Rants and Raves

Although Mr. Ginley and I are no strangers to the idea of social isolation, there are signs that tensions are ramping up in these days of Covid-19.

It's not like we were hanging around in bars or going to sporting events or parties. We'd already done a lot of cutting back and had become accustomed to spending most of our days at the Casa de Ginley.

But I believe the closing of the libraries was a bridge too far for my other half. Aside from accusing the cat of threatening to rip out his throat with her "talons of steel," lately, he has taken to yelling at the television and his I-Pad.  Well, okay, he's always done this to some extent, but lately it's been getting worse.

I'm learning how to cope.

For example, I've found it's best if we watch DVDs rather than live TV. This precludes having to sit through rants about the commercials. Permit me to share:

"What kind of parents are you, your kid fills up the sink to overflowing and you think that's cute? Now you're going to have to mop up that monsoon and hope you don't have to call a contractor to fix your ceiling. That kid is asking for a spanking."

"Who takes a dog to a car dealership? Leave your dog at home, what's wrong with you?!"

"Don't be stupid. Stop putting baby powder in your..."

Well, you get the idea.

Also, every time an ad comes on selling one of those "ask your doctor" medications, and they list all the symptoms, without fail, Mr. Ginley says, "I've got all that. I must have (fill in the disease/disorder)."

Worst of all is the news, which turns him into a fiery ball of frustration -- with politicians, meteorologists and vapid reporters.

Sometimes I laugh. Mostly I shrug and let him blow off steam.

It seemed like a good idea to air him out, so we went for a drive through the park. The skies were blue, the trees budding, Mother Nature in all her loveliness. What is there to kvetch about?

"Hey, Lance Armstrong, get out of the middle of the road."

"How come when I see a jogger, it's a dude, where are all the pretty girls?"

"Stop tailgating, Mario Andretti -- if you were in a hurry, you should have taken the freeway!"

And so it goes. The soundtrack of my life.

Serial Thrillers

"One Saturday afternoon, you'd watch a Dick Tracy short, and there he was, sailing over a cliff in the last frame. You'd wonder all week how he was going to get out of that fix. Then, next week, in the opening shot, you'd see Tracy jump to safety at the last possible second."

According to my Dad, that's how serial pictures kept you coming back. He'd explain on rainy Saturday afternoons, when we were stuck indoors and watching old movies together on TV. (He loved Tarzan -- especially the stampeding elephants.) His favorite line to deliver, at the suspenseful climax of any movie or TV show, was something like, "He's in for it now. I guess this will be the last show."

Of course, it wasn't. And our hero lived to face another day of treachery and mayhem.

I imagine serials have been around as long as storytelling has existed. Even ancient peoples were curious about what would happen next.

Today, we have binge watching. Where you don't have to wait until next week to see what happens. You can stay glued to your device for hour upon pointless hour.

On some level, I understand this guilty pleasure. On the other hand, there is something delicious about having to wait to find out.

I know some people are like this with books, too. They turn to the end to read the final chapter. Admittedly, I've been guilty of this on occasion, but only with books I was having a difficult time slogging through. So if it had a bad ending, I would just bail. I know this is cheating, but, well, it's my book and I'll peek if I want to.

Today, the sun shines, the snow melts and I'm not going to be watching television this afternoon. In spite of the cold, I hope to persuade Mr. Ginley to take a walk with me.

But maybe later, I'll dip into the archives and partake of a bit of noir...even if it's something I've seen before.

Half the time, I can't remember the plot, anyhow.

Oh well. Enjoy your day. I'll be back next week with another exciting installment!

Eggs-traordinary

There's a part of me that wants to go out right now and buy a Paas Easter egg coloring kit.

Displayed on the official Easter Egg Tray

Yes, I know I'd have to make more hard boiled eggs than the two of us could/should eat. And yes, I realize it would never be the same as sitting at a table comprised of bickering/bossy siblings. (And yes, I get that I fall into that category as it relates to my younger brother, Paul. Sorry, Paul.)

Coloring eggs was a family tradition that lasted well into my teens. We were each apportioned a share of eggs. My mom (or older sister) would prepare the water and add the dye, and we would proceed to dunk the eggs whole, or suspend them using little wire hangers. (If you weren't careful, the egg would roll off the hanger, and you'd have to give up your dream of a perfectly half-and-half colored egg.)

The longer the egg was in the bath, the deeper the color. Being creatures of limited patience, us younger siblings tended to produce eggs in pastel shades. We would jazz them up by adding the stickers provided in the kit.

In addition, the Paas folks discovered that if you used a clear wax crayon on the egg before you dunked it, the dye wouldn't stick to that part. So you could create designs or add your own special message. The problem with this was, because you were using a clear crayon on a white egg, you couldn't really see the quality of your work until the egg came out of its colorful soak. Many times, while I would envision something wondrous making its appearance, more often than not, the lettering would appear as though it had been penned by someone who'd imbibed one cocktail too many. This, naturally, resulted in much mirth from older siblings, who had long-ago wised up to the limitations of crayon-on-egg.

The egg decorating always took place the day before Easter (also known as "Holy Saturday"). Good Friday was somber. Easter was joyful. Holy Saturday was a break that allowed you to adjust and get ready for the big, "ta da!"

As a child, the religious connotations of Easter escaped me. I remember one year, my brother and I were watching cartoons on Good Friday. Mom made us turn off the TV and contemplate Jesus rising from the dead. But the whole concept was way above our earth-bound childhood heads.

Which is probably why my fondest memories of this holy day involve new hats and dresses to wear to Easter morning mass. Plus chocolate rabbits and jelly beans. And hunting Easter eggs.

I'm sure if I asked him, Mr. Ginley would hide a few eggs around the place for me to find. But it just wouldn't be the same.

Do families still dye Easter eggs? And have hunts for their kids? I hope so.

I always enjoy living (or re-living) vicariously through others.

Wishing all of you a safe, healthy, Happy Easter!

Physical Fitless

As most of you know, I'm a sports fan primarily by association.

Mr. Ginley has been known to remark, "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't know what holding was (football) or the infield fly rule (baseball) or what the five hole is (hockey).

This may have been in part because I was never athletically inclined during my growing up years. I excelled at activities that required endurance but not skill. One of my favorite gym classes in high school was called "conditioning." We were required to fulfill a certain number of activities to pass the class -- run a certain number of laps around the gym, do x number of push-ups and so many jumping jacks.

Certainly, early on I was hampered by the fact I refused to wear glasses, rendering me useless at softball, for example, because I couldn't see the ball until it was hitting me in the head. Something which I had a total dread of. As a result, if I sensed the ball was coming at me, I had a tendency to duck, which is not the desirable reaction for an outfielder.

I once took a tai chi class, which so stressed me out, I ended up dropping out. Sure, I could repulse a monkey or grasp a sparrow's tail with the best of them. But it was going from one movement to the next with grace and fluidity that tripped me up. As a result, instead of moving in the same direction as the rest of the class, I would find myself face-to-face with a classmate. At some point during the course, it occurred to me that feeling agitated after each session was not doing me any good.

Finally, I landed on walking as exercise. Happily, I can hoof it with the best of them. For miles and miles in the park and around the neighborhood. And walking is something I can do in the comfort and convenience of my own home -- I have a pile of exercise DVDs and a small TV in my basement. There, no one is watching me oof and ugh through the routines, and I feel pretty good when I'm finished.

Plus, I don't have to worry about getting hit in the head. Or hearing snickers from others around me.

Best of all, the instructor on the video always tells me that I've done a good job and encourages me to come back next time.

Sure, I know she's not talking just to me.

But I appreciate her inspiring words, all the same.