Sealed with a Burp

Long before the home shopping networks and social media came along, women were hosting parties in their homes to sell everything from cleaners to food storage products to kitchen gadgets. And, yes, even "marital aids."

Enlisting the help of the Google, I discovered that a guy name Norman Squires, formerly of Aluminum Cooking Utensil of America, was hired by Stanley Home Products (SHP) in the late 1930s to develop and implement the model for these hostess parties.

The idea was that the dealer approached a woman she knew and ask her to host a party. Said friend would invite her friends, relatives and neighbors to her home, serve them snacks and drinks, and entice them to spend their money on whatever the wondrous/amazing/can't live without it product might be. There were hands-on demonstrations (this is the way we burp the Tupperware). Games. And gifts for the woman who hosted the party. And, if the hostess decided to sign on and become a dealer herself, the person who enlisted her would receive a commission, and she herself could start to earn cash.

And so on and so on.

Two women who worked for SHP went on to take Norman's concept to new heights. One was Mary Kay Ash, who went the route of cosmetics. The other was Brownie Wise.

Brownie, deserted by her husband and raising a son with health issues, was living with her mother. While she working at SHP, she and some other representatives decided to add Tupperware to their party offerings. Tupperware was a fledgling company with lackluster sales. The product was offered in stores, but the price tag was daunting and the concept unheard of. No one had plastics in their kitchen in those days.

Ms. Wise changed all that. In 1951, after her efforts came to the attention of Earl Tupper, Brownie was hired as Vice President of Sales to develop the model for the hostess party for his company. She helped to build the Tupperware empire. She'd fill the "Wonder Bowl" with water and toss it around, showing the guests how the Tupperware seal worked, how easy the stuff was to stack, and so on. There was a regular training program and a 4-day sales meeting that featured successful sales stories, entertainment and the introduction of new products. Her mantra was, "You build the people and they'll build the business."

In 1954, Brownie Wise became the first woman to grace the cover of Business Week magazine.

In 1958, she was sacked. Mr. Tupper wanted to sell the business and thought he'd have a better chance if an outspoken woman wasn't at the helm of the sales division. She sued and receive $30,000. She tried to parlay her experience by founding other companies, but never had the success she enjoyed at Tupperware. She died in 1992, at the age of 79.

Today, the Tupperware party lives on, although you can purchase some of the products online. I think part of what made these parties so popular back in the day was the social aspect. It was an excuse to get out, enjoy nibbles, and spend time with friends.

I still have the Tupperware I purchased from parties I hosted/attended in the 1980s. I love the stuff. It's good quality and gets the job done.

And, yes, I hosted other parties, too. Including the "marital aids" party I mentioned earlier.

But that's a story for another day.

A Winter Moment

There was no party in the park. No sunset vigil. No hoo-ha at all.

Poor Winter Solstice.

Unlike its warm counterpart, winter is not greeted joyfully, but with groans and sighs. Hunkering down for the winter, preparing for the onslaught of snow and cold.

I guess I'm just as bad as everyone else (except the skiers and Jayson). I hate driving in the snow. Shoveling snow. Having to warm up my car. Bundling up.

So when I looked out the window this morning and saw the ground was covered, I grimaced and grabbed a broom. I reminded myself that last week I told the Big Guy it would be okay if it snowed some other time, just please spare our family gathering in Columbus. He did. So now I needed to shut my pie hole, suck it up, and go clean off the porch steps and find my newspaper.

It was still dark-ish out. And quiet. So very quiet. I just stood on the porch for a few minutes. It must not be too cold, because I could hear the drip drip of the stuff melting off the roof. That, and a few cars on the main street whooshing by.

I paused and took stock.

All we get are moments. At least, that's what I believe. Happiness doesn't come to us, it's something that lives inside, something we tap into. So much we cannot control, it's just pointless to try.

On my porch this morning, looking out across my little lawn, I enjoyed a few moments of peace. A slice of happiness in just being.

Fine, roll your eyes if you must, tell me I'm going all woo-woo again. I don't care.

I was just giving my props to Winter. We may not always be on the friendliest of terms, but He does have something about him, and if I choose to, I can appreciate his style.

Until I have to scrape his leavings off my car.

P.S. Bonus points if you can spot my newspaper on the lawn in the photo above.

Fa La Blah Blah Blah

This is about the time of the holiday season when I reach my maximum capacity for holiday tunes.

I've heard countless renditions of the secular classics, including (but not limited to) Silver Bells, Jingle Bell Rock, Twelve Days of Christmas and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Plus the religious carols, a la Silent Night, The First Noel, Little Drummer Boy and Joy to the World. Not to mention all the latter-day classics: Lennon and McCartney with their respective holiday cheer; Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas, and, who can forget (no matter how hard they try), George Michael crooning Last Christmas.

I will admit to having a nostalgic soft spot for the music of my childhood. Alvin and the Chipmunks still rock my world. Mitch Miller and his sing-alongers are still welcome. And I enjoy a little Bing, a Little Rosemary Clooney, a little Mantovani.

And yes, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas still makes me teary.

Music has always been a memory trigger for me. Which is generally a good thing, particularly at this time of year. I envision my mom's handiwork on the holiday decorations. Dad wrangling the live Christmas tree into position, murmuring expletives under his breath so as not to corrupt young minds (ha ha), trying to position the tree so the best part was in the front. And six of us decorating the tree, arguing over the aesthetics, the older ones re-hanging ornaments that were too close together or unclumping tinsel clumped by us younger sibs.

My dad, sitting in his chair, sipping a hot toddy, the room lit only by the lights from the tree. The fake cardboard fireplace. The little trees on the "mantel" that spun when the lights inside them warmed, casting patterns onto the wall. These are the images that holiday music evokes.

Hmmm...I suppose I can put up with the holiday noise for another couple of weeks.

But please, no hippos for Christmas. Or dogs barking out Jingle Bells. Or grandmas being run down by reindeer.

Must be Santa. Santa Claus.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Something

What is it about the holidays that make people all crazy about silly stuff?

Making the rounds in social media are the kerfuffle over the Rudolph TV special and the ever-persistent "Merry Christmas" versus "Happy Holidays" greeting, which carries over into Starbucks' coffee cup territory.

Let's tackle Rudolph first.

A beloved classic, the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer TV special has been around as long as my brother (54 years) and viewed by millions of children, presumably without any damage to delicate psyches.

I think it probably started as a joke, but now there are folks who seriously think this special is bad for children because Santa is a bully and Rudolph's dad acts like a dick to his kid, making him wear a false nose so he doesn't embarrass his family.

Then there's the island of misfit toys, which is a whole other Santa's bag of mishegas. 

I think the point here is that in order to have a story, there has to be some sort of conflict to overcome. For Rudolph and Herbie and the misfit toys, it's being different in a world where people (and reindeer) want others to look, think and be just like themselves.

By the end of the tale, Santa and the other critters see the value in being different, and everybody sings as Santa's sleight wings its way through the night.

Despite the hoo-ha, 83% of folks polled still chose Rudolph as their favorite TV holiday special. So I think the controversy is a tempest in a teapot, really. Most of us can appreciate that there was a lesson the grown-ups learned in the end, and that even a train with square wheels and a jack-in-the-box named Charlie can be loved.

As to the holiday greeting thing, can we please just stop?

This is the holiday season, and we have Hanukkah, Winter Solstice, Festivus and Kwanzaa, as well as Christmas. So by saying, "Happy Holidays," we're covering all the bases and being inclusive of all folks, a sentiment I'm pretty sure Jesus would be cool with.

Especially since, in all likelihood, the date of his birth was chosen to coincide with Saturnalia, a pagan holiday that celebrated the Winter Solstice. The idea was to get the pagans on board with Christianity by re-purposing a holiday they were already celebrating. (It wasn't until the 4th century that December 25th was designated as the big guy's birthday.)

If the reason for the season is sharing and love of our fellow human beings, doesn't it make sense to go with "Happy Holidays"?

On the other hand, am I going to get my knickers in a twist if someone wishes me a "Merry Christmas"? Nope. I'm going to take it in the spirit in which it's intended, meaning someone is wishing me glad tidings during this festive season.

So, if your coffee cup is red when you wanted it to be green or it doesn't have the greeting you prefer, just drink up, toss the cup and get on with your life.

Happy Merry Holiday Christmas Hanukkah Kwanzaa Winter Solstice Festivus Everyone!

They're Trying to Sleigh Me

It's an occupational hazard, I presume, that causes me to watch television commercials.

While others may turn away or run to the loo, I sit and watch until the bitter end. Particularly during the holiday season.

What amazes me is the number of car commercials. A seemingly endless parade, in fact. A phenomenon which didn't exist (or wasn't as overt) back in the day.

People must buy cars and trucks and SUVs for Christmas, I have to assume, otherwise, it wouldn't pay to advertise them. But it's something that I -- a baby boomer from a modest middle-class family -- cannot fathom.

One in particular has nettled Mr. Ginley since it first began to play. A woman walks into her kitchen with two small indistinct objects in her hand, sets them on the counter, and says, "I did a little early shopping this year." Her husband picks up the object, makes a dismissive comment about it, and says, "I did a little early shopping, too." Whereupon the husband leads the wife back outside to show her two mammoth trucks (his and hers). Except that, in a moment of high hilarity, she chooses the black one, which everybody knows is the boy's. He shrugs and acquiesces to his wife (clearly, playing the role of the little rich girl who always gets her way), and settles on the candy apple red because, "I like red, too."

The best part, at least for Mr. Ginley, is the teeny tiny type at the bottom of the ad that states the sticker price for these behemoths is over $50,000 apiece.

Where do I begin?

First and foremost, of course, how many people spend $100,000 on Christmas? Then, what guy hands over $100,000, then backs down when his wife chooses the $50,000 monstrosity he has his heart set on? Finally, how did the wife miss seeing these two goliaths in her driveway?

I cannot remember what brand of trucks these things were. I suppose it could be argued that if I coveted such things, I would recall. But to me, all the vehicle ads look pretty much alike, they all have their own little bells and whistles, and I know I'm not going to buy one, so I really don't care.

On the other hand, if you're spending a gajillion dollars to create and air a commercial, shouldn't it be memorable, not just for its content, but for who created that content?

Come to think of it, there aren't a lot of jingles or memorable tag lines these days, either.

Said the old-timer who can still sing, "See the USA in a Chevrolet."

Where have you gone, Don Draper?

Thankfuliscious

We had a wonderful Turkey time, spent both with family (Wednesday evening) and friends (Thursday).

Mr. G. with unidentified sleeping guy at the Fleetwood Diner.

In the true tradition of the season, I thought I would list, in no particular order, ten things for which I am thankful. Just to note, I am not including Mr. Ginley or my kid or family in this list because, of course, I am thankful for them every day. And yes, I appreciate my good health. This list is for some of the other stuff.

1. I'm going to start off with John and Lisa, mostly because they are top of mind for hosting our Thanksgiving feast for the third year in a row. We couldn't get a better meal in a fine restaurant anywhere. Everything was delish, and the company was great. Our only regret is we didn't get to visit more with our hosts, who were busy preparing the meal for us.

2. Cats. Maggie joined our merry band this year to make us a trio. Yes, I know, I am often saying, "Kitties of world ain't nothin' but trouble," because she has stolen Mr. Ginley's favorite pen or splashed all the water out of her fountain (which we had to put away). But, as nature intended, her cuteness saves her ass every time.

3. Coffee and chocolate. Coffee is the nectar of the gods. For those of us who imbibe, no further explanation is required. (Mr. Ginley would substitute Vanilla Coke here, that's his prerogative.) As for chocolate, we can both agree it is, as the kids (used to) say, "bomb diggity."

4. Weekends. Yes, I realize I'm not mining for coal or cashiering at a dollar store, so my job isn't hazardous or anything. Nevertheless, I am thankful for these two days during which I can get all the stuff done that I'm too tired to do weekday evenings.

5. Indoor plumbing and heating. I know that if I had to, I could run outside in all weather to do my business, but I'm grateful I don't have to (bed pan or no bed pan). And hunching over a pile of burning logs, while it can be romantic, is not a habit I'd choose to take up on a permanent basis. I love my furnace. Good furnace.

6. Growing up in an era with rapidly changing technology. Sure, I may not be as zippety-do-dah as my son in terms of picking up new technology. But having experienced stages of progress, I have a much better understanding of why things work the way they do. So if we did lose access to technology for awhile, I would able to put my wits to use and figure out a work-around. (And being off the grid would not throw me into a tailspin.)

7. Good newspapers. Without them, we'd have to rely on social media for our news. And that's never a good thing.

8. Hippie Hash from the Fleetwood Diner in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I experienced this for the first time yesterday, before we left for home. Yum. Yum. Yum. For those of you who've never partaken, it's hash that is chock full of veggies and topped with feta cheese. (And yes, I had the "meaty" version, so it had corned beef in it, too.) Yum.

The hippest of hash.

9. Entertainers. Musicians and actors and comedians. The folks who create and stir up memories and make life palatable by making us laugh and cry and think about something besides ourselves.

10. Words. Enough said.

No Face Like Gnome

Finding no inspiration for a topic for this blog in my local rag, I poked my head out from the newspaper and made eye contact with my gnome.

That's when I decided.

Unlike my friends across the pond, my gnome resides in my living room, not my backyard. His eyes possess the wisdom of the ages, his beard bespeaks a life packed with interesting experiences, and his pipe gives him a Fred-McMurray-as-Steve-Douglas persona.

Hmmm. Now that I think of it, I never named him. I think "Douglas" would work.

But I digress.

Off I went to my friend the Google to learn what I could about my woodland friend.

Gnomes date back to the early 1700s. They were said to be spirits who live inside the earth and guard its treasures. They have been described as "diminutive" (just like me!) and troll-like.

The gnomes we know today -- the red-capped, long-coated pipe smokers -- hail from Germany and Switzerland. Known as folklore dwarfs, these garden figures migrated from Germany to England in the 1860s.

Today, garden gnomes can be found at craft stores and garden centers alike. They have many faces and sizes, and enjoy a place of pride beside chrome balls and lawn jockeys.

We actually have two -- one is a gnome that was a giveaway at a Washington Capitals hockey game. It bears the visage of Nicklas Backstrom, the Swedish star of the Capitals.

Mr. Ginley rolled his eyes when I brought home the first gnome. But I believe he's grown rather fond of our Douglas.

What's not to love?

A Capital Story

"Wow," Mr. Ginley exclaimed from the office. "Come here, you gotta read this."

He was on Twitter, his social media platform of choice, when he came across a story about a guy who donated his half of a 50-50 raffle from a Washington Capitals' hockey game. The Caps, who were playing the Penguins that night, had slated their half of the pot to support the Jewish Federation of Pittsburgh, which is managing recovery efforts from the shooting that took place at the Tree of Life synagogue last month. The winner of the other half, an 8-year season ticket holder, who was attending the game with his teenage son, decided to do the same.

Sounds pretty nice, a tidy little sum of money donated to support a worthy cause.

Except this guy's half of the take totaled $19,285.

"Would you have been willing to donate that money?" Mr. Ginley asked me.

"Maybe part of it," I replied. "But no, honestly, not all of it."

The winner admitted he would not have gotten out his checkbook and donated this sum. But he said "it was easy" to do so, given that it was just a matter of signing a paper declining the winnings.

I thought it would be interesting to find out who this guy is and what the rest of his life is like but, alas, he wished to remain anonymous.

But the dad wasn't the only hero here. His son asked his dad, prior to the game when it was announced where the Caps' half of the winnings would be donated, if he could spend his own money to buy some tickets. Together, they bought $100 in raffle tickets.

And they didn't check the ticket numbers until they were heading out of the arena after the game.

With all of the outrageous nonsense that continued to spew from the leader of our torn-up country this past week, reading this story soothed my soul a little.

Love does trump hate.

Repeat and repeat and repeat.

Oh, and by the way, the ticketholder and his son? They're not Jewish.

They just wanted to help.

Speaking of Gerbils

Included in today's local rag, in the section that tells you all of the amazing happenings in town, is the announcement that the Midwest Gerbil Show is being held in Westlake.

In attendance will be gerbil breeders and enthusiasts. And, just like the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, this one will have judges to assess the rodents for the shade of their fur and their temperament. (Snarky gerbils need not attend.)

The event will also feature pet classes and include competitions for things like toilet paper roll chewing and ball races. And what event would be complete without a photo booth?

This story took me back to my own childhood. We were not permitted to have a dog or a cat. My mom figured (rightly so, I'm sure) that the responsibility for caring for a larger animal would fall to her. "I already have six children, that's enough," she would say.

So, we had to scout about for smaller critters. My brothers led the charge with birds, a snake, and a frog. My sister had turtles.

Then we landed on gerbils. We had a number of the cute, furry critters over the years. They lived in an aquarium, which we quickly learned required a caged top (they're great little jumpers). They were relatively clean, so their cage didn't require frequent changing. Entertaining and lively, they were the perfect pet.

(Except for that time when one escaped when we were out of town and chewed a hole in the mattress.)

At that time, not everyone was familiar with gerbils. They were brought here from northern China in 1954 to use as lab animals. But the researchers fell in love with them and started taking them home as pets. And the rest, as the cliché goes, is history.

Sadly, gerbils don't spend a long time with us. The average life span is 3-3 1/2 years. But they sure carpe diem the heck out of their lives while they last.

On a somewhat related note, for those of you who are snickering about "gerbiling," NO, Richard Gere did not, and there have NEVER been any proven instances of a hospital visit by ANYONE who had to have a rodent removed from their rectum.

As always, I'm happy to be your source for both news and accurate information.

Doctor My Eyes

We were having flashbacks this week to the old Twilight Zone episode called, Time Enough at Last.

Henry Bemis (played by Burgess Meredith) is the only survivor of a nuclear apocalypse. He's giddy to find the remains of the local public library. Reading is his passion, and he's never gotten along well with people. He begins to stack books in piles, planning years ahead. Finally, he sits down and sighs, "Now I have all the time in the world to read." He leans over to pick up one of the tomes, and his glasses fall off his head and break.

He's blind without his glasses.

"That's not fair," he moans. "I had all the time I needed."

Avid readers everywhere felt his pain. Mr. Ginley felt it in a more personal way this week, when his eye doctor diagnosed him with a "palsy of the left third nerve." Meaning his left eye works and his right eye works, they just don't play well together.

Meaning he finds it nearly impossible to read. Or watch TV. Or work on the computer. Or walk in a straight line.

The prescription, the doctor said, is time. Give it time. How much? No one can say.

In the meantime, my husband is trying to adjust to his new limitations. That's tough for someone who is surrounded by books in every room of the house.

He's listening to an audio book, but it often makes him sleepy.

Of course, crossword puzzles, which have also been his passion, are out. We've changed our routine in the evenings, so I am reading clues to him, telling him where the answers are positioned, so he can get an idea in his mind of the layout. I really suck at this, by the way, because I'm subconsciously trying to solve the puzzle in my head, so I have a tendency to jump ahead. It's been a learning experience for me, and a lesson in patience.

I'm proud of the fact that he's dealing with all of this so well. My husband is not patient, but he's been extraordinarily so the past week and a half. Hopefully, he will wake up one day soon, and his eyes will be back to normal.

In the meantime, he is keeping his sense of humor. He often quotes me as quoting a line from True Grit, "I call that mighty bold talk for a one-eyed fat man."

We return to the eye doctor on Wednesday. Hopefully, he will have encouraging news.

Cue Joni Mitchell...Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone...

Typecasting

Mr. Ginley and I were looking at our grade school report cards the other day.

We came to the conclusion that every kid goes through their school years with some sort of common thread relating to their character.

I always got, "Doesn't participate enough in class." During conferences with my teachers, my parents would always hear laments about what a good student I was, but I would never raise my hand.

There was a reason for this, of course. I did not want to be the brainy kid. And yet, in later school years, when boys would deign to write in my yearbook it was always something like, "to the smart, quiet kid in my Spanish class."

I was painfully shy. Excruciatingly shy. (Go ahead and laugh, it's true.)  Intermittently throughout my school years, I would come out of my shell, but invariably ducked back in again. So participating in class was something I was desperate to avoid. I'd avert my eyes. Stare at the paper on my desk. Slump down in my seat. Anything to not be noticed and called on.

Mr. Ginley had a mixed social life in school. At one point, his report card called him out as being "a good citizen." But in another year, he was castigated for his shenanigans, and his father penned the response, "This will stop at once." (Knowing his dad, and his belt, it probably did, too.)

I imagine we all had labels. The class clown. The slow kid. The cool kid. The geek. The rebel. The jock. The know-it-all. The snob. The teacher's pet. The weirdo. The show-off. The paste-eater.

Fortunately, most of these labels fall away when we grow up.

How many times have we met someone who was a school mate and been amazed at how unlike their school self they had become?

One of my favorite lines from a movie was spoken by John Candy in Uncle Buck. He fills in for his brother at a conference with his niece's school assistant principal. 

In response to her disparaging comments about his niece, he says, "I don't think I want to know a six-year-old who isn't a dreamer or a silly-heart. And I sure don't want to know one who who takes her school career seriously."

Amen, brother.

Pun with Words

"I brought some thyme in for the Pumpkin Party today," Robyn told me on the way out of the ladies' room yesterday. "Stop by and pick up a bunch."

Thyme in a Bottle

"It's the perfect 'thyme' for it," I quipped wittily.

Robyn rolled her eyes. "People have been doing that all day," she said.

I suppose it's a hazard of working with creative folks. On the other hand, I think punnery is pretty universal. Just look at Facebook. The place is crawling with double entendres and such.

By the way, I just learned something. Did you know there's such a thing as a single entendre? That's when the speaker doesn't even bother trying to be cute, he (or she) just says the bawdy thing outright, no cleverness there.

But I digress.

As one might expect, puns go way back. Like 7th Century BC way back. Sanskrit is rife with them. The Roman playwright Plautus employed them liberally. And we all know what a wacky punster Shakespeare was.

Not to digress again, but I do it so well -- Did you know that "nothing" was pronounced "no-ting," as in observing, and that Elizabethans used this word as slang for "vagina," which gives a whole new/old meaning to the title Much Ado About Nothing. (There's some fascinating stuff online on this topic. The Google will point the way if you want to check it out.)

The 1995 O. Henry Pun-Off World Champion, John Pollack, wrote a book called, The Pun Also Rises. I'm adding it to my reading list. I perused excepts, and I'm ready to book.

Before I descend into a pit of bad puns, I'm going to call it a day. Feel free to comment with your favorite pun. Everybody has at least one.

Beware, however, as malapropisms, while also amusing, are a donkey of another color. We'll talk about that at our next "Come to Jesus Party."

It's a discussion for another thyme.

Un-Zipped

When Diane suggested going ziplining as a sisters birthday activity, I was all in. I thought it sounded like fun, zipping along over the treetops at the Wilds, a nature preserve with roaming zebras and giraffes and rhinos and suchlike.

My sister, Denise, showing how it's done

Alas, ziplining isn't for everyone.

Meaning me.

I had a strong suspicion as we went through the training session that this was not something I was going to be able to manage. Everyone was very supportive, encouraging me to give it a try.

But it wasn't until I got to the tower, was attached to the line, and told to go that pure terror set in. I've never experienced anything like it before, a sensation so primal, I believe it must have roots in a past life or in my ancestry somewhere. I forced myself to grab onto the hardware that carried me to the next post. But then, as I drew nearer the post, the terror thing kicked in, and my gut reaction was to brake a little too early. I made a clumsy landing, shaking uncontrollably.

For the next zip, we were told to "cannonball" so that we didn't stall on the line. As if I wasn't already afraid of getting stuck halfway along. I did as instructed, but put on the brakes too soon. The instructor was calling out to me to "pull yourself along like we did in practice." I managed to get myself close enough so he could grab my hand and pull me in.

That's when I bailed, assuring my sisters I'd be perfectly fine waiting for them on solid ground.

Back-up was called, I zipped down the escape line, and was assured by the guide that I'd done the right thing.

"Some people wait too long, and it's not pretty," she said, comforting me.

The day was so beautiful, I just enjoyed sitting outside and communing with the birds, the sky and the trees. 

I was proud of my sisters, who finished the course with flying colors and a certificate and full-color photos to prove it.

Once the bus returned us to the car, we snacked on apples and hit the road, with a stop at a nearby bird sanctuary. Diane and I nabbed our binoculars, and it was fun to practice my birdwatching skills...an activity which would have been much more productive if the birds had shown up. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful, quiet spot.

Back in the car, yours truly navigated (don't laugh), and with the help of the duo in the back seat, we found an Olive Garden. We didn't know when selecting our restaurant that it was homecoming weekend, and OG, apparently, is the go-to place. We got to see lots of teens dressed to the nines.  Afterward, we headed for C-Bus, and based on Denise's recommendation, stopped off for ice cream (okay, it was frozen custard), which is part of the sisters tradition.

As always, it was great spending sister time. They're good company.

Honestly, it doesn't really matter to me what we do. I just think it's cool that we can make time to spend together.

Especially when we all have our feet on the ground!

P.S. A special shout-out to Mr. Ginley who, once again, filled in for me while I was off having my adventures.

Zipping Along

Please allow me to again take to the typewriter to replace this column’s usual author.  She is once again away for the weekend with her sisters.  It now appears to me that the number of sisters she has is more than I recall.  And I do remember their names. But they now seem to be coming out of the proverbial woodwork! Sweet Lord of the Dance just how many sisters does she have? I thought she only has two but she gallivants around the state of Ohio on, what appears to me now, to be at somewhat regular intervals.

When she informed me that she was going to some distant place in the wilderness of Ohio to “Zip Line,” she immediately told me to “zip your big mouth shut” before I could even get my usual snide comments out of my mouth. But as she is not here to stop me, I can at least confide in you, the ever-loyal reader.  The only things that I am aware of that have a “Zip” in them are clothing, food storage bags and codes.

I am reliably informed by My Lovely Bride that people pay good, hard earned cash to slide down a “Zip Line” in the wilderness. She referred to it as “an adventure.” Not me, Brother.  I like my relaxation to be non-life threatening!

When we parted yesterday morning, I advised her not to be the first down said “Zip Line.” She looked at me with a weird look in her eyes.  I said that this may be part of some elaborate murder plot.  It may be that, long ago she may have broken or scratched one of her sister’s records.  This may be some long overdue revenge.

I just noticed that odd look in your eyes and the way you just shook your head.

Perhaps, you do not know what a “Record” is?  Dear Reader, this is your lucky day!  I remember “Records.”  I still have more than a few.  And a lot of cassette tapes, CD’s and even an 8-Track.  A “Record” was a very slim disc with tiny grooves made of Vinyl.  It was designed to play on a “Record Player.”  When one placed a “Record” on a “Record Player” and placed the “Needle” (because it looked like a needle) on the “Record," music came out of the “Record Player.”

Moving on…

But My Lovely Bride does not trust me.  This time, I was demoted!  She left Maggie, our cat in charge!  She also left me “A lot of food.”  But none of them from the four basic and approved food groups.  No potato chips.  No chocolate.  No Vanilla Coca-Cola.  But she did leave two single-serve sized packs of Oreo cookies.  A total of four cookies.  Four!  Thank the Good Lord I found a Pepsi in the back of the refrigerator!  But she did not lie; she left a lot of “Food.”  A container of Cole Slaw and a container of Tuna Pasta Salad.  And a lot of fruit: oranges, lemons, grapes and watermelon.  Now how can a man stay alive for two whole, American days?  It could go either way…

Fruit.  Fruit.  I have been to the grocery store with My Lovely Bride in the past.  I have observed people shop for provisions.  They always look at the fruit.  And they want to buy some of it.  But…  It’s a lot more fun to buy and eat that Hot Dog.  Or that juicy, delicious steak.

I ask you, gentle reader have you ever attended what we call “A party?”  I think you have done such a thing as this.  I have, in the past.  Think back, did you partake of some refreshments of a non-liquid variety?  I know you have.  I have.  Be honest here, what did you eat first?  Did you have yourself a nice big bowl of potato chips?  Or maybe the pretzels?  Or the home-made chocolate chip cookies?  Raise your hand if you ate from the fruit plate first.  I don’t see any raised hands.  Mine isn’t.  I contend that you only eat from the fruit plate first if you are trying to convince your significant other you are being good.  But the moment her back is turned, get out of the way…those potato chips have an appointment in my tummy!  Or if said goodies are all gone and you have to eat anything.  Then the red peppers and the celery are just fine.  But that is why there is only one fruit plate and many, many bags of potato chips and pretzels at the party!  The last party I attended, some angel brought Maple-Glazed Bacon. But in some stupid, insane attempt at “being a good boy,” I had some of the fruit plate first.  When I went back, I was broken-hearted to find the Bacon was all gone…

Never again!

To one and all of the dear readers out there in the world, have a wonderful weekend…

To My Lovely Bride, have a great time with your sisters, however many of them there are.  Come back to me safe and sound…I have a feeling I may be feeling just a bit peckish…

Love the One You're With

We should have known, when we saw that the traffic light was out, something was amiss.

It all became clear when we entered our neighborhood go-to establishment last night, and, being the observant creatures we are, noticed all the power was out.

No lights. No TV. No-can-do for dinner.

Although they were making plans to shut the place down because they couldn't predict when power would return,  the bartender took pity on us, and before shooing us out, let me have my Tanqueray and tonic.

The effect of drink-with-no-food had the predictable effect, and I trundled homeward in a pleasant haze. Rather than seek another place to eat, and knowing I was in no condition to go home and prepare a meal, Mr. Ginley suggested we stop at Walgreen's and grab some snacks. No argument from "Drunky McWifey," as he fondly refers to me when I'm in this state. I followed him through the aisles as we picked up chips, more chips and a rather large package of M 'n Ms. Our strategy was to eat our way through the essential junk food groups as we watched a couple episodes of the Great British Baking Show (Season 5).

All went according to plan, and there was peace (and later, indigestion) throughout the land.

But, you know, the whole episode gave me pause.

You don't know what you've got until it's gone. I mean, what would we have done if there was no power at our house when we'd returned? We couldn't have watched our show. It being the end of the day, our phones and our electronic devices would have quickly petered out. What would we do? With whom would we converse?

So, I'm suggesting it right here and now. Stop what you're doing. Go over and give your TV a hug. Kiss your cell phone. Tell your I-Pad how much it means to you. These are the things we love, after all, and they deserve to know how special they are.

And, although they can't return the affection, you'll feel the love the next time you log in and check your Facebook page.  All those little thumbs up and smiling emojis will supply the warm and fuzzies.

As for me, although you can't see it, I'm giving my laptop a great big hug right now.

After all, it's aiding and abetting my smart-ass nature. What more could you expect from a bff?

It Takes Balls

As often happens, my brain takes one story and goes in a completely different direction. And, somewhere along the line, I learn something.

And I share it with you.

This was the case as I read a story in my local rag (picked up from Reuters) about a knife attack in Paris. What surprised me most is that I hadn't read anything about it anywhere else.

The story went that seven people were stabbed by a knife-wielding nutjob. Said nutjob was felled by a group of French folks playing a game called "boule" (pronounced "bul" and meaning "ball"). One of the players hit the perp in the head with one of the heavy metal balls used in the game. His fellow game-players joined in, and they were able to subdue the man until police arrived. As the crowd grew ugly, one man insisted that, no, they were not going to kill the guy, they were going to make sure he faced justice.

I was quite intrigued by this story about locals taking down a bad guy. Most of all, perhaps, because of the weapon of opportunity.

"Boule," I learned, thanks to Wikipedia and a British website called TradeGames.org, probably evolved from an ancient game played by the Egyptians using stone balls. Later, the balls became wooden, and at one point the game was outlawed by Henry VIII because the hoi polloi were playing with their balls when they should have been making things. 

The game was so popular that Sir Francis Drake insisted on finishing his game before heading out to knock off the Spanish Armada on July 8, 1588.

Eventually, the game became known as "lawn bowling," and if you're thinking you'd be playing "bocce" if you were in Italy, you would be correct.

The object is to throw or roll the ball and get it as close as you can to a smaller target ball.

Being a word nerd, I just love the names involved with the game.

For example:

"Boccia" means ball. "Bocce" is plural.

"Bollas Criolas" is played in Venezuela.

"Ula Maika" is enjoyed by Polynesians.

"Pentaque" is a version that evolved for people who were unable to use their legs. (Although able-bodied folks like it, too.)

The small target ball is called a "cochonnet" or "le but" (French for piglet and target, respectively), "pallino" (Italian for little ball) and "jack" (English, no real consensus why, except it may mean a smaller version, like a "jack-rabbit" is a smaller bunny).

Admittedly, I've never played any version of this sport, but I am intrigued by its history.

Not to mention the capacity of its balls to take down evil-doers.