairs, and his shock that in spite of my usual spontaneity, I had taken the time to think something through [for once] and had finished only every other step to avoid stranding us downstairs for the night.

I was unable to will the tears to stop and the insightful agent put her hand on my shoulder and quietly announced that she and my friends were going to step into another room “to allow you a few moments alone with your memories.” As our tour of the first floor resumed, I realized that twenty years and three subsequent owners had erased all of my personal touches and [in my opinion] their attempts at so-called home improvement had backfired.

A quick glance down the basement steps revealed little change over the years. The laundry area remained, along with the old workbench — the unlikely place where I had escaped my hyperactive toddler every Tuesday evening to reload shotgun shells for his dad’s following night’s skeet shoot. I shared with the other three ladies how I had won my argument that it only seemed fair for me to steal a couple hours’ peace down there each week while he bonded with his son above me. The rules were concise and steadfast: I was to be interrupted only in the unlikely event of traumatic amputation, profuse bleeding, respiratory arrest ... or if I heard the familiar sound of his fire department’s tones come over the scanner. It probably seems like an odd bargain to others, but it was a win-win for us. I found the repetitive task therapeutic and looked forward to my time alone in the dungeon.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, I shared with my friends that revisiting my son’s nursery would likely be the most difficult part of the tour for me. It wasn’t. I felt absolutely no emotion as I stepped into a room that bore no resemblance to the room I had insisted we precisely replicate from the pages of a Robinson’s wallpaper catalog. Bright red [ugly] paint covers the pastel green wallpaper and coordinating border, the whimsical geese apparently having migrated. In a nightmarish redecorating theme, the two remaining bedrooms had been transformed with more paint, poorly applied over my floral wallpaper. The only recognizable room was the bathroom, frozen in time, down to the burgundy pinstriped curtains I had hung more than twenty years ago. It was glaringly obvious the curtains had been washed but not pressed, and I mentally high-fived myself for my apparently indestructible early sewing efforts.

I announced to the other three that I had seen enough, thanked the agent for facilitating my trip down memory lane, and apologized for wasting her time. She graciously reassured me that she did not view it that way at all, and understood completely that this was something I needed to do. Before leaving,  she gently inquired whether my husband had passed away. When I shared that we had long been divorced, she said she had made her assumption because, “you speak of him so fondly.” I smiled and explained that was part of another deal we had negotiated for our son’s sake, and that I honestly wouldn’t have had anything negative to say even if we hadn’t struck that deal.

I said my goodbyes — to both the real estate agent and the house — and my friends and I celebrated the fact that I had finally found closure of that era of my life with a wonderful lunch date full of laughter and funny stories.

Want / Need / Wear / Read -- A plain and simple gifting mantra.

A warm welcome to my jan: plain and simple devotees as well as to those who may have stumbled upon my blog by accident. There are no coincidences. The Great and Powerful World Wide Web led you here for a reason. Come in. Sit down. Get cozy.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

As we count down the days, I hope you will make an effort to escape the short-fused shopping crowds, stir up a batch of hot cocoa, surround yourself with your favorite people, fire up the classic Charlie Brown Christmas DVD, bask in the glow of the tree, and ponder the true reason for the season.

I beg of you.

Please.

Take a lesson from me.

You see, somewhere around thirty years ago, I unwittingly sold my soul to Martha Stewart, giving her the power to spoil for me what should be the hap, hap, happiest season of all.

The domestic maven brainwashed me [and zillions of others] into believing I wasn't worthy of the homemaker slash wife slash mommy title without attempting every idea nestled between the covers of her monthly magazine. I dutifully displayed Entertaining on my hand stenciled checkerboard coffee table, redecorated two homes entirely around her line of trademarked paint colors, slumbered between her highest quality thread counts and adopted her cookbook as my brunch building blueprint.

Convinced that the familiar mish mash of brightly colored and curly cued piles were passé, one December found me distributing dozens of brown paper packages tied up with strings. A year later our gifts were transformed within black and white newspaper print and red ribbons.

Every. Single. One.

And they did look kinda, sorta cool and classy and they no doubt garnered oodles of oohs, aahs, and refrains of, "Ohmygoodness! Why, that's just too gosh darn pretty to open!"

But there was a price to be paid.

I trimmed soap opera caliber Dickinsonian trees. I presented fabric lined baskets of home preserved jellies, jams and miniature bread loaves. I jute-tied handcrafted oatmeal soap bars within hand loomed cotton wash cloths, stitched up pair after pair of novelty-printed boxers, fleece pajama bottoms and sweat suits. My nieces received adorable calico dresses, complete with coordinating collars, pinafores and petticoats. I cross-stitched samplers and monogrammed towels for friends, knitted slews of scarves for coworkers, appliqued my son's primitive artwork onto pillows for his grandparents and painted, glazed and kiln-prepped Old World Saint Nicholas figurines every Tuesday night.

I decorated dozens [upon dozens, upon dozens, upon dozens] of sugar cutouts and doily lined plates of carefully hand dipped chocolates. I hosted old-fashioned cookie exchanges, ladling mulled cider and hot vanilla from crocks and sending each of my guests home sporting their very own parting gift of a handmade holiday apron. I hand labeled mason jars of chai tea and "microbrewed" Irish Cream liqueur, sealing the pretty recycled bottles with corks and colored wax. I bought a booth at our hospital's annual Holiday Bazaar, handing over hundreds of microwavable field corn-filled heating pads.

I strung miles of dually purposed garlands of popcorn, cranberries and dental floss, allowing our tree to service hungry birds as it patiently awaited curbside collection. I sent scores of greeting cards, tucking cheerfully hand-written notes and customary school photographs within envelopes neatly addressed in calligraphical script.

And a partridge in a pear tree.

Virtually every recipient on my list could expect something, "Created especially for you by Janet H*****," as my personalized sew-in labels would attest. These labors of love were more often than not accomplished in the wee hours of the morning, after my very, very busy toddler had finally konked out and the capital budget proposal for each of my departments was neatly filed in my briefcase for the next-day's presentation to the board of directors.

Yep.

 I guzzled that mauve-shaded, It's a Good Thing, kool-aid by the gilded vintage bucketful.

My Sweet Lord!

That version of me doesn't sound very free-spirited or fun-loving, does it???

Nope.

That weary lady was more accurately described as a one hundred and ten pound, soaking wet, nervous wreck.

And somebody forgot to present her with her hard-earned trophy.

Now ...

My agenda for taking you along on that ridiculous, albeit non-fictional, journey down memory lane was never intended to promote Martha's teachings, techniques or torture. Nor was it an opportunity to brag or an attempt to make you feel inadequate.

Au contraire!

I told you that story to tell you this story:

The litany of  martyrdom represented above only served to stress me to the point of utter exhaustion, underlying resentment and sheer dread as each holiday season approached, an emotion exponentially compounded with each passing year. The real meaning of Christmas for me became lost amid the chaos commencing the day after Thanksgiving and only ending with the homily delivered at Christmas Eve midnight Mass.

Sadly, Martha's eager prodigy evolved into a grumbling, Grinch-esque woman with the inability to enter a department store without real threat of hurling should Andy Williams' These Are a Few of My Favorite Things stream overhead. Despite years of debriefing, I remain to this day absolutely incapable of sitting in front of The Hallmark Channel and the only holiday inspired music you will hear playing inside my home is the classic Elvis Christmas Album. Just because he's Elvis.

And I go through the motions.

And I look forward to the twenty-sixth of December.

Every. Single. Year.

I elected to take full advantage of this arena to issue an important and timely warning to my blog followers, the young moms and budding homemakers especially:

PLEASE DO NOT TRY THIS AT [your] HOME!

Trust me when I assure you your recipients will soon forget those picture perfect stacks of white butcher paper covered boxes and precise teal ribbons.

Heed the free advice of an older and wiser white haired former SuperSingleMom:  Slow down, scale back, simplify and savor the season.

If you are the type [like me] who requires a written guideline, I encourage you to follow this Pinterest popularized gift giving edict, reminiscent of a much less materialistic era.

Give each of your children four items:

Something they Want; Something they Need;  Something to Wear; Something to Read.

My ten-year-old great-nephew accepted his mom's threats to adopt that sensible mantra at face value --  and the dude was actually pretty cool with the concept.

If only someone had shared that philosophy with me about three decades earlier.

You. Are. Welcome.

So, I encourage you to create priceless memories with your family and friends. Give your children the gift of lighthearted laughter. Sing off-key carols while molding molasses popcorn balls or placing the perfectly imperfect finishing touches on the gingerbread house you created.  

Together.

As a family.

That's the image I carry in my heart of my own childhood.

And I would give anything at all for that to be the way my son remembers his.

But no matter how hard you try, you will never get those years back.

Plain. And. Simple.

Sooooooo  ...

This Friday evening will mark a brand new tradition at my house, as I play hostess with the mostest to my two oldest greats, Caleb and Shane, for a stress free, fun filled, no rules, anything goes:

 Great Aunt Jan's First Annual Christmas Shopping Slash Sleepover Extravaganza!!!

And we shall weave our way through the toy aisles of Walmart, singing nonsensical Alvin and the Chipmunks songs. We shall cruise in the clown car with the express purpose of appreciating the sights and the sounds of our town's most ambitious outdoor decorators. We shall snack on everything from raw cookie dough to gobs of frosting to festively shaped pancakes. We shall watch movies and play BINGO all night long and sleep all day, if that's what we feel like doing. Just because we can.

And I absolutely and positively cannot wait!!!

I wonder if the boys will notice the absence of a traditional Christmas tree in my new little home. The three giant individually themed trees I showcased in my old Victorian have become further and further downsized to the tiny, shiny, jingly, silvery tabletop trio I unearthed on a recent thrifting expedition with two of my most favorite ladies.

I wish each of my blog followers a Blessed Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyful Kwaanza --  or whatever holiday it is that you happen to observe.

And if you choose not to celebrate any of these, I wish you peaceandlove.

Plain. And. Simple.

  

Full disclosure: We all are a little broken.

Welcome to my jan:plainandsimple blog. Today's topic has a more serious tone than my last couple of posts. But my message is one I hope you will find interesting, meaningful and helpful.

Soooo, here we go ...

I'm not exactly sure how to begin today's entry. I have typed a few words, changed my mind, backspaced, retyped, erased, and started over.

Literally. Dozens. Of. Times.

When I started my foray into the world of blogging and created the ABOUT ME section, I promised to share whatever happens to be going on in the corners of my mind or world on any given day. My first two entries seemed to flow effortlessly and spontaneously out of my mind, through the ends of my fingertips, to the keyboard, onto the page, and into cyberspace. I was on a roll, or so I thought. I had no way of knowing at the time that only a few days later my creativity would be nearly impossible to tap into. As hard as I tried, my well of positive energy appeared to be dry.

So I took a blogging break.

I was committed to keeping my posts positive, upbeat, humorous and entertaining. After all, who in their right mind would want to visit a blog that was dark, depressing and deep. Anyone interested in wallowing in sadness, badness or negativity need only tune into any of the 24-hour news stations. I had no desire to perpetuate that vibe.

But truth is truth and facts are facts and if I want to be taken seriously as a blogger, I feel that I owe my followers the courtesy of pure honesty and full disclosure. I only wish I wasn't writing this entry quite so early in my blogging journey. I hope it will not turn any of you away or alter your opinion of me.

But here goes ...

I happen to be one of the 5.7 million Americans who suffer from bipolar disorder. I have never hidden or been ashamed of that fact. On the other hand, I certainly don't meet somebody for the first time, walk up to them, shake their hand and say, Hi, I'm Jan and I have a mental illness. That would just be weird.

It is no coincidence that I entered the field of mental health. As is the case with many who share my profession, my career appeared to me as more of a calling than a choice. I was diagnosed at the age of 40, following a severe depressive episode requiring hospitalization. I won't bore you with details of the circumstances that precipitated my first admission. I dedicated many years to learning how to chalk that phase of my life up to experience, taking away only the pieces I believed I could benefit from to hopefully avoid making the same mistakes and continue moving forward.

In an effort to better understand the cards I had been dealt, I took my first college psychology course. Eight years and many credits later, I literally danced across the Lackawanna College Auditorium stage waving my hard-earned degree in the air and blowing kisses to my family and friends.

I made a commitment to paying it forward and giving back to those who might benefit from my personal experience and education. I joined the very team of professionals who had saved my life and encouraged me to set new goals and emerge on the other side -- happier, healthier, stronger, and with an empathic approach to helping others. I have worked in the role of psychiatric technician and behavioral health assessment specialist [which is really just a fancy term for crisis evaluator] for the past nine years.

And I can honestly say I love my job [most nights] and the rewarding fulfillment I derive from quite possibly making a therapeutic difference in the lives of others.

I pride myself on being high functioning --  holding down a full time(+) job, meeting family commitments and homeownership responsibilities, nurturing many valued friendships and juggling a myriad of hobbies and outside interests. I strive for excellence in nearly everything I set out to do.

So, what's the problem?

Every now and then -- despite my best efforts, despite my compliance with medications, physician appointments and healthy sleep hygiene, despite possessing knowledge and education in the field of mental health, despite being fully capable of facilitating group therapy sessions or counseling others on everything from developing healthy coping skills to goal setting to assertiveness to self-love to relaxation techniques to developing a strong support system -- my organic mental illness smacks me HARD right in the face.

And that's exactly what happened to me last week. I got smacked.

Pretty. Darn. Hard.

Not as hard as I have in the past, thank God, but hard enough to hear my bipolar disorder screaming, Hey, Miss Smarty Pants, you aren't Superwoman. You can't be everything to everyone and not expect to have a price to pay. I didn't see it coming, nor can I pin down exactly what triggered this episode.

So I tried to disappear.

Yep!

Despite all of my training, education and experience, the only thing I could think of doing was hiding my car in the garage, locking my doors, turning off the lights and isolating to my bed until the darkness passed. I unplugged from Facebook, from my brand new blog, from my family, from my friends, from work, from the world. Counterproductive, much, Jan ???

I began feeling defective, weak, damaged, pitiful and  insecure. I felt worthless, hopeless and helpless -- those three adjectives that flash like neon lights on a crisis evaluator's radar screen. Make no mistake, I never wanted to die. I just wanted the energetic, happy, perky old Jan back -- the one who laughs way too loud and way too long at the most inappropriate times.

I felt ridiculous and embarrassed for feeling so low when my life is actually relatively pretty darn good. I felt guilty and self-indulgent, knowing that so many others, both within and without my circle, are facing more dire and serious illnesses, hardships, losses and life circumstances.

Fortunately, my family, my friends, my coworkers, my healthcare providers and my hungry cats made it very difficult [impossible, actually] for me to disappear for long. I am one of the luckiest people on earth. I realize this! With a tweak of my meds, some rest, my amazing support system and my faith, I actually woke up this morning and thought, Here comes the sun. And I say, it's alright. Now, admittedly, that may have had a little something to do with the fact that I was dreaming about The Quiet Beatle, but, hey -- whatever gets you through the night.

So, what is the moral of this blog entry???

Hmmmm ...

Well, if there is one take-away, I guess it would be that we all are a little broken, and that's okay! Allow yourself to go ahead and feel whatever it is that you are feeling. Embrace it. Accept it. Even wallow in it briefly, if you must. But, don't push away the people, the support, and the resources that are out there and available to you. And I hope you will allow me to be one of them!

If you've read all the way to the end of this blog entry, then I want to genuinely thank you, SO, SO MUCH, for allowing me to lay all of my realness out there -- and for your continued support.

Peaceandlove.

My soul sister, my simple chicken pot pie recipe, and a myriad of useless collateral information.

Welcome back to jan: plain and simple. Fancy meeting you here! Come on in, sit down, put your feet up, get cozy!

Isn't it kind of funny ("odd" funny, not "ha ha" funny) how one random event leads to another -- and the next thing you know you have the inspiration for your second blog entry? That, my friends, is what I call kismet.

What isn't funny ("ha ha" funny, not "odd" funny) is when you spend nearly two hours coming up with a complete, multi-paragraph, fairly witty (if I do say so, myself) post and then accidentally bump a mysterious keyboard button with your bony elbow, sending all of that genius and creativity smack dab into the center of the Twilight Zone. Yep ... that just happened!

Late last night I received a text from my soul sister, who is actually my niece, Alison, requesting my chicken pot pie recipe. She mentioned that she was at work, making out her weekly grocery list -- which leads me to the conclusion that the baby birthing business must not have been booming in the Elmira / Corning area last night. Ali is a Labor and Delivery RN, who is pursuing her midwifery certification -- which blows my mind since she is also supermom to three very busy young children. In all fairness, she has an awesome (even if he does refer to me as a "bleeding heart liberal") husband who is a hands-on dad, as well as a high school math teacher and aspiring principal. The math teacher part further blows my mind, since I never learned my "12s" times tables until the age of 27, when my former husband accidentally discovered my dirty little secret one day when we were figuring out the square footage of our old 12 x 12 kitchen. He refused to accept my simple explanation that, "I got lucky and never happened to get that flash card in Mr. Soprano's fourth grade math class," and proceeded to create his own set of flash cards, pop quizzing me relentlessly until I finally succeeded in committing them to memory -- true story; I swear I couldn't make this stuff up! (To his credit, it has proven to be quite useful knowledge to have for occasions such as estimating fabric yardages or converting a psych patient's height measurement to inches for documentation in EPIC. So thank you for that, Hainesy!)

But, let me get back to Alison -- she's much more interesting. The mere fact that she chose to enter the field of nursing at all is a bit ironic, since she was the kid who hurled all over the kitchen table in the middle of Pumpkin Carving 101, when her father would reach in and pull the slimy, orange innards out of their soon-to-be jack-o-lanterns. Now, I've only been in a delivery room once; my vantage point was not the best, and I was a bit preoccupied, but apparently pumpkin guts rank higher on the "nasty hierarchy" than whatever all that stuff is that comes flying out of a woman during the birthing process, since she has since handled a fair number of Southern Tier stork deliveries like a champ -- go figure!

Ali and I share a special bond, that unexplainable kindred spirit sort of connection. Growing up, the poor girl had to endure almost constant comparisons to her Aunt Jan whenever her zest for experimentation and pushing the boundaries would land her in some 1990s version of hot water. I had somehow unwittingly blazed the trail for her two decades prior and it was as though she was following in my foot prints via some mystical road map through adolescence and into adulthood. According to her mom (my sister) and my mom (her grandma), we were both the kind of kid who, if born first, would remain an only child. She turned out pretty darn amazing, despite her reliance on that inherent internal "badass" compass. She celebrates uniqueness and shares my Bohemian style and free-spirited nature -- a hippie chick born in the wrong generation. And every so often, fueled by a combination of Red Cat and perfect celestial alignment, we have been known to comprise a pretty awesome Janis Joplin tribute duo with our raw but energetic rendition of Me and Bobby McGee. Na na na na na na na na na.

And speaking of mysticism (I don't believe in coincidences), I'm pretty sure I never told Alison this, but way back in the seventies, shortly after growing out of my, "I want to be Joe Solock when I grow up" phase, I also had aspirations to become a midwife with the altruistic goal of operating a group home for unwed mothers. It's probably not a bad thing that I ended up veering away from those ambitions, since unwed mothers of the new millennium are more likely to find themselves featured on a popular MTV program than sent away to live in a gestational boarding home.

I'm pretty sure Alison believed I was joking last night when, after providing her with an outline of the ingredients she would need to add to her Wegman's shopping list, I sent a follow-up text saying that I would post the full recipe on my new blog --  or at least that's how I interpreted her response of, "Ha Ha!" Little did she know that she would unwittingly become the subject of my second blog entry.

At the risk of ridiculing The Amish Cook, I will share my chicken pot pie recipe below, although I am almost embarrassed to reveal how quick and simple the recipe really is. This dish is pretty darn delicious and will make people believe you spent much longer in the kitchen than the few minutes prep time actually required.

So ... without further ado (whatever that means), I give you:

Jan's Chicken Pot Pie

1 package folded refrigerated pie crusts (2 crusts)
1 jar chicken gravy
1 can cream of chicken soup
3 cups cooked chicken, cubed
1 package (16 ounces) mixed vegetables, thawed
1 egg, beaten
seasoned salt, to taste
black pepper, to taste

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Unfold one pie crust and place in 9-inch pie plate, pressing crust firmly against plate.
Mix the gravy, soup, chicken, vegetables, dash seasoned salt and dash pepper.
Pour into the crust and place the remaining crust over top.
Trim and pinch the edge to seal crusts. Brush the beaten egg over top.
Sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper, if desired.
Cut slits in top crust to vent.

Bake for 40 - 45 minutes, or until crust is golden. Allow to cool 15 minutes before serving.
*** Cover crust edges with foil strips or use a pie crust guard to prevent overbrowning.

It doesn't get any easier -- or any tastier --  than that. Shhhhh! Don't tell The Amish Cook!

If I was feeling particularly ambitious, which I am not, I would bake up a sample and snap a photo to include with today's blog entry. Instead, I will simply share a photo of my soul sister and myself (or is it "my soul sister and me?") captured a few months ago at Hippiefest 2015.

So there you have it, folks! A blog entry which includes an embarrassing personal revelation, a delicious comfort food recipe and an inspirational message of hope for the moms and dads of all those high-spirited rebel chicks out there. Not bad for free, huh???

'Til we meet again ... Peaceandlove!

Holy, Hannah ... You found me! Welcome to my blog, jan: plain and simple.

Well, this is pretty darn cool! If you are reading this, that means you were successful in finding my brand new blog:  jan:plainandsimple. I'm excited about my latest journalistic endeavor and warmly welcome you in on the ground floor to follow along. As my blog grows and evolves, you will have bragging rights to say,

 "Hey, I knew her when!"

 

  Since I have already spent most of the afternoon and evening setting things up, building the ABOUT ME section, which I encourage you to take the time to read, and barely getting my toes wet when it comes to learning my way around the world of blogging  --  the terminology, the rules, the various styles and the purpose and mission of developing a blog to begin with  --  I pretty much blew all of my creative energy for one day. I promise to come up with something to share with you tomorrow that I hope at least some of you will find interesting, humorous, helpful or entertaining.

 

Oh, and just in case you were wondering what on earth possessed me do this to begin with -- well, I have had several friends encourage me to start a blog. Plain and simple. Actually, I've even had a few people tell me that I should write a book. Now, whether they were just humoring me or blowing smoke, or whether they actually think I have something worthy to offer, I am not sure. What I am certain of, however, is that I am not usually at a loss for words or opinions, some more popular than others. I am also certain that my limited attention span is not likely to allow for me to complete a project as large as an actual book, so this is my way of taking a baby step.

 

 So, what if I don't get even a single follower, you may ask? Well, at the very least I consider this to be a way of journaling -- and journaling can be a very effective therapeutic coping method (blah blah blah) that most of us could benefit from, as I remind our patients on a daily basis.

 

So until tomorrow, my dear friends, sweet dreams ... and  peaceandlove!

 

Oh, and please be sure to leave me a comment, even it is just your first name  --  so I know whether I am sitting here talking to myself (not that there's anything wrong with that)!