Post-Holiday Roundup

I always have mixed feelings after Christmas.

There is so much build-up to the big day that on the night of December 25th, I feel a little sad. The presents have been opened, the stockings have been emptied and in a matter of days our little Christmas tree will be heading back down to the basement for another year in the dark.

Christmas 1966 with my brother, Paul

On the other hand, I won't have to listen to yet another rendition of Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas is You. So there is an upside to the departing holiday.

When we were growing up, I always thought New Year's Day was the saddest of all holidays. That's when we took down all of the Christmas decorations. My mom was big into the big day, so there was a lot of undecorating to do. In addition to removing ornaments and icicles from the tree, my job was to pick pine needles out of the carpet. When I was older, I had to use a razor blade to scrape the fake snow from the windows, then Windex them. I would grumble all the way, knowing all I had to look forward to was the start-up of winter term at school.

I think that's why I don't go crazy decorating the house. It's just too sad taking it all down at the end.

It would be a lot easier to take if we didn't have three more months of winter weather looming ahead. Mr. Ginley deals with this by crossing off the days between January 1st and St. Patrick's Day (which is the first day of spring as far as he's concerned).

I hunker down and make plans to curl up in the easy chair to read and do puzzles.  And dream a little dream of warm spring days and fragrant flowers.

In the meantime, I'll check to make sure we have plenty of rock salt. And hot chocolate.

And I'll count my blessings that I was able to spend the holidays with my family. They can count their blessings that January 1st will be spent watching football (and the Capitals play in the Winter Classic), not taking stuff down.

Happy New Year!

A Merry Little Christmas Wish

Every year, Mr. Ginley and I seem to struggle more and more with what to get each for Christmas.

What usually happens is...I get him a couple of books and I buy myself a few things and put them under the tree. In reality, there's not much either of us wants at this point in time. And, after all, the funds are coming out of the same pot. So buying stuff just to buy stuff seems silly.

In the past, we've focused on our son, showering him with games and clothes and stuff. But now, being in college, his needs are mostly the monetary kind. (Gift cards are a godsend.)

So, I buy little somethings for my copy team at work, and that's about as much shopping as I do. And I sewed a little this year. But no big stuff under the tree.

We talked about it this morning, Mr. G. and I, and we came to the conclusion that what we really want this year is to spend Christmas Day together, just the three of us. We're not going to sit around holding hands and singing Kumbaya or anything. But maybe I'll drag out some version of Charles Dickens' Christmas Carol. Or I'll watch some football with the boys. We'll sit around in our sweats and chow chocolate Santas and yack about not much at all.

I hope all of you enjoy the Day in your favorite fashion with those you hold dear.

And that, my friends, will be the real gift.

Happy Christmas!

Everybody Wants to Be My Baby

I opened my Yahoo mailbox this morning and saw that it was chock full of people who want to be my new best friend forever. Or at least until Christmas.

One-time purchases have put me on these mailing lists until the end of time. In many cases, unsubscribing is useless. Now that I'm in their clutches, they will stalk my email account forever. Bwahaha!

Stephanie's Shawl

Fortunately, I have the power of the delete key. That giant red "X" is my real friend.

Oddly enough, in spite of the glut of emails this holiday season (or maybe because of), I've been making a few of my holiday gifts. For some unknown reason, I've actually taken a liking to sewing and have been stitching up a storm.

I'm not the first in my circle to do so. Stephanie has been my inspiration. She's done it for years. At the master level in the art of crochet, she once made me a shawl that is flawless and beautiful. (See photo, right.) She's also given me hot chocolate mix and bath salts featuring some of my favorite scents. These have been some of the coolest gifts I've received, the ones made by hand in a labor of love. Also reigning supreme in my heart have been the cards I get from my husband and son, hand-written and illustrated with love and great humor.

As for me and my sewing projects, not to worry. I will confine my less-than-masterful efforts mostly to family. They come from the heart but will never be mistaken for store-bought. I'm also doing more local shopping this year than I have in the past. It feels good to support local artists and merchants.

In spite of my ramblings here, yes, I have bought goods on the internets. There's no getting around BarnesAndNoble.com. There's no substitute for a great book. And there's just some stuff you can't find in a store.

So, yes, I'll be getting those emails forever. 

And waiting for the discount. And the free shipping. Before I make my move.

Bwahaha!

Moving Right Along

My cubicle was like a reverse clown car yesterday.

I thought I had just about everything packed, but stuff kept spilling out of it. Old art boards with layouts from the website we launched eight years ago. Photographs from holiday parties long past. A 2005 calendar with cool pictures.  A dozen old magnets stuck on the side of a cabinet and forgotten.  A smattering of paper clips and push pins. Bobblehead dolls that were giveaways from some long-forgotten sporting event. Pictures of my son going back to babyhood. Matchbox cars (including, I am proud to say, the Monkee-mobile and the Partridge Family bus). And so much more.

It was moving day. And a moving day. I bade a fond farewell to the space I'd occupied for many years.

Over the course of the last week or so, I'd been sorting through my files. Some I shredded, others just pitched. And kept the ones I absolutely had to.

Then there were the catalogs and direct mail samples I've been collecting since 1990. Fortunately, I was able to store those temporarily in a file drawer in my old neighborhood until big file cabinets can be moved over.

Our new area has a lot less room for storage. This is actually a good thing, at least for me, because I tend to fill the space where I work. The more room I have, the more crap I accumulate.

Thinking back on this past week makes me wonder about our house and what's going to happen when we move. My original idea sounds better and better all the time: Tell the new owners that everything in the house is theirs, take only the personal items that can't be replaced, and start over again in the new abode.

In some ways, I will miss the old digs. But our new offices are awesome. I have a window seat (something I've coveted ever since those long car rides to Lima with my two sisters -- I had to sit in the middle seat with the hump at my feet). 

The ability to look up and see the outside world is great for maintaining perspective.

And my plants will be happy, too. 

Now all I have to do is unpack on Monday morning.

Time to start up the clown car!

Life Among the Dust Bunnies

I can still vividly recall, during the holiday festivities at my house, when my mother ran her finger across the top of my furniture, turned to me and gave me "the look."

Sheepish, I shrugged and said, "Oh well."

Yes, I've always been the master of comebacks.

Once upon a time, I emulated my mother. I arose every Saturday morning, did my grocery shopping, and proceeded to give the place a thorough going-over. I spent several hours vacuuming, scrubbing and dusting. I kept up this ritual for years.

Enter husband #2, a beautiful Saturday in Virginia, and his insistence that the dust would be there long after we had left this earth. And if we didn't get out there and enjoy the day, we'd regret it.

Admittedly, it didn't take much convincing on his part.

Over the years, I've cared less and less. The kitchen is a priority. And the bathroom. But the dust bunnies I don't worry so much about.

In a world far, far away I also used to care about the clutter. It didn't accumulate the way it seems to these days. That's what I thought, anyhow, until I pulled out an old photo of my desk from J.B. Robinson days circa 1986 and saw the papers piled all over it. I guess I'll never be labeled a neatnik. Oh well.

Fortunately, from time to time, Mr. Ginley tires of the clutter and ruthlessly plows through piles of stuff, tossing and filing and organizing.

"Do you really need all these receipts? Look at this one! It's for lunch at Piada six months ago. Are you planning on returning that meal?"

But then, He is the master of pamphlets. Whenever we go on a trip, he returns with a pile of pamphlets about places we will probably never visit. He often endures the stares of the Visitor Center Nazis as he clears out their stock. 

But I digress. If digression were an Olympic sport, I'd win the gold every time.

I'm sure there is a balance between being a slob and being obsessively clean and tidy. That state of grace is unlikely to find me in this lifetime.

Sometimes I imagine how my mom would react to all of the chachkas that have appeared around our home in the last few years.

I only wish she could be here now to give me "that look."

Mr. Sandman

Last night, Mr. Ginley woke me up to tell me about his dream. I'd hit him in the head with a flashlight. The details weren't clear. Why would I do such a thing? Was it metaphorical? Was I trying to enlighten him.

I didn't spend too much time pondering. I made my trip to the bathroom and trooped back to slumber some more.

This morning, as I debated whether to leave the confines of my warm, cozy, bed to write my blog, he woke up and announced I'd just shot him. Why? Apparently, my response was, "Because I wanted to." He expressed distress and pointed out that it hurt. He said I was nonchalant about the whole thing. "Did I shoot you just once?" I inquired. Yes. Well, then I guess he didn't do anything terribly heinous to provoke me. Was I just in a cranky mood? Did I shoot him just for snoring? Who knows.

Maybe it's just a cautionary tale not to keep guns around. Or flashlights.

There have been many books written about the meaning of dreams. They help to explain some of the more common ones. Like flying. Or arriving at school/work, looking down and realizing I've forgotten to put on my pants. But the books aren't a lot of help with many of the weird images my brain conjures up in a night.

Much of the time I dream about work. I've spent hours proofreading or agonizing over a missed error. The odd thing is, while the people are the same, the setting varies. In many cases, I'm in a huge building with several floors and banks of elevators, and I never seem to get off at the right floor.

Then there is the dream that I'm at my high school, but I don't recognize the layout, and I wander like Moses through the desert to find my Earth Science class. There is a test that day, and by the time I find the right room, the test is over and I've flunked.

Very occasionally, I will have a really cool dream. When I was little, I saw my grandfather in one of these, walking up and down steps in a heavenly setting. (I sure hope this doesn't mean the afterlife is like being stuck on a Stairmaster for all eternity.)

There was also the time when I had the white light dream. All around me was amazingly peaceful and calm. At the breakfast table, I spoke about it, and my dad very nonchalantly told me he'd had the same dream. That's one I wouldn't mind having again. I like waking up calm and relaxed, instead of stressed and worn out.

If my subconscious wanted to be really helpful, it would dream up the winning numbers for the next lottery.

It's not going to happen, of course. But sometimes it's nice to dream!

Getting Hammered

It seems incongruous for one who spends so little time on home repair projects to want to hang out at the hardware store.

Sure, Mr. Ginley and I will troll for the stuff he needs. Last Sunday, we had to pick up some glass for windows he's repairing. We got what was required for the job, then browsed for awhile, him musing aloud, "I know we needed something else from here, I just can't think what it was."

This time, it turned out to be more light bulbs. So Lowe's became my lunchtime destination on Monday.

My first stop was the light bulb disposal unit. Now that we have CFL's with mercury in them, they have to be properly pitched. So...as directed, I wrapped each little body in a plastic bag and sent it down a chute to hang with all of the other burned out bulbs. It made me a little sad, wondering if there was an analogy there to my retirement.

But I digress.

I found shiny new bulbs to take the place of the old ones and was about to turn around and check out, when I decided to stroll around a little, just for yucks.

Growing up, hardware stores were neighborhood affairs. We had one in our neck of woods until a couple of years ago. Those stores were packed floor-to-ceiling with tools, parts and home repair products of every kind. The cool thing was, you could walk in, hand the guy some gewgaw, and he would have you wait for a minute, then return with a replacement gewgaw. The guy was magical, like a resident Harry Potter. You swore he went in the back room and conjured the thing up. How could he possibly have a replacement part for a screen door that was made in 1926?

Today, we have super stores like Lowe's and Home Depot. They're certainly large. And they have lots of stuff. Maybe too much stuff. In spite of the vast selection, it seems to be more difficult to find exactly what you're looking for. I haven't figured out why this is, it doesn't make sense. But, time after time, I go in there looking for a specific item, and they don't have it. Sometimes I'll luck out and Home Depot will have it. But that requires a second shlep.

And, while sometimes I do enjoy just walking around those places and marveling at all the stuff and imagine someone using it to create something wonderful, many times I just want that part for my aging screen door.

But, I suppose that's the business model, to get you to roam the miles of aisles, to buy lots of stuff you hadn't planned on getting, dreaming of projects that will ultimately be completed by some local guy you find on the internet.

Lowe's knows!

Cooking with Gas

I still remember my biggest cooking flub.

The recipe was my mom's (for spaghetti sauce) and I was a young bride (20 years old), married to husband #1 (whom Mr. G. refers to as my practice husband.)

Anyhow, back to my embarrassing story. The recipe called for a cup of instant coffee. So, I trotted out my Taster's Choice and a measuring cup and poured out a cup of instant coffee grounds and dumped them in the pot. Hmmm. Something wasn't right. A quick phone call to my mother confirmed that I was supposed to make a cup of coffee. The sauce was ruined, I was in tears, and we probably ate out after that because I was too distraught to make anything else.

Anyone who tells you that being a good cook is simple and all you have to do is follow a recipe is full of shit. I'm sorry, but it's true. My grandmother had plenty of recipes, including one for "milk pie." The thing is, I watched her create this concoction, and she didn't measure anything.

"But Grandma, the recipe calls for a cup of milk, and you just poured a bunch in. How do you know that's a cup?"

To which she would reply, "It's just the right amount. You just put in the right amount."

Needless to say, I've never been able to duplicate her milk pie. I've come close, using a recipe I found on the internet, but nothing that really nailed it.

When I was a young lass, Home Economics was a required course. I don't even know if it's still taught in schools. That's where I learned basic cooking and baking skills, including how to measure. I also learned valuable lessons like turning off a mixer BEFORE you lift up the beaters. (Thank you, Holly, my fellow 7th grade student.)

Cooking is an art, and if you consider stick figures and finger painting art, I suppose you could say I'm a cook. Mostly, I make the same recipes I've gathered over the years, the ones that have been deemed acceptable by the Food Approval Committee (aka Mr. Ginley).

One day, I was lamenting to my husband that I'm not a very adventurous cook, that all I can do is read a recipe and put all of the necessary ingredients together. He pulled out my recipe file and pointed to the stained, wrinkled pages. Most of them had notations, adding, deleting or substituting ingredients or altering cooking time or method.

Maybe I got a little something from my grandma after all!

The Oldest Kid on the Block

When did I go from being the youngest person at the office to being among the oldsters?

It's like I woke up one day with cataracts, creaky bones and one unanswerable question on my mind: "How did Justin Beiber become a celebrity?"

I knew I was really out of the loop when I was reviewing material at work last week and one of my co-workers had to explain to me that there really is a "Movember" (Mustache + November). Who knew?

  Admittedly, in some ways I have been left in the dirt as the world moves forward. But, like the old fogey I am, I hold out a certain pride that I can say...

1. I am still able to sing all of the lyrics to the Patty Duke TV show theme song.

2. I enjoyed Beatlemania the first time around.

3. I learned to type on a manual typewriter, and I was pretty good at it. Also, I can still work a 10-key calculator. And balance a checkbook (manually).

4. I understand printing fundamentals because I learned the process before everything was automated. (Although, admittedly, I don't miss mechanicals with type that shifts/falls off and I do like the ease of making corrections.)

5. I grew up with the giants of Saturday Morning Cartoons. Including Bugs Bunny, Wacky Racers and Fat Albert. (And Rocky and Bullwinkle are still awesome.)

6. Although I understand (mostly) modern technology, I can appreciate their predecessors...a la vinyl, black and white photographs and ballpoint pens.

7. I know I could use my wits to survive without all of the amenities that have become de rigeur over the last 20 years. Because I survived before. (Although, admittedly, I would miss the Google.)

8. I get shopping malls. And why it was fun to shop at Pentagon City Mall at 3:00 on Christmas Eve.

9. I knew the joy of snarfing Cocoa Krispies and guzzling Coca Cola with all the real sugar and none of the background noise about childhood obesity. (I was so busy running around the fat couldn't keep up.)

10. I get why books and magazines and newspapers that you can hold in your hands are tactile bliss.

Well, I see by the clock on the wall (okay, on my computer), that it's time to wrap this up. No more allusions to old people stuff. So I'll just gather up my bones and shuffle off to Buffalo.

Oops, I did it again!

Tricks or Treats

Okay, I'm going to lapse into "old-geezer-speak" for this one.

In my day...trick or treating was about the kids.

There were not a lot of adult parties or dressing up in costume at work. It was about children dressing up in (mostly) homemade costumes and trolling door-to-door for candy. Every year the urban legends were dusted off and repeated...stories about people putting razor blades in apples and poison in popcorn balls.

Me and Medusa.

Here is how it rolled in our house.

A week or so before the big day, we decided what we were going to be for Halloween. The choices were limited. We had a box of stuff my mom kept, odd masks and old clothes. The basics were: witch (me for several years running), hobo, ghost, devil and pirate. We had a couple of scratchy plastic masks with slits for eyes, nose and mouth, that held onto the head with an elastic string. But my mom did not go out and buy a new costume every year. And we used old pillow cases to collect the loot. Or our book bags from school.

There were a few times when the costume restrictions were lifted. One year, my sister was Medusa in a school play, and she wore the costume my mom made to trick-or-treat. (The downside was, no one could guess who she was.) One year I wore an old suit of my dad's and was Groucho Marx. But that was in high school, and I didn't trick-or-treat, so I'm not sure that counts.

One of my favorite snapshots from our childhood is of my brother, Paul, sitting at the kitchen table surveying his loot, still dressed in his devil costume. 

The upshot is, Halloween was fun. Mom carved the pumpkin, stuck a candle in it and placed it in the front picture window. My folks turned on the yellow porch light and handed out candy while we did the hunting and gathering.

We walked through our neighborhood, and, when we were older and had more stamina, we trolled farther afield, onto the streets of the slightly more affluent, although the pickings weren't necessarily better. There were some houses you made certain to visit to because they had a reputation for good stuff, and others you avoided because the people were just mean about it. And you only went to the houses that had their porch lights on (which is still de rigueur). 

One of Mom's creations.

The night was fun, the candy plentiful, and we ate until Mom put the kabash on the feeding frenzy and made us brush our teeth and hit the sack.

When my son reached the age when trick-or-treating was appropriate, either I or his Dad took him out while the other handed out the goods. We called a halt to trick-or-treating when he hit the teenage years. There has always been controversy over this, some people feeling there should be an age limit, others not. But we've always held the belief that the night is for little goblins, not surly teenagers who wear tee-shirts and jeans and thrust a bag at you and growl menacingly.

These days, we can't have bags of candy around for health reasons, so we don't participate. I miss it, but I don't miss the day-after guilt of having ingested one-too-many Snickers. I do make up little goodie bags for the neighbor kids, just because.

I still like the idea of trick-or-treating. I suppose one day, Halloween celebrations will be reduced to parties at school or at the local rec center and that will be it. Because parents are afraid.

Oh well.

I'm going to end my ramblings with the last stanza from my favorite spooky poem, oft read aloud by my sister, Denise, which used to scare the crap out of me (especially when she got to the last line, which she acted out to great effect). It's by James Whitcomb Riley, and it was written in the late 1800's. It's called Little Orphant Annie:

An' little Orphant Annie says when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parunts an' yer teachers fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns'll git you
  Ef you
     Don't
        Watch
           Out!

Word Nerd

I have this weird habit. I'll be talking to someone, and I'll see a sign or a box or something behind them, and I'll automatically take the words and read them backwards.

Why do I do this? I have no idea. It's something I've done for years, a habit. Most of the time I don't even know I'm doing it.

It's just part of my obsession with words.

Everywhere I go -- on the street or in restaurants or, sometimes, in the ladies' -- I read signs or menus or messages scrawled on stall doors. I critique the writing, the flow of words, the placement. Is the type too big? Too small? Is the spelling correct? Is the grammar spot on?

I know this is more than an occupational hazard. It's a little bit nuts.

At home I work on puzzles. I unscramble. I crossword. I jigsaw. Keep the puzzles coming. I say it's to keep my mind sharp, and I hope they do improve my brain power.

But honestly, I just get a kick out of words. Even malapropisms. Even the word "malapropism."

Or "bloviate," which is ironic, because I realize that's what I'm doing right now. Right here at 1:22 a.m. Because I can't sleep. Because the words are filling my head, spilling over in their attempt to come together in a meaningful way.

Yet, I suspect when I read this at a more reasonable time in the morning, I will wonder what possessed me. Was it the spirit of Noah Webster?

I wish it was Oscar Wilde.

Or Dorothy Parker.

Who aptly quipped, "A girl's best friend is her mutter."

You and Me and Leslie

"Who's Leslie?"

I wondered for years. Every time I heard the song, Groovin' by the Rascals. Then, out of the blue, I realized they were singing, "You and me endlessly groovin'." What a maroon!

There are plenty of examples of times when I've misheard lyrics, or simply could not understand them, so I hummed or added the wrong word. These days, through the miracle of the Google, I can look up a lyric I don't understand.

Sometimes, that is difficult to do when I can't even figure out the title of the song. Some bands are notorious for naming their tunes based on no particular lyric. One day, I had this conversation with my husband:
 Me: I heard Led Zeppelin on the radio.
Him: Which song?
Me: The one where they're singing something like "your distant eyes."
Him: Not helpful. What did it sound like?
Me: (Humming badly)
Him: I have no idea.

I know I'm not the only one who gets the lyrics wrong. According to legend (or the internet) the song In a Garden of Eden became In a Gadda da Vida, when the latter title was written on the demo tape by a drunken(?) guy in the studio. A record company executive thought it sounded all Eastern philosophical (very chichi at the time) and kept it.

And those of us who came of age in the 1970's remember the lyric in Blinded by the Light as "Wrapped up like a douche" instead of "deuce." (Well, okay, maybe that one was intentional.)

Speaking of intentional, there are many of those, too, created after listening to the same song over and over. My friend, Peggy, and I started doing this after playing Steely Dan's Royal Scam album about 500 times. "Luckless pedestrians" became...well, you get the idea.

Mr. Ginley is the master of lyric-changing -- who knew "Schrimpf" rhymed with "nymph"? -- as well as mixing and matching tunes. I will have the songs Mandy and Fernando inexplicably intertwined in my head for the rest of my days.

So much of the music we experience is heard but not listened to. It's everywhere...in stores, at work, at sporting events. And even when I've made a conscious decision to put in a CD or listen to iTunes, much of the time I'm only hearing on a subconscious level while I'm doing something else.

I guess music really is the background of our lives. I wonder what my theme song would be. I like to think it would be something along the lines of, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun or Born to Run.

But I suspect it's more like, Still Crazy After All These Years.

Confessions of a Crystal Junkie

I'm not sure when my love of crystals began. I think there was a hint of it when, as a kid, I would stare deeply into marbles, searching for the secrets of the universe.

Flash forward several years to when I started working for a jewelry company. Then move ahead a bit more to when I took a course and became a guild gemologist. All along I had a fascination with crystals and gems, but the interest didn't really get going until about a year ago.

I found a little store in Lakewood. That's where my real obsession began. They have an assortment of crystals and a list of the properties associated with each. My first acquisition was a quartz, which they made into a necklace for me. I wear it every day now, it's my personal talisman, a reflection of me.

Hematite soon followed (for protection), then the floodgates opened. Now I have a nice assortment of crystals whose mission is to soothe and protect and bring enlightenment. A lot of people will roll their eyes and think I've gone all woo woo. Well, maybe I have.

In the last few months, I've visited the gem and mineral collections at both the Smithsonian and the Cleveland Natural History Museum. They call to me in dulcet tones, their colors, their textures, their vast history.

And carrying the crystals, holding them in my hand, brings me comfort. If you can find comfort in anything in this tricky world (and it doesn't harm you or others), I say, go for it.

We have an errand to run in Lakewood today. Hmmmm. I think I hear another crystal calling my name...

Peek-a-Boo

Funny thing about the internet, it feels so cozy, it can lull you into a false sense that it's just you and your computer. You forget that, unlike writing a little something in the privacy of your home, you might just as well be sitting in front of a camera in your underwear.

It's good to remind yourself that web crawlers and spammers and cookie droppers and other odious types are out there, trying to capture your soul. Then spit it back at you in the form of phrases such as, "you may also like..."

Twenty hits from France and twenty-one from Romania. Really? Are they interested in my having tea with my husband? Or working at the cat shelter? What do they want, and why are they tracking me?

Maybe I shouldn't care. After all, I'm not selling state secrets or planning a coup. I talk about my little life in a little corner of the world. Harmless stuff.

And yet I wonder what the connection could be.

I've never been to France. I don't speak French. And I don't like Jerry Lewis.

As for Romania -- could there be a Schrimpf or two (or 21) living there? I'm told that "Schrimpf" is as common a name in Germanic countries as "Smith" is here.

There's really no point in dwelling. So I'll just continue to post and try not to think about the lurkers.

I'm just going to make sure I'm fully dressed when I sit down in front of my computer!

Tea for Two

It's funny how you hear a song all of your life, but you don't think about the words. Tea for Two was written in 1924 for the musical No No Nanette.

The idea is a couple (presumably married, although it's not called out in the song), imagining their life together without the distraction of friends and relations.

"We won't have it known, dear
that we own a telephone, dear."

Yes, even back in the day, folks wanted to fall off the grid, at least for a little while.

Which, back to the title of this rambling piece, was what Mr. Ginley and I did this past week.

We got dressed up and went out for tea.

There's a little place called the Emerald Necklace that overlooks the MetroPark. It's decked out in Victorian style, with lots of little gewgaws. Mr. was a tad uncomfortable at first, but, as he said, "A promise is a promise." So he bravely soldiered on.

He had said many months ago that he would take me there for tea for my birthday. We've passed the place a million times, and I hadn't been to tea since my trip to London in the early 1980's.

So there we were, Thursday afternoon, and the place was empty except for us. But it wasn't weird, just cozy. We decided to go for it, and did the High Tea, which is the works.

To the strains of Nat King Cole, we were served a little glass of chilled hibiscus tea with a lemon wedge, pink sugar lining the rim.

The deal is, you get two pots of tea. We chose to split two varieties. The first was a vanilla chai, the second a caramel rooibos, which we learned is pronounced "roy bus" and is actually red bush tea, popular in South Africa. (Precious Ramotswe is fond of the brew, for all of you who are fans of the #1 Ladies Detective Agency series.)

Back to our story...

The first course was a salad, presented in a tall glass, sprinkled with almonds and tossed with strawberries and other yummy extras, and ready to be topped with a fruity dressing, possibly a raspberry vinaigrette. We both enjoyed the salad.

The next to arrive was a wedge of quiche and a two-tiered plate with an assortment of breads, scones and sandwiches. Yes, there was the traditional cucumber sandwich. Plus chicken salad and egg salad. Bill wouldn't go near the cucumber sandwiches, but he gamefully finished the quiche, which is not his thing.

Last to arrive was the dessert plate. Little petit fours and macaroons and such. Bill passed on the coconut but sampled everything else, even the cheesecake.

The ceremony of the tea itself was a big part of the experience. Mostly, I played "mother" and poured the tea over the strainer. It's amazing how much better a real pot of tea tastes. And I drank it with steamed milk, which I don't normally. And with sugar cubes, although when I asked Bill if he wanted one lump or two, I couldn't get Bugs Bunny out of my head.

Altogether, we were there for nearly two hours. And we couldn't believe it was that long.

Time was suspended, as we sipped and nibbled and yacked our way through the food, which seemed like a lot at the time, but collectively wasn't really that much. The tea is what fills you up, I think. That, and the conversation.

Who knew that a couple of old married chuckleheads could share tea and talk and avoid  the distraction of phone calls and texts and other intrusions from the outside world? Just tea for two and two for tea.

Can't you see how happy we could be?

Right of Way

Year after year, the Canadian geese keep coming back. This in spite of the guy with the dog and the motorized mini boat whom they hired to chase the geese from our ponded shores.

In an act of defiance, the large fowl strut in numbers through out parking lot, emitting loud, throaty honks and leaving behind a trail of green goo. They have been known to hiss menacingly at passersby. While I believe that yes, they are a nuisance, there is an underdog part of me that believes they have just as much right to be annoying as we do. Presumably, they and their kind were there first. As were the field mice, ground hogs, chipmunks and other critters that turn up from time to time.

There has been a lot of grousing in the news about the deer population. The latest solution is to hit them with paint balls. While this would certainly lend a certain color to the neighborhood, I'm not sure it would be much of a deterrent. "Oh look, Henry, there's that green deer we shot yesterday."

I suppose that's the way people are. Not just with animals, but with each other. First, we find a patch of land we really like, then we chase the inhabitants off said land, until there is nowhere left for them to go. When they fight back, we exterminate them. That's how we roll!

I don't know, maybe coexisting just isn't in our DNA, even in today's "civilized" society. If you need evidence, all you have to do is head to a busy shopping center and hang out in the parking lot.

Let he who has not felt a shiver of triumph at beating someone else to the best parking spot cast the first stone!

Taking a Trip

Some would call Mr. Ginley a pessimist. "Look down," he always says. "Watch where you're going."

Me, I'm always looking up at the sky. Or the squirrel in the tree. Or other things.

Him: "You didn't see that guy jogging over there, did you?"

"Icing" my injury...

Me: "The one with the nice tan and glistening pecs? Nope."

But I digress. There are times when it pays to look down rather than up. Yesterday, for example. While waiting for the coffee to brew at the Starbucks at work, I stepped onto the patio to enjoy a little sunshine. A nice reprieve, I thought. I forgot about the 12-inch drop in the pavement. I didn't go down, but I did manage to twist my ankle enacting a series of maneuvers no foot likes to perform.

Ouch.

For the next several minutes, I sat breathing, hoping it would be one of those times when it hurts like hell for awhile, then you stand up and shake it off.

No such luck.

I hobbled back inside. The barrista, oblivious to my escapades, eyed me with concern. I wasn't limping when I walked in the first time. After explaining my mishap, she handed me a bag of ice. I fetched my coffee and hobbled off. It quickly became clear that this pain wasn't going to go away anytime soon. So, off to the infirmary I went.

My caregiver took a peek at my ankle, confirmed it was swelling up, and took my information about the accident. Did I want him to call an ambulance? No, I was humiliated enough, thanks anyhow. He told me I should get it checked out. I signed a paper and took another form to complete later. Then he handed me a couple of ice packs, and I continued the hobble back to my desk. There, I elevated my foot, and was forced to depend on the kindness of my co-workers to deliver my job jackets for me.

It's funny how, once you're injured, you appreciate all that your body does for you. I never thanked my feet properly. Oh, sure, I bought them new orthotics and most of the time I wear sensible shoes, but I still take them for granted. All that walking, and what do they get? A lot of work and not a lot of appreciation.

So, I'd like to propose a toast: To healthy feet. Here's to you, for being there every step of the way, in rain, sun and snow. Despite frostbite and bunions, corns and callouses, you take me where I need to go. And, especially now, I am grateful for your service.

Soak 'em if you got 'em!

Making Lemonade

My husband and I always tell our son that someday he will have enough material to write a multi-year sitcom.

To date, we are certain he has at least a year’s worth of scripts.

Tapping into genes he’s acquired from both sides of the family, our son has the ability to turn minor disasters and other unhumorous situations into comedy gold. This is a must-have if you aspire to be a good writer. Which he does.

We just hope that when he looks back on his years of indentured parental servitude, he is able to forgive and, if not forget, at least to make sculptures from the wreckage.

As much as we want our parents to have all the answers, the inevitable day comes when we realize they were just human, too. And that they, in turn, had their own ghosts to wrestle with. My father, in an unusually unguarded moment, once told me, “Compared to my dad, I’m stupid. My dad was a genius.”

Over time, and with the gift of hindsight, I’ve been able to see my mom and dad as adults. I know there are things I would have done differently from them. But I also know we’re all doing what we can. I wouldn’t trade my folks. It wasn’t all shits and giggles growing up, but I’ve learned no one, if they’re honest, gets through childhood unscathed. And sometimes you just have to let it go.

Or make it funny.

Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. 

For the Love of Cats

I was trolling the internet one evening in search of a volunteer opportunity. My kid doesn't need me much these days, and I've been feeling that whole, "what's-my-life-all-about-should-I-be-doing-something-more" thing.

The verdict? Cats.

Thanks to the Google, I was able to locate a no-kill shelter nearby called "Purr-fect Companions." A few quick emails later, I was on my way to becoming a volunteer.

The shelter is located in a house where most of the cats roam free. There are two special smaller rooms where a handful of felines reside for either health or personality reasons. The owner walked me around the place and introduced me to the residents. Each one has a story. And it's hard not to want to take all of them home. Like a mantra, I repeat, "I will not bring any cats home. I will not bring any cats home."

So far, I've managed admirably. I go there, scoop the poop, help Rose clean a little bit, and then hang out with my new buds. It's important for them to have human interaction and play time.

The funny thing about volunteering is what you get back. I know it sounds corny, all that stuff about getting more than you give, but, at least in my case, this has been true. Spending time with my new-found friends, I'm getting to know all of their personalities. Ozzie and Fran are "cling-ons." With a little encouragement, they'll climb aboard and literally hang with you until you remove them. There are the cats that don't like to be picked up but do like to be petted. And all of the residents have stories. Gabby had a companion cat who was put to sleep, then his owners moved across the country without him. Mr. Pusserkins had to be surrendered because of a change in a rental agreement. One resident, T.J., was an outdoor cat who wanted to come in, and did. (Part of one of his ears is gone -- there's a story there, too.)

The shelter is like a microcosm of life. Most of the cats are older, and therefore harder to place. People want cute little kittens, not a cat who has lived through traumas and rejection and who-knows-what.

Sometimes I look at Mabel (our cat) and wonder what her life was like before she came to live with us. She, too was a shelter cat.

There was a time in my younger self's life that I wanted to save the world. Now I'm just aiming for a very small part of it. Maybe my scooping litter and hanging out with cats won't change the course of the universe. But it does make a difference to this particular herd, who have known pain and rejection.

Hey, Arthur, want to go another round with the cat dancer?

Goodbye, Mork

We were sitting in the parking lot, waiting to pick up a pizza. Mr. G. was getting antsy, so I handed him my phone so he could see what was new on Twitter.

"Oh wow," he said. "Robin Williams is dead."

Then he said, "They think it was suicide."

I was crushed. I went inside to get the pizza. I wanted to tell the young girl who took my money, but I was afraid she wouldn't know who Robin Williams was. So I said nothing. Mr. G. was not affected all that much. He was a little sad, but he doesn't take celebrity deaths to heart. So why do I?

I know it's not like I was best friends with the guy and I'm going to miss having coffee with him or hanging out with him. It's just the idea that he's no longer in this world.

He was Garp and Mork and Mrs. Doubtfire and John Keating. Manic funny, deeply thoughtful. He touched me in ways you would not think possible for someone on a screen. What magic makes that possible? I'm getting teary just sitting here thinking about him.

Does the way he died have anything to do with it? Would it have been any less hard to take if he had been killed in a car accident or had a heart attack?

No, I don't think so. He's still gone. He won't be around to make us laugh or cry or think in that special way he had. But his work lives on, and that is something. I want to go back and see him again. Thanks to technology, I can do that.

And, while I'm at it, I'll try out the Orkin handshake. Or is it the Vulcan greeting? Did he live long and prosper? Maybe he lived as long as he needed to. And I hope he found enough happiness here on earth to prosper. From where I sit, he did good. I hope he's found peace now. And can enjoy his laughter again. 

Na-nu, na-nu.

Don't Poupon My Parade

Contrary to popular belief, the act of hunting and gathering is alive and well in modern America. Any stroll down the well-stocked aisle of your local supermarket will confirm this.

Granted, the activity has changed over the millennia, but the objective is the same: bring home sustenance for the clan. Fortunately, weapons are not required. Although I have been tempted from time to time when faced with the indecisive deli-orderer. Or the 10-items-or-less-items line cheater.

But I digress.

Shopping is a sporting activity. The object of the game is to spend less than the supermarket wants you to. Of course, we all know it's like playing blackjack in Vegas. The odds are stacked for the house. But every now and then, you find a buy-one-get-one of something you actually use, and it's a win.

One of my frustrations is the endless re-packaging of processed products by food distributors. For example, spaghetti sauce used to come in 32 ounce jars. My old recipes call for this much sauce. But now, many of the jars are only 24 ounces. Sometimes this works out, because the spaghetti noodles used to weigh in at 16 ounces, but are now 13.25 ounces. It makes my head hurt. The worst part is the feeling that the food companies are trying to sneak one by us. Attempting to make the box LOOK bigger when it's actually smaller. Understand, Mr. Big Food Conglomerate, we know what you're doing, and we don't like it.

Unfortunately, we know there's not much we can do about it, so we grumble and roll the cart down the aisle. And adjust the recipe when we get home.

Reading labels is also a large part of the sport of shopping. Do they really need to put all of that stuff in there? I sigh with pleasure when I pick up a can of kidney beans, and the only thing in it is beans and maybe a little water. Searching for carefully hidden trans fats and the dreaded high fructose corn syrup can be a full-time pursuit. I do my best, but I'm not rabid. I still let my kid eat cereal bars, I just close my eyes, wrinkle my nose and hope he gets enough good food to counteract the seemingly endless list of mysterious additives and chemicals.

When people say we have it easier than our ancient ancestors, I suppose on some level they are correct.

But there are days when I think I would rather try to nail an antelope at 20 paces than roam the supermarket in search of the food that is slowly killing me.

On the other hand, while the big plastic kiddie-friendly shopping cart that blocks my way aisle after aisle is certainly annoying, it won't kill me. It may even make me stronger.

After all, patience has always been a big part of hunting, right?

It's Nice to be Kneaded

Most of my vacation time is taken a day at a time. Often it involves doctor visits. Earlier this year, I took three days off to attend a funeral in New Jersey. My vacation time is so uninteresting, in fact, that one of the women on my staff quipped, "Don't tell me what you have planned. I'd rather imagine you out spelunking."

Well, I sure surprised her this past week when I told her what I was doing with my Friday vacation day.

It all started when Mr. G. informed me that he and our son were going to the Sports Collector's show. And that I would be chauffeuring them (to save the $8.00 parking fee). Mr. extended the invitation to me, saying that I was more than welcome to join them.

I respectfully declined.

(Artist's Re-Creation)

Instead, I decided it was time I used that spa gift card I got for my birthday (last year). So, after I dropped off the boys, I made a beeline for "The Oaks," where I received my hour-long Swedish massage. If you had told me 10 years ago that I would enjoy this experience, I would have scoffed. Now I know better. I used to be squeamish at the idea of another person working me over like a ball of dough. Especially when it involves being mostly undressed. But the weird thing is, there's nothing uncomfortable about it. Like there's this barrier between you and the one who's massaging. They are just kneading and kneading and you are needing and needing. Ahhh. The only part I'm not keen about is when she works the bottoms of my feet. Too ticklish.

Once I tipped my masseuse and depleted my gift card, I walked over to Wendy's and had a salad for lunch. Then on to Westgate to do a little shopping. Target is a wild and wonderful place. Yes, I can say that and mean it. I love what Mr. and I call "The Wonder Wall," all the little gewgaws that you don't need but must have. Like Yoda notebooks. And mini maglite flashlights. Anyhow, I managed to walk on without indulging, and got all the practical stuff I needed.

The trick is to keep your eyes closed.

To reward myself for showing restraint, I went to Panera for dessert. There I was pleasantly surprised to learn I had earned a free birthday pastry. So I got a brownie and a cup of coffee and sat outside to enjoy the beautiful weather at a shady table. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine myself at a bistro in Paris. (I attribute this to the after-effects of the massage. I was still feeling mighty relaxed at that point.)

After filling the gas tank, I decided to take a walk in the MetroParks. It was lovely but got warm and sticky after a mile or so.

Walking is fundamental.

Then back home, where I watched the very first Alvin and the Chipmunks. Complete with Clyde Crashcup and Leonardo. (That's "Crash" for crash and "cup" for cup. "Crashcup.")

After that, I was the one who crashed, until I got the call. The boys, tired but buoyed by their shopping, were ready to come home.

That's what we call a "Win-Win!"

Gifts

Growing up, birthdays were a big deal. My mom baked a cake in whatever shape we wanted and in our favorite flavor (cake and frosting). We got gifts from our parents and exchanged presents among the siblings.

Sunflowers from Pam.

One year, my brother, John, gave me an assortment of teen magazines, including Tiger Beat and 16. I was in heaven reading about the Monkees, the Beatles, Hermans Hermits, and all of the other popular groups of the time. I took out the glossy, full-color photos and stuck them on the wall. And loved them to pieces. (I still have most of them, or what is left of them.)

Flash forward several years to this past week. I received many presents. They were all fabulous...the DVD's from my husband, the odds and ends from my son, the books from Steph, the candle and flowers from Pam and the cards from my sister and Linda. The goodies brought into work by my boss and co-worker, Kim. And many, many birthday wishes on Facebook.

But what mattered most was the time I got to spend with people I love. Dinner with my family. Lunch with Pam. And the fact that people remembered my day, that they cared enough to celebrate with me. Enjoying the gift behind the gift. Now I know, that's the best part.

My Pitiful Laundrette

We could hear "Taps" playing as our washing machine officially croaked.

So, last Saturday it was off to Sears to buy a new model. Our normal approach is to do a little research ahead of time, then buy whatever the salesperson talks us into. This time, Mr. Ginley insisted I pre-shop. Using the internets, I did my smart-shopper thing, although I must confess the online reviews baffled me. One guy loved it, one guy hated it...they seemed to cancel each other out. Finally, I settled on what I believed to be an acceptable model. Then I headed to Sears Outlet on my lunch hour to check it out.

The good thing about this particular location is they are obviously not well-versed in selling appliances. Lawn tractors, yes. Washers, not so much. This was a good thing for me because I wanted to shop without a hovercraft at my elbow, extolling each machine's virtues (especially the ones over $800). In this way, I was able to locate my model and see it up-close-and-personal.

The next day, Mr. and I headed out to the Sears at the mall and were able to complete our purchase with a minimum of fuss. The guy did not try to sell us up, which was refreshing. And soon we had scheduled a delivery date and were on our way.

The downside...the machine would not be delivered for a week. And we had dirty clothes that needed to be cleaned for the week ahead. Off to the laundromat we went.

The last time I had been in a laundromat (when our last washer gave up the ghost), coins were required. I assumed this would not be the case this time, but I wasn't sure exactly what to expect. All of the other campers seemed to know what they were doing. The smart thing would have been to approach one of them and ask what the routine was.

But, if I had done this, I wouldn't have anything to write about today.

I approached an ATM-like machine that dispenses cards. I'm not unfamiliar with this particular technology, so no big deal. I put in some money and got a card. Then I went over to the first machine and filled it with all of our blue jeans. Figuring this would be a sufficient load, my kid put the detergent in the top, locked it up, and away it went. So far so good.

That's what we thought.

On to the machine next to it, which was smaller size but still quite roomy. As we were loading that washer, a woman sitting nearby called me over and said, "I don't know if you've been here before, but that first machine holds six loads and this one holds four." Then she waved her hand toward the back of the laundromat and said, "And those machines back there are for one or two loads."  I thanked her for the advice (wishing she had told me before we started up the behemoth), and we proceeded to pack more clothes into the second washer. Then we headed for the back of the place, and filled a much smaller washer with our final load of whites.

Then we waited. 

Things were humming along just fine, until the behemoth, un-marked six-load washer started its final spin. For what seemed like an hour and half (but was probably only 3-4 minutes), the monster shook and banged and looked like it was going to burst from its mooring and explode, spewing shrapnel and wet blue jeans over all of the launderers.

We were mortified.

We sat silently, praying to the God of Laundry to deliver us. As we watched the spectacle in horror, my husband leaned over and said, sotto voce, "There's a sign that says we have to pay for any machinery we break."

We sat meekly, avoiding the eye contact of the other, obviously more experienced clothes handlers. We were sure they were staring daggers at us. I asked our knowledgeable laundry-friend if this was normal for this machine. She eyed me with pity and murmured, "Only when you don't put enough clothes in and it's out of balance."

We prayed some more. That was all we could do, because the machine was on lock-down. And, at the end of this particular cycle, when my son tried to open the door, it remained locked. To our shock and dread, it started to fill with water again. We waited. And went through another cycle of nail-biting until the heaving, noisy beast finally came to a halt, still intact.

We removed our clothes, then waited in agony and embarrassment until the other two machines completed their work. We gathered up everything and slunk off to finish the job in the still-functional dryer at home.

Our new washer is coming today. I will love it and care for it. I will schedule the once-a-year visits covered by my 5-year maintenance agreement. And I will cherish it always.

Or, at least until my next trip to the laundromat.

It Just Is.

Life is so arbitrary. We go along in our own world, day after day. Always with the assumption that tomorrow will be much like today. You go to work, come home, make dinner, go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Then you get the curve ball. Like we did this week. When one of our own at work was struck with a deadly disease. No one saw it coming. It just happened. She was there walking down the hallway, en route to the cafeteria. She looked fine, maybe a little tired. Then we heard she was in the hospital fighting for her life.

And suddenly, we were all thrown out of our complacency. How could this happen? We just saw her, we just spoke with her...about racing...about her son. It was so quick. So unexpected.

In our Friday morning meeting, we talked about the fragility of life. Everyone had a story, someone close whom they'd lost. A parent, a sibling, a neighbor, a friend. We reminded each other of the importance of telling your family, your friends how much they mean to you. To say "I love you" to those who are close to you every time before you hang up the phone.

Because there are no promises. This is it, folks. So turn around, hug the one you're with.

And please  send up a little something to Terri and the family she left behind Friday night. A wish, a prayer, a blessing. A memory of a woman who was too young, too fun and too good to be gone so soon.

Where My Nose Begins

This year's Fourth of July Parade through West Park was the same as every year. Led by Cleveland's Finest, complete with the bagpipe contingent, the parade slogged its way down Lorain Avenue.

There is a comfort in the sameness of the parade. The politicians hand out flyers. Participants throw candy at the kids sitting expectantly on the curb. And we all wave back at people in fancy automobiles and trolley cars and fire trucks.

Alas, there were no marching bands this year. I really like the marching bands. But there were veterans and churchgoers and lodge guys with fezzes and Knights of Columbus with feathery maned hats and gleaming swords. And a few horses. And the requisite gift that horses leave along the parade route. (Beware all who follow.)

And flags. Lots of flags. There is always talk about patriotism on these holidays. And freedom. Freedom is grand. But when I was growing up, we were taught that the right to extend your elbow ends where the next guy's nose begins -- that we do have rights, but with those rights come responsibility for self and consideration for others.

I thought about this later in the day, when the folks in the apartment complex on the next street decided to play their music VERY LOUDLY so we could hear every BOOM BOOM BOOM throughout the house, even though we had our windows closed.

I don't believe those people meant to ruin my holiday with their music. But I also don't think they would have cared if they had known.

It's disheartening. But I guess that's the human race for you. People want to protect what they view as their own rights, even if that means trampling on the rights of others.

We've turned our government over to big businesses who are chipping away at our freedoms. We've turned our souls over to Christian leaders who have clearly missed the whole point of what Jesus  taught, vis-a-vis, the most important commandment is this: "Love one another as I have loved you."

This one statement is at the heart of all religious faiths. And yet, it's so often left at the curb, along with all the candy wrappers and other discards from a parade meant to symbolize our freedom and our belief that we are the best country in the world.

The View from the Porch

It was such a beautiful morning, albeit a little muggy, that I decided to blog on the porch.

The thought of sitting in the office with an artificial light on and the fan blowing on me did not appeal. From here I can hear the birds -- as well as an airplane, the Rapid, an ambulance and a whole host of traffic. The only sound I miss is my wind chimes (there's not a breeze to be had).

My decision to move my gig outdoors came about when I looked out the window and saw a bunny -- a big, chubby, bunny. I guess I wouldn't be so admiring if he/she was chomping on my garden. Fortunately, I don't have a garden. But I did have a few carrots, so I tossed them into the yard. Even bunnies need a treat, right?

When the day gets wound up, I'm guessing it will be a scorcher. For now, it's just good to be hanging on the porch.

It's amazing how a simple change of venue can change your perspective. You get used to looking at things a certain way, and then the view changes. Or you change.

I had a dentist appointment this week, so I took the opportunity to drive by the house I grew up in. I shouldn't have. My street used to have tens of towering maple trees, their leaves forming a lovely canopy in the summer, cooling us as we played or rode our bikes down the street. Most of the trees are gone now. Left are the rows of little box houses, looking a little forlorn. My parents' house looked tad shabby. I heard from a neighbor that they tore out all of my mom's flowers. The lawn looks like the Serengeti. The only good thing is that the magnolia tree still stands.

Maybe you can't go home again.

Or maybe it's best to just visit in your mind. There I can run and play tag and kick the can and zoom along on my bike with the baseball card stuck in the spokes to make that clickety-clack noise. On rainy days, we could play board games in the garage and roller skate on its slate surface. And sometimes, when I got a little older. we would walk up to the school, my brother to play baseball with his friends and me to read under a tree.

Someday I know my perception of this house will change. Maybe I will ride by in the car and wonder what it looks like inside, how they've made it their own.

And just maybe I'll remember the warm summer morning when I sat on the porch with my coffee and my computer and marked this moment in time.

A Sporting Chance

Those who have known me since way-back-when will not be surprised when I say I haven't always been a sports fan.

In fact, truth be told, I'm only a fan today because I live with two sports-crazed men, one husband, the other son. When other topics were touchy for them, sports has always come to the rescue. They can kibbutz for hours about players, coaches, teams, referees, the draft, and pretty much any topic that is news on ESPN.

During my son's growing-up years, and to this day, the two of them sit at opposite ends of the couch, groaning, shouting and, on those rare days when God smiles on Cleveland, fist-pumping and woo-hooing.

Over the years, I have learned to appreciate many sports. I can follow football, baseball and hockey. Not so much basketball or soccer. And, while I don't get nearly as wound up as my two cabin mates, even I wept in frustration at the conclusion of Game 7 of the 1997 World Series. (I still want to curl into the fetal position when I think about it.)

While I mark milestones with things like, "Oh, that was the year we bought those ceramic mugs from that artist in Occoquan," Mr. G. can pinpoint any occurrence in our lives based on the sporting event that took place at the time. This includes, but is by no means limited to, the day we got married (Stanley Cup, Game 3, Campbell Conference Finals: Detroit 5, Edmonton 2) and our first trip together to Niagara on the Lake in 1986 (Ohio State Lost to Washington, 40-7).

The past few years, Mr. has had his friend, John, over to witness the carnage every Sunday afternoon during Browns season. By the end of last year, neither one had the stomach for it. We would find other things to do, occasionally turning on the radio, grimacing, and turning it off again.

To my guys, sports is more than, well, sport. There's a passion that, although I don't always share it, I do understand.

Mr. always says, "A bad day at the ballpark is better than a good day almost anywhere else."

And I have to admit there is nothing quite like sitting in the sunshine on a summer afternoon, munching a hot dog slathered with stadium mustard, watching a baseball game unfold lazily before me.

A Good Stretch of the Legs

I love taking walks. You see all kinds of things you wouldn't normally see if you were speeding along in your car.

A view from the MetroParks

And, unlike driving, I prefer to do my walking sans audio accompaniment. Unless you count the birds, lawn mowers and passing traffic. I like to get the full experience of all of the senses.

With my workplace a 40 minute drive away, I spend enough time in the car. I like to get out in the open air and get a snootful of (hopefully) some quality atmosphere. Plus, I notice little details like the design in the bridge I'm crossing. Or a wooly bear caterpillar crossing the sidewalk. (How's it going, Dick Goddard?) Faded chalk hopscotch lines. An abandoned tricycle. And, as a bonus, I occasionally stumble upon a yard sale. (Which is cool, as long as I don't fall in love with a table or lamp or something BIG.)

Walking does more than stretch my legs. It stretches my mind. Calms me. Helps me to feel one with the universe. Connected.

It looks like a beautiful day out there. I hope you don't mind if I cut this short.

There's a bird out there calling my name!

Dancing Fool

It was a little green tutu, made of a scratchy fabric, but I loved it. In my imagination, I would grow up to be a ballerina, pirouetting with a grace that was breathtaking. Oh, the applause, the adulation.

In those days, dance lessons were not an option. With five other kids to worry about, a limited budget and the fact that I was short, stubby, and not particularly graceful, my lofty ambition never made it out of the gate.

But I could still dream. And I did.

I remember watching Shirley Temple movies. Sometimes I'd tippety tap with my patent leather dress shoes, pretending I was on the Good Ship Lollipop. Later, I developed a little crush on Fred Astaire. He was so smooooth. And Ginger Rogers, with that dress made of feathers. They floated. They dipped. They soared. Wow.

Then there was the couple who lived on our street...they had square dances in their basement. I think I could handle square dancing. Or maybe line dancing. I like the idea of kicking up my heels in cowboy boots.

My parents danced together beautifully. Like they were one person gliding around the dance floor. I don't know how they got that way. To my knowledge, neither one of them had lessons. Maybe it's a generational thing. I'm lousy at slow dancing. I always try to lead.

Fast dancing I can manage, but any idiot can, really, especially if you don't care how you look. I can do the Twist, Swim and Jerk. And the Freddie. But no, I never got into the whole disco thing. As for belly dancing, that's one activity my husband has encouraged me to undertake. But I'm no Naemah. (With a nod here to Vicki.)

I wonder if, given dance lessons, I'd ever improve. I could take ballroom, but I know Mr. would not be interested. And I don't want to hit the floor with a stranger.

So, back to square one. I'll just dance in the privacy of my own home.

And I'll take a twirl at weddings.

I can do the Chicken Dance. Just watch me.

Stargazing

As I went out on the porch to retrieve my newspaper this morning, I gazed across the vast Ginley estates and thought, "Who needs Sean Connery?"

Well, okay, it didn't happen EXACTLY that way. What did flash through my mind was what it would be like to wake up in the Scottish countryside, birds chirping merrily, sun shining, and Sean Connery across the table from me, winking slyly and chuckling that throaty chuckle of his.

The truth is, I'm happy with my life and my husband and my son. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to romp about with the rich and famous.

Not ALL the rich and famous. I can't think of any young male actors at this moment that I'd want to dally with. (Jon Hamm is 43. George Clooney is 53. Cary Grant is dead). And yes, in this fantasy of mine, I'm 30 pounds lighter and 20 years younger. It's MY fantasy, I can do that.

My daydream extends to having bff's whom I can call and kvetch with. ("That director was such a douchebag.")  I'd like to meet Sandra Bullock. And Jody Foster. I'd love to chat with Shirley MacLaine.  But I don't get the Kardashians.  (Any of them. At all.)

And I've never wanted to adopt Honey Boo Boo.

"Being a non-celeb has its advantages," I tell myself. I can sit on the front porch in my pajamas with my bird's nest hairdo and drink my coffee and read the paper and no one is snapping pics of me to send to the tabloids. While I need to watch my weight, I don't have to obsess. And I don't have to worry about Angelina Jolie calling me asking for contributions to this or that cause.

No, none of that drama for me. Just the usual day-to-day stuff that makes up my life.

But I can still dream about hitting the bridle path with Robert Redford on his mega-acre ranch, laughing into the wind, as he smiles admiringly at the riding skills of my 25-year-old self.

Sigh. Oh well. A ride in the Toyota to the CWRU book sale with Mr. Ginley will have to do for this old dreamer.

Hi-Ho, Silver, Away!