Great Skates

"I didn't know you liked ice skating," Mr. Ginley observed.

I replied that I did, but I know he enjoys the hockey and curling during the Olympics, and I didn't want to rain on his parade.

As it turned out, my better half stayed up until the wee hours watching the women's hockey team play Canada (way to go, USA!)

And thus it transpired that Mr. indulged me and my closet joy of figure skating, and took himself upstairs to read so I could watch without commentary.

The first night, I tuned in for the short routines. I fell asleep at some point late in the proceedings, but I did get to see most of the skaters.

For the medal night, Mr. again took himself off so that I could enjoy. I, in my naivete, thought there would be fewer skaters. There were, but not by much. Checking the TV schedule, I saw the figure skating was set for 8:00 to 10:00.  "Cool," says me. "I can watch the whole thing and still be in bed at a decent time."

"Oh, contrary," as Bugs Bunny would have said.

Shortly before 10:00, as it was occurring to me this wasn't going to end anytime soon, the channel I was watching announced I needed to change to a different station to finish watching the competition.

The times? 10:00 to midnight. So much for a good night's sleep.

But I must say, it was was worthwhile seeing the two Russians (Alina Zagitova and Evgenia Medvedeva -- yes, I googled it, don't judge) duke it out. Their programs were phenomenal. The pair of them should each have gotten a gold medal. (I know they don't do that, I still think their performances were too close to call). And there were so many other outstanding skaters in the top 10 spots who were a joy to watch.

I can't fathom the amount of time these athletes spend on the ice, the number of injuries they endure or the logistics of putting one's life on hold for these competitions. But they do put on one hell of a show.

Last night on our walk home from dinner, a brew under his belt, Mr. Ginley commented that I just watched because I liked to see the skaters crash.

"It's not NASCAR." I replied. "You're such a boy."

In truth, every time a skater falls or flounders, I feel their anguish.

I think he should stick to hockey and curling. It's as it should be.

Valentimes

As if anyone could have possibly missed it, last Wednesday was Valentine's Day.

It's a holiday most elaborately celebrated, it would seem, by young couples in love. Those of us who have been married or in a relationship for a longer period of time celebrate it in varying degrees.

Mr. Ginley makes me a card. I buy him a card. This year, we purchased a pizza to support a fundraiser for my favorite cat shelter, then munched it in front of the TV while we watched a video.

Polling friends, some choose not to participate at all. Others get flowers or candy. Share a dinner, perhaps.

It is said that a lot of young couples will celebrate this weekend. Which makes sense, I suppose, if you are both working and don't see each other during the week.

In grade school, Valentine's Day was a nice break from winter doldrums. In those days, we could address our cards however we wished. The cute boys got the best ones. The mean kid got the one with the weird drawing and the oddly-constructed sentiment. These days, if schools do let your child hand out Valentines, they have to merely be signed by the student, then distributed one to each child. I suppose this mitigates any favoritism among the students, but it kind of takes the wonder out of it. Occasionally, I'd get a card with a question mark instead of a signature, and I'd wonder for days afterward who gave it to me. (It was probably more intriguing than actually knowing.)

There is a much to be said for long-time relationships. It's good to know someone in this world has your back. And, in spite of sometimes driving each other nuts, it's a fun ride.

So, Happy Valentine's Day to my Valentine.

I know, it's the weekend after. The young folks say it's still okay to celebrate.

So, let's go a little crazy. We'll split a beer. Hand me the pretzels.

Of Weasels and Monkeys and Such

Driving home today, Mr. Ginley started singing "Pop Goes the Weasel."

It was the American version, about the monkey chasing the weasel all around the mulberry bush. He wondered aloud why the monkey thought it was fun.  And why a mulberry bush?

Having no answers, but knowing exactly where to go, I consulted my old friend, The Google.

As it happens, Pop Goes the Weasel is a very old chestnut, indeed. The music came first, then the words. It was quite the dance sensation of the 1850s. There are many variations on the lyrics, none of which make any kind of sense. But there is no end of people trying to do just that.

Theories include the "pop" being a noise made by a spinner's tool, that "weasel" is a Cockney reference to one's gullet, and that the phrase means to pawn a coat, the monkey being a rent collector.

There is no definitive explanation for the words, which are very different depending upon which side of the ocean you reside.

All I know for sure is that the song made the Three Stooges' Curly go crazy every time he heard it.

Also, that the tune was a popular favorite for jack-in-the-box toys of my generation, and that I would probably still jump every time that creepy clown lunged out of the box at the end of the last note.

There are lots of songs whose meanings are lost to the ages. Probably, they were sung in the throes of too much alcohol. And there will always be those folks who try to attribute some sinister meaning to them. (In this case, poverty, sweatshops and spending hard-earned wages in pubs.)

I can still remember when the song American Pie hit the airwaves in 1971. It was so deliciously cryptic, everyone was trying to decipher its meaning. When Don McLean made an appearance on some talk shown at the time, he cagily declined to say what it meant. Many speculated, with the most likely scenario being that American Pie was a ballad about the going-to-hell of popular music.

Don himself summed it up on a manuscript of the song, which was auctioned off a couple of years ago:

“Basically in American Pie things are heading in the wrong direction."

So, there you have it. One mystery solved, years after no one cared.

But we are still left with the enigma of the weasel, the monkey, the mulberry bush and the pop.

I'm proposing my own personal theory, thusly. The writer of the lyrics was obviously prescient. The monkey is Robert Mueller, the weasel is our current president, the mulberry bush is that country that Sarah Palin can see from her window, and the pop is an end to the insanity.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

A SAD State of Affairs

I stood in my front yard very early this morning, newspaper in hand, and stared up at the inky sky.

Rooted to the spot, I enjoyed the peace of the moment, until I realized I couldn't feel my hands anymore and the cold air was making my eyes water like mad.

Is it the weather that has made it so very difficult this year to cope with seasonal depression? Is it the contentious political climate, all that anger brought to the surface? Is it work? The loss of our beloved Mabel cat? Maybe it's a perfect storm of everything that's happening right now.

Mine would probably be described as a mild case of what is now referred to as seasonal affective disorder (SAD -- aren't we clever?) Mostly, I can put on the brave face and work my way through it. Others have it much worse than I, so I don't want to complain too much.

But things are pretty rough right now.

To cope, we have installed daylight bulbs in the house. I've taken some vacation time, but put zero pressure on myself to do anything on those days except be away from work. Jigsaw puzzles have provided distraction. As have countless episodes of Call the Midwife (which, alas, I will soon be caught up with). And we have a countdown calendar in the kitchen that marks off the days to St. Patrick's Day (the Irish end of winter). Also, we left up the Christmas tree (yes, it's a fake one) just because it takes the edge off.

What disturbs me most is that I'm having a hard time reading. Books have always been my solace, but I'm finding it difficult to slog my way through any given tome. I've started several over the past few months, but only finished one or two. It's become a chore for me, and that makes me infinitely sad. I blame it on the fact that I read all day for work and my eyes are tired, but that's not a good excuse. I still read the newspaper and some of the stuff on social media, but even that becomes tedious to me.

My go-to has always been food. That's a struggle, too.

I would love to hear how others find ways to cope. Maybe there's something I've overlooked.

In any event, for all of you who are struggling along the same path, know you're not alone. You know where I am. I'd love to listen. Give me a shout.

I'll bring the tissues. And the chocolate.