After having spent the last several weeks of summer trying to lose weight — forgive me if I brag a little, but it actually worked — you can imagine how annoyed I am to see candy sprouting up like dandelions in the spring.

It haunts me at the checkout at the grocery store, makes me sick to see it at the drugstore, and tempts the bargain-hunter in me with those two-for-one deals at the dollar store. It’s free at the dry cleaners. Maybe they’re hoping you’ll drop a Milk Dud on your $150 pair of greige linen slacks, necessitating additional business for them. At the gym, there are bowls of Tootsie Rolls, free for the taking. Don’t they realize eating this candy will add rolls to their clients? Wait, of course they do . . .

I would just as soon the Halloween holiday be eliminated. Banish it from the calendars. Outlaw the dang thing! Nothing kills a diet quite like it. (You do know what D.I.E.T. stands for, right? Did I Eat That? Because, let’s face it: scrawny celery and carrot sticks, skinny chicken breasts and quinoa don’t exactly satisfy, especially when your tummy is growling and you can’t remember if you ate or not.)

But the retailers and stores are bound and determined to trick (not treat) us into submission, especially with those enticing, brightly colored, cute-as-buttons, fun-sized bags of candy. They seem so innocuous. How many calories can there possibly be in a handful of those darling little Milky Way bars? Let me tell you: a lot more than you think. 

The other thing that gets me is the annual onslaught of those darned specialty candies like marshmallow circus peanuts, candy corn (did you know they make peanut butter cup, caramel macchiato and s’mores candy corn now?), orange yogurt-covered mini pretzels and Hershey’s white chocolate candy corn bits chocolate bars.

If I don’t buy them now, I tell myself, then I’ll have to wait another whole year to find them again. This screwy reasoning of mine also says it won’t hurt to buy a bag of Skittles and some more Milky Ways while I’m at it.

Halloween is nothing but a money-making scam. If you don’t believe it, just look at the shops that pop up in late summer and sell strictly Halloween items. That said, I do love to decorate my house for the holiday. I don’t go all out like some neighbors and string black and orange lights, plastic skeletons and spider webs in the front yard. But I do put out my stacked orange pumpkin statue with the black hat and slap a big orange bow on my door wreath.

 And, truth be told, I finish off my decorating with bowls of — yep, you guessed it — candy. I guess I’m a sucker for Halloween after all.

 – Ann Ipock

Author of Life is Short, But It’s Wide; Life is Short, So Read This Fast; and Life is Short, I wish I Was Taller

As Mother Teresa used to say, ““Give, but give until it hurts.” I discovered what that means when, just the other day, I pulled a passion vine root out of the ground to give to my sister, Cathy, who wanted to plant it in her own yard. She was standing nearby when I trudged through my English cutting garden, through the god-awful red mulch (dang our H.O.A.), to the beautiful vine in question.

I searched through the tender, new growth and found a baby root coming up from the trunk of the mother plant. Aha! Oh yeah, baby! This is going to be simple, I thought.

Upon closer inspection, however, the baby was connected to a very thick root. I can do this, I thought. I knelt down, careful my knees didn’t touch the razor-like mulch. I took a couple of deep breaths. Then, using all my strength, which isn’t insignificant, I pullllllled on that sucker like there was no tomorrow. For reasons I’ll never understand, the imposing root, which resembled a small stick and seemed quite attached, popped off easily and immediately.

The sheer centrifugal force knocked me backward, slamming my body down hard against Mother Earth. I’m sure it looked like something you’d see on America’s Funniest Home Videos. I’m still surprised that I didn’t do a backward somersault.

“Oh, no! What can I do?” Cathy asked, trying hard not to laugh.

“Well, for starters, you could help get me up OUTTA HERE!” I said, sprawled flat out in the flowerbed. But in order for her to help me, I had to try to meet her half way. Either that, or a gurney would be needed.

I carefully rubbed my hands together to brush off the mulch, a million tiny potential splinters just dying to stick in me. Then I managed to get myself into a squatting frog position. Cathy tugged, but I fell backward, laughing. I made it up on the second try, and we rallied excitedly with our prized twig. (Was it just my imagination, or did she in fact search my hand for the plant before searching my body for injuries?)

The next day Russ and I went to church, then brunch, then Walmart whereupon my sweet hubby bought me the kind of gift that warms a gardening gal’s heart: a 125-foot, heavy duty, no tangle garden hose. I’d rather have that than jewelry, honey — in the summertime, that is, when I’m actively gardening. In the winter, I’d prefer a Caribbean cruise and a nice piece of jewelry before debarkation.

We came home and Russ hooked up my hose, which I used to water all my new plants — a Japanese fatsia, ginger lilies and Mexican petunias from Cathy’s yard. Next I went to the grocery store, came home and cooked dinner. All was well.

But about 7:30 that night, an inexplicable, mysterious pain came over me that intensified with each breath — a crippling burning in my chest, under my arms, my ribs and back. It was excruciating. Since I’m a former medical transcriptionist, I know how doctors rate pain: 1–10. Mine was 100!

Twenty-four hours later, I’m on the mend, but not unscathed. You see, I had to tell Russ what happened, which bruised my ego, but at least he didn’t get to see it. The pills that the doc gave me resulted in a 16-hour deep sleep. I’m still sore, but thankfully I didn’t break any bones. Perhaps passion vine is adequately named, because my passion for gardening is still here. In fact, you could say I’m bowled over by it.

– Ann Ipock
Author of Life is Short, But It’s Wide; Life is Short, So Read This Fast; and Life is Short, I wish I Was Taller

Have you ever felt like you were living in “The Twilight Zone?” I once spent eight days there, from Sunday to Sunday.

I went to Raleigh to help my sister Nancy. She was preparing that week for her son Huck’s wedding. I thought I’d calm Nancy’s nerves, run errands, cook meals and even (so out of character for me) clean her house. Russell, my hubby and naysayer, often says, “No good deed ever goes unpunished.” He might be right.

For starters, it was hot as Hades that week. Even a supposed cool splash in the pool was unnerving. With zillions of kids swimming around me amid warm water, one thing came to mind. So I jumped out, preferring to sweat off my Bain de Soleil poolside in a blasting-hot vinyl chair. That night my feet were burned. Upon inspection, they resembled bubble wrap, blistered from the scorching concrete. And I developed a cold sore the size of Cleveland above my lip.

I also watched our granddaughter, Madison, two days for Kelly. One morning we walked (but mostly sweated) around the neighborhood. The next day I drove her to My Gym for classes. Okay, I admit I was half asleep at 8 a.m. – that’s early for me – when we left the house. Hours later Kelly fussed at me for sending Madison off in her pajamas. What can I say? They looked like regular clothes to me: a colorful top and matching capris. This Grammy Gram thing is tougher than I once thought.

Nancy and I made repeated trips to craft stores, party stores, wedding shops and stationery shops where I clutched the coveted list that we continually added to. Once, after leaving the craft store for the fourth time in two days and jumping into Nancy’s car, I screamed, “The list! It’s missing!” Nancy nearly slung me out of the car, turning around on two wheels while landing squarely on the sidewalk. The frightened clerk must have sensed my hysteria as she joined my buggy search, consoling me with, “Don’t worry, honey.” It was no use. The list was gone. I found it later inside the car and held it tightly in my sweaty palm until bedtime.

For the rehearsal dinner, I had picked out a favorite dress a week earlier. But Katie forgot to pack a dress. Flying in from a summer music festival in Sewanee, Tennessee, she had only concert attire. Thankfully Nancy’s neighbor, Bethany, offered to lend her something.

At the airport, I swooshed Katie into the bathroom and helped her quickly change into the wrap-around, mint-green linen dress with no buttons or zippers and only a sash to tie. Easy enough. She looked beautiful, thought I noticed the hem lining was showing. No matter, I thought, rushing through the airport and out to our car.

We arrived at the club just as the rehearsal party began. Bethany’s shocked face revealed the problem, “Katie, your dress is inside out!” Moments later, I was the one surprised, saying to Nancy, “Did you know you have on two different earrings?”

The next day, even more wedding-related blunders surfaced. The air conditioning in the church wasn’t cooling well. Therefore, the bride, groom, and all attendants (20-some in all, in tuxedos and black and white satin gowns) were sweating bullets. I wanted to cry – from emotion, empathy and heat.

And at the reception, there was another slip up: a bridesmaid’s zipper split wide open, exposing her entire back.

Later that evening, the bride and groom left for a motel an hour away, planning to fly out at 6 a.m. the following day for Cap Juluca, Anguilla. Nancy went home and collapsed onto the bed when the phone suddenly rang. It was Huck. “Mama, I forgot some luggage. Can you drive it over now?” Without hesitation, Nancy did so, therefore stretching the limitless theory, “that’s what moms are for,” to the limit.

It’s no wonder I was eager to get home on the eighth day, hoping for some normalcy. No such luck. Our car died a mile from home, resulting in the purchase of a new alternator. I think maybe we need a new life?

– Ann Ipock
Author of Life is Short, But It’s Wide; Life is Short, So Read This Fast; and Life is Short, I wish I Was Taller