I don’t normally have ‘aha’ moments, so when I finally realize my long time assumptions are completely out of whack, I’m blown away. Nope, did not see that one coming. Here’s a few I’ve been saddled with, some for most of my life.

1. I love quesadillas. Shannon taught me how to make them years ago when Tracey was Jackson’s basketball coach. He’d invite the team over for supper and Shannon would take the kid’s individual orders. I make them at home, nothing fancy because I’m not a very adventurous cook. Tortilla shell, buttered side down, covered within an inch of the edge with shredded cheese, seasoned chicken, green onion, yellow/orange pepper, tomatoes, (I add jalapeños on the Hubs’) more cheese and another tortilla, buttered side up. Once the bottom is sufficiently brown is where the problems stem.

After 20 years I should have learned how to flip these suckers but I can’t without making a mess. I’m careful not to get ingredients too close to the edge of the tortilla and bought a spatula as wide as my ass, yet I’ve never flipped one without losing 25% of the stuff I want to keep inside, plus thoroughly messing up my stove. I should buy one of those bolt on lidded frypans like the waffle irons at hotel breakfast buffets. But I’d only use it once a month and my kitchen cupboards are full. Besides I’m Dutch and kinda tight.

2. My bladder’s capacity and holding power has not changed since I was 35. Ha, I wish. Nuff said.

3. I’ve never been a good sleeper. Gospel truth. But since I hit 50 (menopause) I can count on one hand (with fingers leftover) the number of nights I’ve slept really well. Yet once a week I’m so full of Jiminy Cricket optimism I’m shocked after I tossed and turned all night. Again. This day occurs after I’ve stripped the bed and put on crisp, clean, ice cold sheets. “I’m gonna sleep so good tonight!” Twenty years have passed without one night of sound sleep, yet I remain hopeful the one day a week when the sheets are fresh I’m gonna have a great night’s sleep. Bunch of hooey.

4. My timing mechanism may be off. I’ve always been a list maker. It’s how I get chores and errands done. I’ve never changed the time limits on these tasks since I was in my 30’s. Say I’m making a big bowl of potato salad. I know how long it takes to cut up the veggies (I add a lot of them, don’t judge), cook the spuds and boil the eggs. What I haven’t changed is how long this actually takes me now. I assume it takes me as long as it did in 1980. Hahaha. I used to spend a good share of an afternoon, now it takes me 2 days. Cook the eggs and cut the veggies one day, the next day cook potatoes and mix up the dressing. Two days. Two.

5. After my parents joined a church during the early 1950’s, (I was 2) both congregations where they belonged had fellowship twice on Sunday, so I literally grew up going to church every Sunday night. It wasn’t a big deal because most of my friends were (begrudgingly) taking up pew space too. Truth be told, I liked RCYF (Reformed Church Youth Fellowship) which was held before and during part of our night service. When our youth meeting ended, the church service upstairs was on the cusp. The sermon was just about to start. We’d form a line and trudge (sorry God) up the steps. We passed one of the entrance doors but not many of my peers dared venture through it. Everyone of our parent’s heads were turned, each waiting for their kid to file in. I was rebellious but savvy enough to know what hell on earth I would be entering if I snuck out before the service was over. It just wasn’t done, especially if you had any plans for the coming week or month, because you’d be certainly be grounded.

The night church thing became a serious issue when The Beatles entered my life. The foursome openly declared they desperately wanted to ‘hold my hand.’ Our appointed rendezvous during Ed Sullivan on February 9th, 1964 was a bust because my head was bowed during the (not very sincerely) long prayer for their first live performance in America. My folks would not let me skip church that night. My life was never the same. I’m still bitter.

6. Not quite done with the whole Sunday night church thing. Besides missing The Beatles debut, word near the water cooler at school on Monday morning’s revolved around another Sunday night show I was missing every week. One of the best on TV. A western called Bonanza. A show I couldn’t watch until we eloped in 1969, so the series had been on for a decade.

A couple of week’s ago I asked Hubs to look for the old Bonanza series so I could finally catch up on some of TV’s best during the 1960’s. What a riot! I’ve only watched the first 5 episodes and Hubs warns me every time I start giggling. “Show some respect. You can’t laugh at the Cartwright’s.” Really? It seems like everyone hated those four guys, with the possible exception of Hoss. I thought they were this wifeless, motherless sad sack bunch just trying to get by in a cruel world. But they owned most of the world and everyone else resented them, at least in the beginning. The music is hysterical when something ominous is about to happen. But I’ve promised to watch the first couple seasons with the assurance that the series does get much better.

That’s it for my latest list of myth-conceptions. Stay tuned for ‘The Myths-teries’ about some of the odd things that make me feel old…