Wire-less

I have some of the most exciting vacation days ever.

Like this past Wednesday, for example.

"Really?" you ask incredulously.

I'll let you be the judge.

I rose bright and early (well, okay, early) and dropped off my kid at the Rapid station. Then I sat with my cell phone on the porch, ate my breakfast and read, waiting to hear from the internet service provider who was coming to fix my wonky connection. (I won't give them away or anything, but I will say their company name is comprised of three letters and an ampersand.)

My adventure began a few weeks earlier, when my internet connection deteriorated to the point where it kept cutting out halfway through various tasks.

We've had problems with squirrels chewing the line to the house. Also, there was a tree branch that encroached from another property and was scraping the wire. So, after we paid to have the tree trimmed, we called the internet provider and asked them to come out and replace the line.

The guy arrived. He tested the line and said it was fine. He went up on the pole, fiddled with the connections there, declared there had been some extra loops in the wire, and everything was great now.

He left. The problem came back.

I called my friends once again, very calmly explaining that we wanted the line replaced or we were taking our business elsewhere. I even said we were willing to upgrade if they would replace the line. My new-best-friend assured me that, if I went to the souped up plan, I would, as a matter of course, get a new line to the house.

I now believe the service rep would have promised me his grandmother's gold teeth and his first-born son to get me to stay. And I had about as much of a chance of getting either of those things as I did of getting a new wire. But I am getting ahead of myself.

There I was, sitting on the porch, when I heard the phone ringing inside the house. This was the first bad sign, since I had specifically instructed them to contact me on my cell phone.

The next indication that something was amiss was the surly service guy, whose response to my new-line inquiry was "we'll see." (Anyone who grew up in my house knows that "we'll see" means "no.")

He proceeded to rewire the inside of our home. He never got up on the pole or looked at the wire. He installed a behemoth of a modem that is more than twice the size of the old one. And he assured me the line was clear and operating nicely.

No, he was not going to replace the outside line.

Oh, and by the way, his company was going to ask me to take a survey, and could he count on me giving him a "10".

I must have looked like someone slapped me in the face with a ham steak. Was he kidding? He was rude, dodgy and condescending. And I was supposed to give him top marks for this?

I pointed out that someone had lied to me about installing the wire. He said the survey was based on his performance, not his company's. I held my tongue. I did not point out that his attitude was awful. He continued to press, and I continued to dodge.

You will find this as funny as I did, I'm sure, but I never did get a call from the company asking what I thought of their service.

And, last night, the internet connection got slow and stopped for awhile.

Soon I will have the opportunity to speak with them again. I predict we will be getting service from their competitor.

That log cabin in the woods is looking mighty appealing right now.

Magic Fingers

Like many things I said I'd never do, getting a massage turned out to be one of my favorite things.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad...or, more to the point, when I have a birthday.

It's become a once-a-year thing to have my body kneaded by a stranger. There was a time when the idea did not appeal to me at all. But that was before I experienced the pure joy of fingers digging deep into my muscles to unleash the knots and soothe my stressed body.

Frankly, I did feel a little out of place when I walked in. I waited patiently while the lady-who-lunches in front of me described in detail the travails of her week. Which included a dog that got skunked and her sadness at him having to forego the pool she bought him because the vet advised her he would smell every time he got wet, at least for the next month or so.

When my turn came, the receptionist asked if this was my first visit to their new digs (it was), where the bathroom was and to help myself to treats. My bladder being my bladder, I decided a trip to the ladies' would be a good idea. By the time I got back, my masseuse was waiting. (No treats for me.)

The massage room (I will not call it a parlor, thank you) was dimly lit with New Age tinkle music playing softly in the background. Once I divested myself of most of my clothing and plopped my body down on the bed, the magic fingers lady knocked and appeared.

It was a full body, hour-long Swedish massage. The name always brings to my mind pictures from a James Bond movie. So not like that. No one walking on or karate chopping my back.

Just the fingers, digging, digging, digging.

She started with my scalp and worked her way down. I could feel the knots dissolving under her expert touch. I told her about messing up my knee a few weeks ago. She said it still felt warm and I should ice it and probably have the doctor look at it if things didn't improve in the next week.

Then, time to work on the flip side. I turned onto my stomach and put my kisser in the "face cradle."  (I just love that name.) It's shaped like the letter "U" so you can rest your head comfortably and still breathe.

I will admit, I did squirm when she worked on the bottoms of my feet. But I noticed afterward that they didn't hurt like they had when I walked in.

Yes, I know it's an indulgence. And most folks would not include it on their list of must-haves. But I have added it to mine. At least once a year.

All I can say in my defense is, "Ahhhhhhhhh."

Calling for Back-Up

My son has, at last, realized he needs his driver's license.

For the past several weekends, I have handed over the keys to the Ginleymobile and we've toodled around town. One afternoon, we even began working on the dreaded maneuverability.

In my day, it was parallel parking. Which I was lousy at (then) and passed only because the driving instructor's car stalled out mid-backup and the tester got testy and said I would have made it anyhow.

Someone decided that, since parallel parking is seldom used these days, we should test drivers-to-be by having them back through a series of orange cones. You can go slow, but you get points taken off every time you hit the brake. And if you hit a cone, you are toast.

I've been asking around, but haven't had much luck with tips and tricks. A trip to Ace Hardware may be in order to purchase some cones. There was a creative solution on YouTube that involved shoes and baseball bats, but I don't have enough of either to implement.

When I spoke with my sister about my dilemma, she told me a story about her own experience with parallel parking. She was married when she finally worked up the nerve to take the driver's test for the second time. (Having been traumatized the first time by the BMV test-giver.) Her husband's friend said he could teach her in 15 minutes. He and my brother-in-law made a bet, and, sure enough, Bruce K. had my sister parallel parking in no time.

I don't know how much the bet cost. But I'm willing to pay up so my kid can pass the test and move on with his life.

Anyone?

What a Wonderful World

I was driving home Friday, listening to a random selection of 60’s classics on a CD I picked up a couple of weeks ago. Louis Armstrong began to croon the classic, What a Wonderful World.

I let it play through. Then again.  And one more time.

And I thought to myself, “What a wonderful world.”

Louis Armstrong lived through a lot of traumatic events in his day. The Great Depression. Both World Wars. More wars. The race riots of the 60’s. Segregation. The assassinations of Martin Luther King. JFK and Bobby Kennedy.

And yet, he crooned that beautiful song. It calls out the joys of living. Of loving our world and its fellow travelers.

It’s been a bad week for America.  I have no answers, no solutions. If I have a wish, it’s that Americans remember that we are all Americans. Some of us are very good, others very bad. Most of us are somewhere in the middle. Our friends and neighbors may be Christians or Muslims or Buddhists, straight or gay. They could be African American or Asian or Indian. Maybe they believe in gun control or they feel safer with a gun in their home.  They may not look like we do or speak like we do or have the exact same beliefs. But  in our hearts, the vast majority of us want the same things.  To enjoy some measure of happiness. To create a safe environment for ourselves and our children. To go about our lives without fear. To have a roof over our head, plenty of food to fill our stomach and enough in our wallet to get us through the week.

If we could refrain from labeling one another, quit setting up camps and spitting vitriol at the folks on the other side of the fence, and take the time to see each other from the inside out, just think.

What a wonderful world.

WW1

This week I went to my first Walnut Wednesday.

The weather was perfect, and the place was hopping. Seventeen trucks were parked around what is now officially called "Perk Plaza at Chester Commons." Music was playing, and the lunchtime crowd waited in long lines to procure their eats.

I switched lines after Mr. Ginley found the truck we missed the first time around. We had gone online ahead of time, and I wanted to give Umami Moto's Korean burrito a whirl. Mr. wanted to go for the pizza, but thought it was too much for one person, so he settled instead on a hot dog with Cincinnati-style chili.

Seating was at a premium. Some diners took their finds back to the office with them, but lots stuck around, chatted and and chowed. We moved around some, eating our tasty entrees on a bench in the sunshine before finding a spot in the shade where we devoured our desserts -- cupcakes and donuts, made fresh by loving hands. I kept telling myself that my burrito had lots of wholesome ingredients in it, and they would make up for the sugary treats. But I don't think any of us really believes that.

Back in the day, the area was simply called "Chester Commons." There were grassy knolls and concrete structures to sit on. But you had to bring your own lunch. Unless you wanted to eat from a hot dog cart. And on Friday nights in the summer there was the "Party in the Park," complete with a band and, as I recall, beer.

Overall, Downtown is so radically different from the gritty city of my days working there. Case in point, the waiting list of folks who want to live downtown. The emergence of a fancy grocery store (Heinen's) in the old Cleveland Trust bank building. And the fact that you can walk down East 4th Street without looking over your shoulder every few feet.

There's not much left from my time there to remind me. Just shadows and ghosts.

Our old office building, the Statler, went condo. The JBR store on the corner of 9th and Euclid is many years gone. As are the eateries and hangouts that were part of our experience back in the day.

It is much cleaner and nicer now. The jury is out on Public Square, though. It looks pretty, but they really screwed up traffic through the heart of the city.

The Rapid still runs. And the Terminal still stands. Plus, the library, as always, is a jewel.

So, although there are things I miss, overall, the old lady looks pretty good in her new duds.

And I look forward to a second Walnut Wednesday.