Caveat Emptor

Just for shits and giggles, I clicked on the "sponsored ad" that talked about Meryl Streep and Robert Redford getting hitched. A quick trip to Snopes.com confirmed my suspicion that this was total hogwash. The ad touted a miracle face cream tied to a certain television "doctor." (I won't reveal who he is, but his last name has only two letters and was formerly associated with a Wizard.)

Under the heading of "too good to be true," the ad featured several celebrities at their worst versus their most-retouched selves. The difference was more laughable than startling. Does anyone doubt that fashion magazines are well-versed in Photoshop?

A similar ad appeared on yesterday's Facebook page. It said something to the effect of, "Cher is Gone at 70." I didn't click on that one, although my initial reaction was to stop and google her to make sure she was still in the land of the living (she is).

"So," I had to ask myself. "Why would anyone be foolish enough to fall for any of this?"

A quick visit to my favorite search engine revealed that a plethora (I've been hankering to use that word) of complaints exist from regular folks whose bank accounts have been depleted by this particular scam. In fact, there are blogs devoted solely to beefs about this one brand. Maybe it makes people feel better to talk about being fleeced, but it doesn't appear that anyone does anything about the situation other than share their tales of woe.

None of this is surprising. Which is sad. People believe what they read on the internet and hear on that TV station that bloviates about being fair and balanced, but is neither.

The truth is out there somewhere, but it sure can be hard to get to. Maybe the best we can do is look at a story from multiple sources before we believe it. Even then, we all have filters, so we're going to pull what we want to pull from any given source.

The speed of media is both exhilarating and terrifying. Like anything else, it's how we use it that counts.

Let's not be lazy out there.

Okay, enough of this. I have things to do. I need to find out if Tiger Woods was really suspended from the PGA for taking weight loss supplements!

Breaking

I was headed out the door in my usual rush to get to work, when Mr. Ginley said, "STOP!"

Exasperated, I turned and grumbled, "What?"

"Sit down for a minute," said he. "Look at the sky."

Defeated, I plopped down in a chair on the porch and did.

"Now breathe."

I did. And saw the sky for the first time that day. Big, puffy white clouds in a soothing blue sky. Just begging to be noticed.

We sat quietly for a few minutes, and I conceded he was right. I need to slow down.

Work has been crazy. Things at home have been stressing me out: new roof, new car, old car's "check engine" light. I've been thinking about getting a t-shirt that says, "Life is Relentless."

Then I looked at the sky. It's always there, in showers or sunshine.

And I started to breathe again. I glanced upward all the way to work. And I looked out my window at the office and admired its blue loveliness.

I know I need some vacation time, even if we don't go anywhere. October, maybe. When things slow to a simmer at work. Maybe take a trip on the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad. Or plan a walk through the MetroParks. A visit to the art museum. There's plenty to do in this berg.

And the whole mess will still be there when I'm done relaxing. Hopefully, being rested will help me put it all into perspective.

But, if all else fails, I know I can keep my balance by looking skyward.

Too Shy? There's an App for That.

I haven't been listening to NPR much lately.

Understandably, it's been dominated by election coverage. I already know who I'm voting for. Or, more accurately, who I'm voting against. I find the entire debacle mortifying. I've blocked several sites on my Facebook page, and I'm considering moving to that log cabin in the woods until it's all over.

Of course, it won't be over. Whoever wins, there will continue to be plenty of mud slinging and a lack of statesmanship. Alas, the days of both parties working together to get things done has gone the way of the dodo bird. All we're left with is dodos.

But, back to NPR. I was driving home last night, and I decided to listen for a little while. There was a story about a 16-year-old girl who created an app for teenagers who face the lunch table dilemma.

Anyone who has suffered from excruciating shyness (a la yours truly) knows this is not the trifle it would appear to be.

After I was asked to leave a lunch table early in my high school career (I was "scaring the boys away with my clothes"), finding a place in the cafeteria became a burden.

I have a vivid recollection of trolling from table to table in search of a seat that was at the end of a table that had some but not too many kids -- I didn't want to "butt in," but I didn't want to look like a sad sack sitting at an empty table. The trick was to appear that I was at least on the outskirts of a group. I didn't try to jump into the conversation, I just sat and listened as others complained about  schoolwork or teachers or their parents or some party at somebody's house or who was smoking what.

Eventually, I think in my junior year, I stumbled into a group of misfit toys like myself. We were weird but wonderful.

How I wish there had been an app back in the day.

The girl who invented the app is Natalie Hampton, and she lives in Sherman Oaks, California. Her app is called "Sit With Us." It helps kids who are looking for a place to sit and enjoy their lunch, and, more importantly, belong.

Natalie had trouble finding a lunch table at her old school. She's at a new school now, and although she's doing just fine there, she felt she had to do something to help the other kids who experienced the angst of approaching groups of already-friended teens in search of a place.

In high school, fitting in can be tough. Especially when you don't know anyone, and you're not an outgoing person.

So far, the app has been well received and is enjoying success at her school.

I hope it catches on in other schools across the country.

Although they would have you believe otherwise, no one is a rock. Or an island.

Just Plane Nuts

As we were pulling into the driveway the other night, my son and I looked skyward and saw two jets flying in formation.

Dammit, Jim, I'm a writer, not an artist.

It was a reminder that Labor Day weekend was fast approaching, and that could only mean one thing: the jets were running through their paces in preparation for this weekend's National Air Show.

In a former (married) life, I went to the Air Show every year. I stood by dutifully as my then-husband, a builder of model airplanes, pointed out the markings and recited the capabilities of each and every airplane displayed on the tarmac. I nodded appreciatively and tried to sustain an interest that waned and finally died after the first hour or so.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed taking a look-see at all the planes and was as awed as every other spectator in the stands when the Blue Angles (or Thunderbirds) blew by above us at crazy speeds, in formation, and performed their stunts. I learned what a hammerhead was. And I was enthralled by the history and anecdotes of the planes featured in the show.

Alas, my Air Show days were long ago, and I only have a vague recollection of the event. And a memory of a sore neck, squinty eyes and ringing ears.

I applaud those whose knowledge of such things goes so deep.

As for me, I guess this means I wasn't a pilot in a former life. Or a wing walker.

I kinda like my feet planted firmly on the ground.

Even if my head is often hanging out in the clouds.