Checking Under the Hood

I took Mr. Ginley in for routine maintenance this past week.

Going to the doctor is such a downer. First, you have the drawing of the blood. The weighing in. The vitals. Then, at the end of it all, the elicited promise to eat better and exercise more.

The older we get, the harder it is to lose weight. Back in the day, dietary transgressions could be erased with a few aerobic sessions or a quick cutting back on the fatty foods.

Alas, this is no longer the case.

So, both Mr. and I are reducing portion size, adding more exercise time and eliminating some of the goodies that are so lovely but so fat-making.

The thing that honks me off is we haven't been all that bad. I know I've been stress eating at work, and I have to address that. But he's mostly been sticking to the plan. Of course, there were the holidays, when we were, as Mr. Ginley said, "making quite merry." A few too many hot chocolates. And Christmas cookies. But certainly not enough to warrant the increase in weight.

Sigh.

It's cruel, really. There should be some reward for aging. Instead, we grow forgetful. Everything creaks. There are pills to take. And when we get misty-eyed and talk about our youth, kids roll their eyes and reach for their cell phones.

The only cool thing about getting older, at least for me, is the realization that there's nothing to be in a hurry for. That, in itself is gold.

But the phlebitis I could do without!

There's Snow Place Like Home

As winter slogs along, I dream of living in a warmer climate, leaving the house without a parka, hat, gloves and boots. I would simply open my sliding glass door and step out onto my patio and into a world of sunshine and tropical flowers.

I see Facebook posts from my friend, Kate, who lives in Myrtle Beach. Her young son flies along the sand with abandon, and I sigh. One of these days I'm going to lose it, get on a plane and go see her. (Watch out, Kate!)

In the meantime, I suck it up, slog my way through the snow, curse at douchebag drivers who cut me off when it's icy, and hunker down at home as best I can.

In all of my imaginings, though, I know the truth. I will probably live here until I go toes-up. I enjoy my little city, and as bedraggled as it is at times, and with all its faults, it's still home to me.

And I can still find wonderful things to do here.

Last weekend, Mr. Ginley wanted to go see the 1964 Browns exhibit at the Western Reserve Historical Society. I was not too excited myself, but I went along because I knew there would be other things to see, too. We lucked out because there was a speaker from the Pro Football Hall of Fame, who talked about the history of football helmets (among other things) and was really interesting.

Then a gentleman came up to talk about Browns Stadium, and a season ticket holder in the audience started to complain about how the stadium renovations have messed up his view. We all let him rant for awhile, but when he started to say they don't need so many women's restrooms because women don't go to the games late in the season, I had to set him straight. The other ladies in the crowd "here, here'd" me and the guy shut up.

But I digress.

When we walked into the museum, paid our fare, and got our parking token, we were asked if we wanted tokens for the carousel ride. Of course we did. Did we each want two or just one? Two, of course.

So after we saw what we went there to see, we rode the ponies.

The carousel was part of the now-extinct Euclid Beach Park. It has been full restored and it gleams. It's indoors and glides past big picture windows. I hitched myself onto a horse (a feat in itself) and rode with pure joy. We had a blast. And, when the ride stopped, we handed over our second token and did it again.

I was reminded that there are many, many things I haven't yet experienced in this city. We want to take in a film at the Capitol Theater. A coworker told me about the artists' studios in the old Lake Erie Screw factory. And I'm not nearly done with the West Side Market and its culinary joys.

So much left to do right here.

But, Kate, that doesn't mean I won't show up on your doorstep for a visit!

Mixing it Up

I had big dreams for me and my Cuisinart. We would blend. Whirr. Create beautiful things together.

Then it arrived. Last June.

I opened the box, pulled out the blades and attachments, spread them all around me. I tried to read the manual. Then I panicked. Where was Alton Brown when I so desperately needed him?

So I did the only thing I was capable of doing. I put everything back in the box, put a bag over it and put it on top of the refrigerator. Where it has lived ever since.

I've tried to recreate the excitement I felt before UPS delivered my bundle of joylessness. I've tried to imagine all of the cool stuff it could do, if only I could master it. But all I see when I look at the thing is failure. My failure.

Although I'm not one for making New Years resolutions, I have resolved that this will be the year I master my Cuisinart. I will buckle down and figure out how each attachment attaches, what each one is for and how I will move on with my life, confident in my newly found skills. I will make that homemade peanut butter. I will smooth that smoothie.

Now all I have to do is remember where I put the manual...

Say What?

"Make it smell like Christmas, Daddy!"

This is Mr. Ginley's new phrase, which he uses as he sprays the bathroom with Sparkling Spruce scent, his favorite Glade variety. In fact, he is so smitten with the fragrance, I went to Target yesterday and cleared out their remaining stock. So it can smell like Christmas all year long.

Everyone has phrases that are associated with them. As a word person, I enjoy these taglines. So I decided to compile some of my favorites for today's ramblings...

My son likes to bring home the latest catchphrases from school: "Welcome to Ouchtown, population: Mom." And "crapton," a phrase I picked up and use liberally, especially at work.

My mom, who was loathe to say "no" to quasi-reasonable requests, would frequently say, "We'll see." (Which, we knew, meant "no.")

My dad, when we were horsing around (there were six of us, so that was a lot of horsing), would say, "Keep it down, the neighbors will think we're beating you."

My grandma: "Well, now, I told him not to do that, but didn't he just go and do it?"

My father-in-law had many gems, among them: "If ifs and buts were candied nuts, we'd all have a hell of a Christmas." And, "We're on a need-to-know basis, and you don't need to know."

From my boss, invoked jokingly (sort of):  "What's my title?"

Of course, I, too, have my phrases. When Joe was little and pestering me for something, the response was, "I want a million dollars and a home in the country, but I'm not going to get that, either."

Part of the joy of knowing someone for a long time is you get to know (and hopefully love) their phrases.

My favorite Mr. Ginley phrase, which we all recite together in the car under the right circumstances, is not repeatable in polite company.

Someday, we hope our son will share it with his own kids.

If his wife lets him.

Not-Real-Life Adventures

It's funny how easy it is to become attached to fictional characters.

I've been reading the Inspector Gemache series by Louise Penny. It takes place in a fictional town called Three Pines, located in Canada between Quebec and the U.S. border.

A few months ago, I began listening to the series on audio books. That helped with the French pronunciations. Now I can hear the names and phrases in my head, so I can read without tripping over them.

The stories take me to a place I would love to visit -- a community I wish I could be a part of. Not perfect people, but people who feel real enough to cause a longing.

Good fiction does that, I guess. It transports us from our lives so we can take a walk along the road of "what if."

Nancy Drew used to do that. One of the things I want to do is go back and read the early part of the series to see if I still relate to the girl detective with chutzpah. She and her friend, Bess, would climb into the Roadster, and off they'd go to solve a mystery. Good times.

I admire writers who can create these imaginary places and larger-than-life characters. To be able to infuse them with so much personality, you wonder if they are based on real people. Or maybe they are bits of different real people. I don't know.

I'm just happy to travel with them for a little while and share their world.