Kitchey in Pink

Here's to you, Don Featherstone, creator of the pink flamingo. Don passed away last month, but his brightly colored lawn ornaments will remain in our hearts for all time.

Especially those of us who grew up in Parma, where pink flamingos, white socks and polka music were the iconic symbols of a suburban post-World War II era, chock full of eastern European immigrants who headed west in search of work at the Chevy plant.

For those who wanted to inch their way a little higher on the social scale, there was Seven Hills. The ubiquitous pink bird was frowned upon there, where the neighborhoods were peppered instead with chrome balls on pedestals, which I always found to be just a little pretentious. 

And, don't you just adore the moniker, "lawn ornament." It sounds so lovely. Not quite descriptive of a duck with a gingham hat or what has become known as the "lawn jockey," the little guy, often black, who holds the lantern aloft. (Props here to Sherri Lofton on her Halloween costume a couple of years back.)

There have been those folks, and most of us have had at least one in our neighborhood, who cover every square inch of their yard with plastic and plaster. Maybe it's to keep people at bay. Or it's diabolically clever -- no need to fire up the lawn mower at Crazy Charlie's house!

My sister, Denise, once bought a home whose basement was littered with pink flamingos. One of them was used by my Dad in a brilliant prank he played on the neighbors. But I, alas, am flamingo-less. (Although I do possess a plunger with the fuchsia-colored bird's head perched atop the handle.)

My lawn ornaments decorate the inside of my abode. I wouldn't want anyone to walk off with my gnome or my Chinese guy.

Aside from which, the way I care for the vegetation in my yard, my treasured ornaments would probably get swallowed up by a hedge!

What I Did on My Summer Staycation

Well, I didn't go spelunking, but at least my two vacation days this week were spent doing fun stuff.

Following the lead of local author Erin O'Brien, we took an urban hike through Cleveland's Flats, exploring the bridges via a route she had mapped out. It's easy to forget that there are breathtaking things to see right in your own neighborhood. When we lived in the Washington, DC area, many of my co-workers hadn't been to a Smithsonian museum or the monuments for years. I used to think this was odd. But this week, I realized I'm just as bad. I'd never seen this particular view of the city of my birth.

The story is really all about the photos, a few of which I'm sharing here. Our goal is to go back to the Scranton Flats and do the path that hugs the Cuyahoga River.

Thanks to the internets, I also discovered a new favorite place to shop in Lakewood, called The Lion and Blue.  Lots of cool, woo-woo stuff. Crystals and scarves and trinkets and stuff.

On the second day of my glorious absence from work, we decided to go see a movie. The cool thing was it was discount day, so we only paid an arm to see the show and buy some treats. Plus, the theater was nearly empty, which suited us just fine. No loud talkers or wailing babies. We sat in the back row. Playing on the big screen in 3D was Minions, the prequel to Despicable Me. Great fun, indeed, especially if you lived through (or simply "get") the 1960s. Lots of sly references, very Bugs Bunny.

What amazes me about today's movies is all of the commercials. The cinema companies put together a short film to "entertain" you while you wait for the 17 movie previews before your film begins.
This short is a bunch of ads cobbled together. We usually get settled in our seats 10 minutes or so ahead of time, so we get to view most of this. Fortunately, there is a summary at the end, so we can see the ads we missed. Me being me, most of my snack has disappeared before the opening credits of the the movie.

It's nice to stay in town and toodle around. You save on the expense of transportation and lodging. No packing or unpacking. Of course, you still have chores nagging you to be completed. But they could  wait.

And they did.

Instant Carma

During my ample commute, I have lots of time to ponder the universe. And other things. Like the rudeness of my fellow travelers. 

I find myself wishing that some divine power would smite the drivers of those offending vehicles. 

That's how I came up with Instant Carma.

Say someone is tailgating you for miles. You're not in the fast lane (in fact, there's no one in the fast lane), yet this ying-yang has taken it upon herself to school you for not going 20 miles over the speed limit. You glance into your rear view mirror, willing her to back off. You tap the brake, nothing works. You have visions of a quick stop and her mini van ending up in your trunk. You finally pull over into the speed lane so she can pass you in the slow lane. Then you get behind her.

And...it's Instant Carma to the rescue! A 1993 rusted out Chevy pulls up to HER back bumper and hovers there. The driver grins maniacally. Of course, he has no insurance. His car is a disaster. He may even tap her back bumper. A few times. Before he races away with a wave. 

In our next scenario, you're driving on crowded city streets. There is traffic ahead of you but no one behind you. The guy races up and cuts you off. Here comes Instant Carma, pulling in front of the driver and going 5 miles under the speed limit, ensuring he is boxed in and can't get around. Of course, it means you have to go slow, too, for a mile or so. But just imagining the other driver's white knuckles and the veins popping out of his neck are compensation enough.

Then we have the distracted driver. She is on the phone or putting on her makeup or eating her breakfast. She gets on the freeway doing 35 and weaves back and forth, so you're afraid to pass. Then, just as you make your move, she finishes her task and guns the engine so you can't get around her. In this case, Instant Carma appears in the form of a police car and hefty speeding ticket.

Of course, the irony is, I'm probably bringing myself bad karma for wishing ill on others. 

But honestly, I don't want anyone to be physically hurt or anything. And I know that it probably wouldn't change the way they drive. Hmmm. Maybe more drastic measures are called for.

What if Instant Carma removed the driver from the vehicle, confiscated it and gave it to someone who couldn't afford a car but would drive responsibly.

Now, that's good karma!

P.S. My idea, like most, is not really new or original. As anyone knows who has seen W.C. Fields and Alison Skipworth in If I Had a Million.

My Paperless Porch

Today I can have me a watch that employs all the wonders of a Univac and much, much more. It can tell me where to go and what to buy and what Aunt Freda in Germany is up to and how far I've walked and how many calories I've burned.

But I can't get a newspaper delivered to my front porch. Like it used to be. For most of my adult life.

I grumbled when they stopped delivering The Plain Dealer every day. But at least, I figured, I was still going to get it Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. I still enjoy holding a newspaper in my hands, sitting in my easy chair, and reading what's what.

Yes, I have a tablet, but reading the e-edition on a hand-held device is a tedious task*.

So, when I get a paper newspaper, I relish it. But lately, getting the newspaper has been a chore.

We had one carrier for years and years. He was a gem. I never had to think about the paper showing up on my doorstep at 6 a.m. I could stick my arm out the door and grab it, no fuss, no muss. But for the last several months, getting my newspaper has been an adventure -- one I'd rather do without. When it does come (which, without me calling and complaining to an automated system, is about 75% of the time), it arrives by 8 a.m. and it's tossed onto the driveway in a plastic bag. When it rains, it often sits in a puddle until I retrieve the sodden mess. Some days there have been sections missing. One day this week, I actually watched the guy come up to my porch, place the paper on it, get back in his truck and depart. I was impressed. Until I realized only half of it was there.

I know what some of you are thinking. That I'm focusing on a little thing. That civilization as we know it isn't going to crumble because my newspaper delivery sucks. And, while the neighbors might raise an eyebrow or two, me having to trot down the driveway in my pajamas is really not big deal.

My fear is that the little civilities are getting lost. And that, like the vital bumblebees that are slowly, quietly dying, it is the disappearance of the little things that do us in. Cutting in lines and cutting each other off in traffic. Leaving a measly tip for good service. Watching an old man trying to get his foot up and over a curb without helping. (Something, I am proud to say, my son did NOT do.)

Matt Groening once said something like, "If you keep your expectations tiny, you'll go through life less whiny."

I've lowered my expectations. But the world keeps lowering the bar.

THAT's why I'm whiny.

But, just for today...I will be glad my newspaper arrived, safe and dry, all pages present. And I will go forth and read Sally Forth.

And I wish all of you a Happy Fourth!

*This is for my sister, Denise. (Inside joke!)