The Weighting Game

Oh so many moons ago, when I was living in Virginia, I won an honorable mention in a poetry contest. The subject of my poem was weight control. I decided to attend the award festivities, so I asked my friend Judie if she'd like to come with.

Farewell, my lovelies...

She obliged.

The evening was joyful and unique. As I recall, there was a dinner and a lot of awards, and they read each of the entries aloud. The crowd was predominantly older. (Okay, a lot of them were octogenarians.) But they were all so delightful, I still have warm memories of my then-30-something self participating in the magical night.

What strikes me now is that I wrote a poem about weight loss. I scoff. I really didn't need to worry about losing a lot of weight at that time in my life. Maybe I was just being prescient.

In any case, I've decided I've had it with feeling like a stuffed sausage, avoiding mirrors and huffing and puffing after climbing two flights of stairs.

It's time to take back my life! No, seriously, I mean it this time.

So, why publicly declare my intentions? Part of my master plan involves shame. If I tell all of you that my goal is to drop weight, maybe you will raise an eyebrow when you see my hand reaching for that luscious Boston cream donut. Or you'll gently clear your throat when I make more than one trip to the Tupperware container with the fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. (For the record, I only had one yesterday.)

I realize that ultimately it's up to me to drop the pounds. I will feel better and look better and all of that. And no one else is responsible for my weight.

 But sometimes, it takes a village to save an idiot from herself.

So, please, won't you help? One look, one tsk tsk is all it takes.

I thank you.

O-H-I-O

In today's news, Ohio has decided to lower its expectations for students.

It's kind of like giving every player on the team a trophy just for showing up.

Unlike other states, Ohio has adopted a less rigorous standard for its students. Apparently, too many of them were not qualifying as "proficient," so what do we do? We change what we label as "proficient."

It's brilliant, really. No need to look at how we teach or why our grown children can't count out change without the help of  a cash register. Or, as a friend, discovered, why they don't know that England is part of the United Kingdom. (He was trying to ascertain if his phone would work in England. After being told that England was not on the list of countries, he had to tell them to try looking under United Kingdom.)

No, we'll just say that what used to pass for failure is now success. That's how we roll. It's not about the education, it's about the testing.

You may point out that I'm not a teacher, and I don't know my ass from my elbow about modern education. What I do know is, the best teachers I've had showed me how to take the material they were teaching and apply it to everyday life -- which didn't include test-passing.

Just to end on an up-note, Mr. Ginley read about Ohio State University's football team, where they conduct "Real Life Wednesdays." Student athletes are taught practical things such as how to write a resume, balance a checkbook and other basics of personal finance. Like what FICA means on a pay stub.

Of course, you'd have to pass the college entrance exam first.

Ah, there's the rub.

Riddle Me This

I love doing puzzles.

Jigsaws, crosswords, logic puzzles, mazes, quote-acrostics.

But, hands down, anagrams are my favorite. I love to take the mixed-up letters and help them to find order in a chaotic world. I do the Jumble in the daily newspaper. And I love to play Scrabble. (Although, admittedly, I'm not a champion player because I get a bigger kick out of finding a spot for a good word than I do from racking up the points for teeny, obscure words.)

I've wasted countless hours on my Kindle unscrambling letters. I used to tsk tsk at people who spent chunks of their lives playing Farmville or Candy Crush, but honestly, I am just as bad. I tell myself that I'm working my brain, so that must be a good thing. But maybe it's just obsessive behavior.

You would think that after putting words together all day at work, I'd want to veg out in front of the TV in the evening and sit slack jawed while others did the work for me. And, yes, I do that on occasion. But oftentimes, even when Mr. Ginley and I watch together, we choose a mystery that requires our participation, and we sit there speculating aloud who the culprit is. More puzzle solving.

Fortunately, my better half also enjoys doing puzzles. He works the crossword and the Sudoko that appear in the newspaper. And he does the Jumble after I do (we compare notes over how difficult we found it to be that day).

And, one day soon, I'm going to clear a space on the table so we can put together a jigsaw puzzle. I have about 30 of them sitting in the basement, just waiting to be assembled. Mabel, our geriatric feline, may be to the point where she won't knock the pieces on the floor and skitter them under the sofa. I'm ready to test the theory.

What I will not do is one of those jigsaws where all of the pieces are the same color. There's no skill in guessing. Maybe I'll try the one we got at a rummage sale, the one that features a map and tourist spots along Route 66.

Hopefully, all of the pieces are there. My grandma used to indicate when she had a jigsaw with a missing piece -- she'd mark where the missing piece was located by drawing an approximation on the back of the box.

Well, we'll see. If you hear growls of frustration, you'll know I'm a piece or two shy of a full puzzle.

Of course, you may think that anyhow...

Upcoming Attractions

Even though I ate them one at a time, the Snow Caps were gone before the movie even started.

I always do this.

Mr. and I buy our tickets and enter the theater 10 minutes or so before the flick begins. We choose our seats and get settled in. They we are assaulted by a barrage of ads carefully constructed to look like entertainment. In fact, they even do a little summary at the end, where the slightly-over-the-hill model grins alluringly and says something like, "Thank you for watching this endless series of commercials. In case you thought you had escaped, here is a summary of the advertisers who made it all possible." And then plays snippets from all of the "stories."

Just when you think you're cooking with gas, the parade of previews gears up. Our routine never varies. Mr. and I watch each one, look at each other, and say, "We'll be skipping that one" or "That looks like it might be good" or "Maybe, but only when it gets to DVD." (Which will be about five minutes after it stops showing in the theater.)

I remember a time when commercials were on TV, not on the big screen. When the popcorn didn't taste like the container it came in. And before they had to tell you things like, "Hey, don't be an inconsiderate douchebag, turn your phone off."

The good thing about going to the movies on a Tuesday afternoon is the tickets are cheaper, and there's not much of a crowd. In fact, there was only one other guy who saw Man from U.N.C.L.E. with us. Not a bad way to spend a sultry late-summer afternoon.

And, I have to say, the stadium seating is a whole lot nicer than the pop-up seats and sticky floors of the theaters of my youth.

No need to yell, "Down in front" or "Hey, lady, remove your hat."

If you said, "huh?" never mind. My fellow codgers know what I'm talking about!