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!

Change Matters

Grocery Clerk: Your total is $125.42.
Me: I'd like to write a check for $30 over.
Grocery Clerk (looking uncomfortable): Let me get a calculator...

As we move closer and closer to Idiocracy, I ask myself, "When did we start to go off the rails?"

I blame New Math.

For those of you who grew up in my age bracket (you know who you are), you probably remember the birth of New Math. This was when we had to start circling pictures of objects to put them into "sets". It was the advent of "Base 8."  All of it was supposed to make it easier to teach math to children. It was convoluted and, to this day, I don't understand the point of it.

For the most part, New Math is just a bad aftertaste, left in the mouth of a generation of Baby Boomers. But, somehow, I think that bad taste translated into an overall lack of common sense in teaching the next generation.

These days, public school students have to pass a proficiency test. Since I haven't taken one, I can only rely on what frustrated teachers are saying about them -- that kids aren't really learning much, that they are memorizing facts and figures just so they can spew them back, pass the test, and move along into the real world, where they will be someone else's problem. ("Let me get a calculator.")

We seem to have lost the ability to make education relevant. How to balance a checkbook. How to make change. How to figure out what that shirt is going to cost after the additional 40% off.

And, of course, how to know if 16 mega sized rolls of toilet paper at $17.99 is a better deal than 24 large sized rolls of toilet paper for $12.99. (I confess, I do need a calculator, or at least a piece of paper to figure this out.) Most people don't bother to work it out. When I'm in a hurry, I admit that I don't either. This is what "the man" is counting on. You not counting.

We need to get smarter. And we need to start by teaching our kids how to think.

When my son was much younger and struggling with his seven times table, my husband told him, "That's easy. Sevens are touchdowns with the extra point. What is your score if you have three touchdowns?" My son replied immediately, "21!"

Now, that's math you can use. 

Let's All Go A-Rummaging

Maybe I should have been called "Second Hand Rose." I love the hell out of rummage sales and garage sales and flea markets and Ebay.

Is it the thrill of the chase? The belief that the one thing I've been looking for all of my life will be at the next sale I go to?

When I was a young lass, my sister used to create scavenger hunts to entertain the younger crowd. She would leave clues for us to follow and at the end, there would be some sort of prize. I used to love trying to decode the messages. To this day, I enjoy solving puzzles. Is this the same gene that makes me want to seek out a gem from among all the crap?

And yes, Virginia, there is a lot of crap at these sales.

Then, just when you are about to give up, you find something amazing. Like the late 1940's Three Little Kittens set that's hanging in my kitchen. Or the 1950's Bopp Decker dishes. Or the souvenirs from faraway lands I will never visit. My house is home to kitsch of all kinds. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your point of view), my husband collects things, too. Which is why in our back room (which serves as a mini man cave), there are little statues of all of the presidents up through Lyndon Johnson, various maps, and a framed photo of the Elvis stamp.

It may be an addiction. But I don't care. I gotta go take my shower and get ready. There's a rummage sale today, and it's starting and I don't want to miss anything.

Besides, it's in Westlake, and those suburban folks always get rid of good stuff...

Backward Glance

Sometimes you look back and think that you'd like to slap your younger self into next Wednesday. This happens to me a lot when I think about my teen years.

In the depths of my mom's cedar chest was a muff made of leopard skin. From time to time she would bring it out and get a little misty eyed about her life before the six of us came along. When I was little, I would rub it against my cheek and inhale the scent of cedar. Then I hit my unfortunate teens, and I got upset because the muff was made of real fur. In those days, I was an obnoxious know-it-all, and I cried bitter tears for the long-deceased animal who had given its life so my mom could keep her hands warm. Until that point, mom had said she wanted me to have the muff someday. After my little snit, she rescinded her offer.

I've regretted it ever since. Not because I've changed my mind and have a sudden hankering for fur. But because I wasn't listening to her. Because, right then, I didn't see the woman behind the mom.

This past week, as Mother's Day approached, I thought about her a lot. She passed away two years ago, but she's never far away.

Like most moms of her generation, she was careful to keep herself tucked away, to put her husband and kids first.

We used to play hide-and-seek, and I liked to sit in my parents' closet. Mom had a few pairs of shoes she seldom wore. One pair was black suede with wedge heels and a sling back, and they were divine. She would never let us play dress-up with them, they were off-limits.

With six children and a tight budget, there was no money for dressy clothes. Mom wore sensible dresses and costume jewelry. She didn't seem interested in fashion. Then she learned to sew, and made clothes for my sisters and me. She was proud of her creations. One hit was in the 1970's, when she found a pattern for those hip-hugging pants with the huge bell-bottoms, which were in vogue at the time. She made several pairs, and I wore them out.

What I learned later (when I finally started to listen) was that my mom had an interesting life before we arrived. She worked at Western Union, took trips on the train with girlfriends, and had a knock-out wardrobe. That's where the muff came in. She bought it and a coat with matching collar, then had her picture professionally taken.

I wonder, if my mom had grown up when I did instead of when she did, if she still would have had a passel of kids and stayed home with them. Or if she would have studied to be an artist. Or landscaper. Or a designer. It was like she had all these packets of seeds in a drawer, and she'd pull a few out and plant them every now and then. But they never matured because she didn't have the time to nourish and care for them, because she was doing that for us instead.

I hope that, wherever Mom is and whatever she's up to, that it includes all of the things she didn't get around to in this life.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Living Large

Everyone has a tipping point. Or an epiphany. Or a last straw. Mine came this week.

It's no secret that I enjoy food. I love the flavors, the textures, the simple joy of eating to my heart's content. But now, my heart is fighting back.

So are my pants. That's what happens when you go clothes shopping, and you stand in the dressing room with the 3-way mirror and the bright lights and there is NOWHERE to hide. Sure, you can try to avert your eyes, but there you are, spilling out all over the place. And the size you thought you were is too tight, and you look like a tube of toothpaste that's just burst its seams.

Not a pretty moment. That was last Sunday.

Monday morning, I got on the scale and reeled. Talk about being in a state of denial, I'd taken up permanent residence. I could not believe how big that digital number was. And I knew it was accurate. So, down to the bowels of the basement I went to work out.

Also, I began to write down everything I ate. And I pledged to my husband that I would not stray. Monday morning, someone brought in chocolate chip cookies. A birthday was celebrated with miniature cupcakes. Later in the week, there were muffins and pastries. I averted my eyes, held my breath and imagined how disappointed Mr. would be in me if I succumbed. And I remained steadfast.

I know I can shed the pounds. I've done it before. I need to be careful about every morsel I put in my mouth, and workouts every day are a must.

Can I do it? Yes, I can.

But please, don't offer me a donut. Especially a gooey Boston cream or a yummy glazed or one slathered with chocolate frosting.

What I meant to say was, donuts are bad for me. They don't taste good at all. I love broccoli.

Yes, I do!