Taking a Bite Out of the Apple

The internet truly is a mixed bag. I've gone to the google many times to figure out what a computer error message means, how to salvage a keyboard exposed to coffee or when it's okay to substitute bread flour for all-purpose flour.

LOC public domain photo

But sometimes the internet fails, and I have to rely on my own trial-and-error method of handling things.

Case in point...this week I signed up for Apple TV so Mr. Ginley and I could watch Ted Lasso. Mr. discovered TL after watching snippets of it on YouTube. He got me hooked on it, too. So when I was pondering what to get for Christmas, I thought Apple TV would be a good gift. We could subscribe for a month or so, watch all the episodes and turn it off. 

After signing up, I went to my "smart" TV to set it up. I downloaded the app, put in my account information and was ready to roll.

Unfortunately, when I tried to watch Ted Lasso, the picture was pixelated. I unplugged the TV and plugged it back in. I deleted the app and reinstalled it. I waited until the next day and tried again. No dice.

Off I went to the google and the Apple Support site. The upshot was, my smart TV wasn't smart enough to support Ted. If I wanted to watch him, I had to get a new TV. 

Well, that wasn't going to happen.

"What about the TV upstairs?" Mr. Ginley suggested.

"Well, that one's not a smart TV – and it's a lot older," I replied. But then I shrugged, figured what the heck, and pulled out the Fire Stick that Mr. Trusken so kindly gave me during the family celebration at my sister's house.

I plugged in the Fire Stick and signed onto the Apple TV app and clicked on Ted. Lo and behold, it worked.

"Let me get this straight," Mr. Ginley observed. "The app won't play on our smart TV, but it will do just fine on our dumb TV?"

Yep.

Well, whatever works, I guess. Just another chapter in my experience of bridging old and new technologies. As most of you know, my side gig is converting old-format video tape to DVDs and USBs. Axel has taught me a lot about that. I never would have known there were so many old formats. 

But I digress.

In this case, the internet was not helpful in finding a solution to my Apple TV problem, although it has been in the past. 

So, here's what have we learned from this:

• It's nice to use the internet as a tool, but there's still plenty of room for good old common sense and human brainpower. 
• Artificial intelligence is only as good as the intelligence it's given. 
• I'll never be able to fold a fitted sheet neatly no matter how many times I watch the YouTube video.

Happy New Year! Be joyful and safe, and I'll see you in 2023.

Like the Cobwebs of My Mind

Memories are such tricky things.

I was sure my siblings and I sat through the Beatles' move Help! twice when we visited my grandmother.

But two siblings debunked my memory.

I recall once telling my dad that I was upset he left me in the car on Broadview Hill when the car ran out of gas. He was horrified, and said he never would have left me in the car alone. Obviously, it was a nightmare I had that was so real, my brain stored it as a memory.

So what's true and what's fiction? Can our memories be trusted for anything?

If you sit a group of family members down and bring up an incident, you'll get as many different takes on what happened as you do family members. At least, as far as the details are concerned. We all color our memories with our own perspective. Whether something is funny or tragic depends on how our minds have chosen to spin a particular memory.

And some memories are just false. So what do we do?

I guess we just accept the fact that not everything we recall is 100% fact. We keep the good stuff and let go of the the bad stuff, if we can. After all, no one is going to publish a biography of me, so whatever memories I have are purely for my own entertainment.

So I will enjoy my Christmas memories. 

Listening to the Beatles' Michelle while gazing at the Christmas tree, lit up with the large, colorful bulbs that were popular (before they were recognized as a fire hazard).

Sitting through 6 a.m. mass, the anticipation of opening presents almost too much to bear.

My parents, coffee cups in hand, watching us unwrap our myriad presents.

Starting our own traditions with our son. Setting up a countdown wreath with miniature candy bars on it (like my Mom's). Picking out a live tree and decorating it. Watching A Child's Christmas in Wales on Christmas Eve. Leaving cookies and carrots for Santa and his reindeer. Hanging stockings on the mantel. Clutching a cup of hot coffee and watching our son open his gifts on Christmas morning. 

All memories to cherish. 

As for things like bickering with siblings over placement of tinsel and ornaments or the proper technique for decorating cookies or the angst of getting a Christmas tree perfectly positioned – well, those things are part of Christmas, too. But things that we can laugh about now, with the passage of time.

May your memories of holidays past be happy and may you all be safe and happy, whether you're celebrating Christmas, Hanukkah, Festivus, Kwanza – or you're sitting this one out.

Kitchens and Other Disaster Areas

"Have you learned nothing from me?" Mr. Ginley postulated.

Yes, I made it myself.

If ever there was an invitation to an eyeroll...

"You go to the store, buy a few bags of Chex Mix and put them in a big zipper bag," he continued. You bring your own bowl to put it in and, voilá. You've brought snacks that everyone thinks you made yourself."

"No one in my family is that dumb," I say, daring him to contradict me. "They'll know it's store-bought."

"Well, who cares? You go to all this trouble to buy the ingredients, and you're fretting about not having enough time to prepare it. Now you've got to make a cheese ball and Chex Mix, and it's your own fault, no sense feeling sorry for yourself."

Cue the second eyeroll.

Yes, he's right, of course. After working all day and finishing up a job for my side gig to boot, I really didn't feel like putting in more hours preparing snacks for the big shindig. 

It didn't help that the butter blew up in the microwave, and I had to spend another 10 minutes cleaning up the carnage. 

Or that I chose a too-small bowl to mix the cheese ball in (an error which was also called to my attention by Mr. You-Know-Who). 

The third strike was not being able to locate the nut grinder. I asked Mr. if he knew where it was. After searching through two cupboards that hadn't been accessed in years,  he located the nut grinder for me. My hero!

So let this be a lesson for me for next year. I'm writing it down tonight so I won't forget. 

Of course, I know if I do, someone will be on hand to remind me.

Say goodnight, Gracie.

Leaving Darker Days Behind

This year, the Winter Solstice, – aka the shortest day of the year – falls on December 21st.

Yes, I realize it's not actually the shortest day, it simply has the least amount of daylight. Sunrise will be at 7:04 a.m. and the sun will set at 5:34 p.m.

Trying to look on the bright side, I tell myself that the days will start to get longer after that. 

Still, I'm not big on winter. Cold weather, snow and cabin fever are not appealing to me.

Recently, I read something that suggested we are out of touch with our natural selves. After all, bears hibernate during the winter, why shouldn't we? It suggested we embrace the slow days and long nights by reading books, cozying up to the fireplace and binge watching our favorite movies and TV shows.

I've been casting about for things that will help me cope with what is now referred to as seasonal affective disorder. Here's what I've come up with:

1. A Zen Workspace: Fortunately, my home office is already the warmest room in the house, so that helps. I added a desk lamp that I shine over my notebook while I'm working. I added a little flair to it (see photo) to lift my spirits. I also have a calendar that features lively pastel artwork. (What can I say, it makes me happy.) Also, I listen to music while I work. Andreas Vollenweider is a go-to. And I like Dizzy Dulcimer. Coworkers have suggested brown noise on YouTube, but sometimes it just rubs me the wrong way. To each his own.
2. Exercise: I've already been doing this just about every weekday morning and most Saturdays. After feeding the cat, I head to the basement to fling my limbs hither and yon in the hopes of burning off a calorie or two. When I'm finished, I feel better, like I've accomplished something. I'm pretty sure if I tried to do this later in the day, it wouldn't work because I'd talk myself out of it.
3. Me Time, Breakfast Edition: Call me a Luddite, but I still enjoy reading the newspaper in the morning. I peruse the New York Times newsletter and the actual Plain Dealer (fish-wrap though it may be.) I especially enjoy reading the comics and doing the word puzzles, like the Jumble and the ScrabbleGram. Okay, you can call me a word nerd, too,
4. Organization: Planning and organization have never been my strong suits. But Mr. Ginley's influence has resulted in my designing a spreadsheet where I keep track of my work and the status of each task. I also keep a checklist in front of me that reminds me of the steps I need to follow to finish each job.
5. Me Time, Coffee Break Edition: At some point in the morning, I'll come to a good stopping point and go make another cup of coffee or grab a snack. The trip downstairs, staring out the window for a bit and petting the cat help me recharge the batteries.
6. Me Time, Post Work Edition: Between wrapping up work and starting dinner, I try to take a breather. Read a little or chat with Mr. Ginley. Given that I no longer have the drive home to unwind, I need a break between my roles as worker bee and cook.
7. Bath Time: Once a week – usually Saturday or Sunday evening – I soak in the tub. I light a candle, pour in some bubble bath and close the bathroom door on the world. I don't always succeed in keeping troubles at bay, but it's always a nice try.
8. Food Prep: Alas, I'm not one of those folks who enjoys cooking. I do it out of necessity. My goal is to do a better job of it. I have a folder full of recipes, and over the next few months, I hope to unearth some new recipes to add what is becoming a very tired repertoire. 
9. Jigsaw Puzzles: Our basement, living room and other assorted rooms are home to several boxes of jigsaw puzzles. My goal is to do them and give them away. There is one roadblock – the libraries have started giving them out with the request that you bring the back when you're done. So I'm not making as much headway on my own puzzles as I'd like. Still, I find the jigsaws stimulate my brain cells in a different way.
10. Mindless TV: We don't have cable, but we do pick up a lot of DVDs from the library. And yes, I realize I'll get sick of watching Hallmark movies one of these days. But I'm enjoying them in the meantime. There's something to be said for formulaic plots and happy endings. I'm not turning a blind eye to what's going on in the world, I'm just stepping away from the calamity I can't control.
11. Moments: Every now and then I stop myself and take stock. Am I feeling reasonably well today? Yes. Is there a roof over my head and food on my table? Yes. Are my son and daughter-in-law doing okay? Yes. Do I have someone who would take care of me if I'd fallen and couldn't get up? Yes. Well, then, it's time to send up a little "thank you" to whomever might be listening. I may not be a world traveller, a movie star or a big lottery winner. But right now, I'm okay.

And, soon enough, the days will begin to get longer.

Ornamental Musings

I pondered aloud whether I should up a Christmas tree this year.

"It's totally up to you," Mr. Ginley replied.

"Okay, then," I countered. "I'll put up the tree with just lights on it."

"Aww," Mr. groaned. "You have to put at least some ornaments on the tree."

"Well, you said it was up to me. But okay, which ones do you want me to use?"

"Just the ones that we always put on the tree. Like the Irish one we got from that store in Alexandria the first Christmas we lived there."

And so it was that I proceeded to haul our petite faux tree from the basement and string it with lights. 

Which didn't light.

"Aren't you supposed to test the lights before you put them on the tree?" inquired Mr. Ginley oh-so-helpfully.

"Well, these were the ones that worked last year, when we had the tree up until April," I replied. 

Off came the two strings of lights and into the garbage they went. Up went the two remaining strands. 

Next, I added the Irish ornament, the Eskimo ball that's gone on the tree from the time I left home and the paper angel with Joe's picture on it that was a holiday project in kindergarten. Then I added Thomas the Tank Engine.

"Where's the angel for the top of the tree?" he asked. Up went the angel.

Mr. Ginley peered into the box that housed the remaining ornaments. 

"You could put one Snoopy on the tree," he directed. "And look, you have Thomas' friends, you have to put them up there with Thomas."

I pulled out a green and a red engine, aka, Thomas' cohorts on the Island of Sodor.

"You want me to add these two?" I did not call them by name.

"That's Edward and James," he snipped. "I can't believe you don't remember their names."

Onto the tree went Edward and James.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Oh, it's up to you," he replied. "But don't we have any sports ornaments?"

"We have the Indians but it's got the Chief Wahoo logo on it," I replied. "Ovechkin lives on the mantel all year long, so there's no point putting him on the tree. And we've forsaken the Browns because of he-who-shall-not-be-named."

I then went through and put up a few more of the classics. The Freedom of the Seas ship from our cruise, the tiny stocking with his dad's initials on it and a little stuffed reindeer.

"What's this dog doing on the tree? We're cat people, not dog people." 

"It's a reindeer. And it's been on the tree every year for decades," I explained.

"Hey, what about this one with our cat's picture on it?" he said, pulling yet another trinket from the bin.

"That's not our cat. That's the picture that came with the ornament."

"We should get a photo of Maggie and replace the picture and hang it on the tree."

Now I need to print out the picture of our cat so she can grace the branches of our now not-so-sparsely decorated tree.

Also, I added the plush cast of characters from Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer beneath the tree. 

At last, the decorating was done for the season. Time to sit down, relax and admire my handiwork.

"Hey, why didn't you get out the wreath, the one you always put the little chocolate candy bars on?"

And so it goes.

A Holiday Book Review

We were in the library a couple of weeks ago (aka our natural habitat), and I was gazing at the display of Holiday-themed books. 

Mr. Ginley strolled over and picked one up. He read the flyleaf and handed it to me.

"Here, read this," he commanded.

The title was The Matzah Ball, the author Jean Meltzer. It's essentially a romance novel about Hannukah.

As avid readers of this blog will attest, I love me some Christmas books and Hallmark movies. I know they are formulaic and insipid, but they make me happy. And really, life is too short, and I really don't give a shit what anyone thinks.

Having said that, I admit I hadn't read any romance novels about Hannukah. I was intrigued.

I grew up in Parma, where ethnic diversity only went as far as certain Eastern European countries. Attending a Catholic grade school didn't do much to expand my experiences. It wasn't until I got into the working world that I worked with people who looked different and embraced different religions from my own.

And it wasn't until I started working at J.B. Robinson Jewelers that I had Jewish coworkers. Even at that point, I wasn't exposed to Jewish traditions much because there wasn't a lot of discussion at work about Hannukah. Given the nature of the business, Christmas was the big shiny holiday. People bought lots of gifts for Christmas. They got engaged at Christmas. No one really talked about spinning a dreidel or lighting the menorah. 

Years later, Harry Shapiro came into my life. As it turned out, he would be my boss for 20+ years. From him I learned a little something about how Jewish holy days and holidays are observed. Plus, I acquired a bunch of cool Yiddish words. Being a word nerd, I love Yiddish. It's such a kick. As an alter cocker, I have a real appreciation for Harry as a mensch who taught this goy a little something about Jewish culture.

Back to the book...

It turned out to be a terrific read. Some books you can zip through and others you savor. The Matzah Ball was one I took my time reading. It was thoughtful, witty and well-written. And I loved the characters. For anyone who shares my secret passion for holiday romance novels, I highly recommend it.

And Harry, I know this isn't your usual read, but if you do pick it up, I'd love to know what you (or Ilene?) think. 

As to the author, Jean Meltzer, her story is every bit as interesting as the fictional characters she created. She studied dramatic writing at NYU, has worked in television and even acquired a daytime Emmy. For five years she was in rabbinical school, but had to withdraw due to a chronic health condition. Fortunately, she didn't follow her father's advice – he told her to write a book but "not a Jewish one because no one reads those." She has a second book that just came out called Mr. Perfect on Paper. 

I have it on order from the library.

Mazel tov!

Food Perp

Well, once again we're faced with the food holiday to end all food holidays: Thanksgiving.

photo attribution below

Many of you have purchased a turkey and will be roasting it in the oven for several hours. To you, I say "mazel tov."

I made a turkey only once during my married life. It was shortly after we returned to Cleveland, when we were living with my mother-in-law. We invited my parents and Mr. Ginley's Great Uncle Paul. It was the first Thanksgiving after my father-in-law had passed away. Honestly, it was a rather sad affair.

As I recall, the turkey was still quite frozen the morning of. I have a vivid memory of sticking my hand up into the bird's innards and wrestling to remove the bag of giblets. Warm water eventually loosened the contents and finished thawing the beast, and it cooked successfully after that.

There was an altercation between my Dad and Mr. Ginley. Dad thought my husband should carve the bird. However, having never done so before, Mr. Ginley was clueless and demurred to my father, who, grumpily obliged. 

It was just kind of a weird day. 

That's not why we never had a turkey again. The truth is, Mr. Ginley doesn't like turkey. Or mashed potatoes. Or sweet potatoes. Or gravy. Or applesauce. Over the years, our Thanksgiving dinners have pretty consistently featured (cold) ham sandwiches as the star of the meal with sides of stuffing, potato chips, cranberry sauce and rolls.

To satisfy whatever craving I have for traditional Thanksgiving fare this time of year, I go to Bob Evans. They have a meal on their menu that includes slices of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce and biscuits. Yum. I may not be eating it on the actual day, but that's okay. We recently discussed the possibility of picking up Thanksgiving dinner from Bob's, which will be open that day. But then we'd have to get dressed and get in the car and drive there and, well, that's really just too much work.

So, I'll be heading to Honeybaked Ham to get the fixins for the big day. I'll throw together a pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce and bake some bread, and we'll be good to go. 

Mr. Ginley will watch some football. I'll take in some silly Hallmark Christmas movie. 

And we'll both enjoy a nice, quiet day of mostly doing nothing.

Sounds good to me.

Pass the Reddi-Whip, please!

Photo attribution: Famartin, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Should It Stay or Should It Go?

Everything is electronic these days, and all our memories are being saved in a cloud.  

Photos, emails and all manner of greetings have been relegated to the stratosphere. Maybe that's why I have such a hard time letting go of old papers and letters.

I have at least three boxes to go through. They're chock full of greeting cards, many from people long gone from my life. Of course, I want to keep the ones from my parents and my son. But do I really need well wishes from coworkers who shared a slice of time with me decades ago? I think not.

And photographs? There are several plastic bins filled with pictures, mostly from my kid's early childhood. I'm sure those could be culled down, too.

Then there are the picture books. An oversized art book featuring Whistler. Doisneau photographs. Beatles snapshots. Noir glamor shots of movie stars. Eye candy that sticks to my fingers like flypaper whenever I consider setting them free. 

On the plus side, I don't buy nearly as many books as I once did. And most of the ones I have been buying are children's books. Whether it's a nostalgia thing or I just love the stories and illustrations, kids' books are the ones that have become my collectibles of choice. They're stuffed willy-nilly this way and that on a shelf. I take them out from time-to-time and read and smile a bit. It's all good.

Then there are the books I'm going to read "one day." Stacks and stacks of them. Some I bought when I lived in Lakewood, before I moved to Virginia. I've schlepped them to the Old Dominion and back, then to our current dwelling. 

In the meantime, like a deranged weasel, I continue to take books out of the library and read them rather than reducing the stack at home.  

I am going to read them, honest. 

Retirement is probably a mythical proposition for me, and by the time it happens, I may no longer have the wits to read. So why am I keeping them?

We'll call it hope.

There is a fear that one day they will come to get me and they'll have to make a path through all the detritus. Fortunately, newspapers are electronic. And they don't seem to print telephone books anymore. I guess that helps.

It's supposed to be a dull, rainy day, so maybe today would be a good time to start digging into the papers – even though I already know what's going to happen.

"Oh look, I remember..."

And so it goes. 

And I'm the only one who knows.

Oldies and Newbies

Facebook can be a land of wonder, of discovery and, sometimes, a real downer.

the official t-shirt (for now)

As I was scrolling along, I saw that Grace Slick had a birthday last week. Grace Slick turned 83.

Wait a minute. This is the woman who belted out Somebody to Love and White Rabbit. A pioneer. A rocker of epic proportions and someone I'd consider part of my generation. One of the stars of one of my favorite albums, Jefferson Airplane's Surrealistic Pillow.  (Which, by the way, youngsters, still holds up against anything that's come down the pipe since.)

Grace Slick is an octogenarian. OMG.

You could say (and you'd be absolutely correct) that my musical preferences are stuck somewhere prior to the 1990s. With a few exceptions, I haven't found a lot to get excited about. Rap has never appealed to me. Some of the cross-over country-rock stuff is okay. And occasionally I find a singer who appeals. I'm not even sure what to call modern music.

Admittedly, I haven't paid much attention to the music scene, being content to replay my collection of CDs or tune into classic rock and oldies radio stations. 

I did get a clue, however, from one of my coworkers (Blaise), who plays drums in a band called This Summer. The genre of his band is emo. 

Emo is defined as a type of rock music that resembles punk but has more intricate arrangements with lyrics that have more emotional topics.

Some of my younger readers (if I have any besides my son) have likely reached the eyeroll portion of the program by now. "Silly Boomers," they may scoff.

Indeed.

But being a Boomer doesn't have to mean staying stuck in the past. We are capable of learning new things, and I'm open to giving it a go. While I haven't attended one of their concerts, I have listened to Blaise's band, thanks to the wonder that is YouTube. I have to say, I did enjoy it, although it's more likely I'd listen in small doses. 

Baby (Boomer) steps, I suppose.

If you're curious, here's the video for This Summer. Let us know what you think.

In the meantime, I wanted to share a story about Grace Slick that I found in my travels. In 2017, she allowed Chick-fil-A to use the Starship song Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now in a TV commercial. However, because she abhors the company's views on same-sex marriage, she took all the profits she received from the deal and donated them to Lambda Legal, which works to advance the civil rights of LGBTQ people and those living with HIV. 

Which kinda proves my point that Boomers can be pretty slick. Especially Grace.

Saturday Morning Rambles

Life has a funny way of throwing you curve balls.

You go along, assuming everything will continue the way it always does. Until it doesn't. We make assumptions about people and situations. 

A guy kills his wife and himself, and the neighbors are all in shock. 

"I can't believe it. He was a nice, quiet guy."

How many times have you watched a movie and made assumptions, then discovered all your assumptions were wrong? 

We saw a documentary film the other night called The Duke. Spoiler alert: if you're planning on watching it, skip this paragraph. The story is about an older gentleman who is tried in court for stealing a painting from the National Gallery in London. It's a recreation, with actors playing the roles of the defendant and his family. The alleged perpetrator is able to avoid extensive prison time using his charm and the fact that he tried to use the painting as a sort of ransom to help elderly pensioners. Anyhow, they go through the whole thing and it turns out it was the son who stole the painting and the father who covered for him. So many assumptions made.

photo attribution below

And...what's the point of my ramblings this morning?

Just that maybe we all need to be careful about making an "ass" of "u" and "me". You don't really know what's happening with people inside. Just because they don't smile and say "good morning" doesn't mean they think you're an a-hole. Go ahead and give them a "good morning" anyhow and move on. Or if they want to share, just listen. Don't try to solve their problem or give advice unless they ask for it. (I'm guilty on all counts of doing the wrong thing here, by the way. So this is as much a reminder to me as it is to anyone who's reading this.)

I do believe social media has exacerbated the judgy-judgy thing. More and more I'm seeing clickbait with headlines like, "Karen Has a Meltdown in Wal-Mart" and "Did All the Characters in MASH Hate Larry Linville?" (By the way, the answer to this is "no.") 

One more example to illustrate my point. Perhaps you're thinking you know all about me because I've been so candid in my blogs. But just remember, I'm the gatekeeper. You only see what I want you to see. 

Oh look, puppies!

Photo attribution: kitty.green66, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Support Bros

I believe the real measure of a partner can be determined when the going gets tough. 

Drink Up!

A prime example of this presented itself yesterday when I had to go in for a colonoscopy.

There are few things as ick-worthy as this procedure, which requires a stranger to maneuver a tiny camera up into your colon to see what's what.

Prior to this adventure, one must cleanse oneself of all detritus so the doctor can see clearly. This requires the patient to drink a gallon of nasty liquid until everything in their system is cleaned out. (It felt like things came out of me that hadn't seen the light of day in years, but I could be exaggerating.) 

There's an old Allan Sherman song that kept going through my head..."I see things in your peritoneum that belong in the British Museum..."

But I digress.

My point is, the process was not pleasant, but Mr. Ginley was there to provide support, bringing me refills of the colon blow required to clean me out, transporting me to and from the procedure, settling me in with snacks so I could rest for the remainder of the day and getting his own dinner. 

Being that he's always there in the clutch, it's easier to overlook the stray banana peel left on the living room floor, his repetitive queries and other minor annoyances. 

Sometimes when I get frustrated, I imagine what life would be like if he weren't around, and I decide to keep him.

I mean, who else would make an observation like, "Why are people freaked out by aliens doing anal probes but they don't think anything of getting a colonoscopy?" 

Get Off My Lawn, the Sequel

I guess it's a generational thing.

photo attribution below

When I mentioned to a group of young friends that I was appalled the film industry remade Winnie-the-Pooh into a horror movie, I got shrugs.

Seriously? This is the generation that embraces safe spaces and has lately decided that the thumbs up symbol is offensive, but turning Pooh and his pals into bloodthirsty forest terrors is okey-dokey?

Maybe it's a shame-on-me situation because Mr. and I have complained about the endless series of remakes. "Doesn't anyone in Hollywood have an original thought?' we decried.

I must admit, this falls under the heading of "be careful what you ask for." Certainly, Pooh-turned-savage is an original – albeit abhorrent – concept. 

So much for modern cinema.

For some time I've had a free movie pass, but given the dearth of options, it remains unused. My kingdom for a witty, brilliant film that isn't centered around super heroes, blow-everything-up rogue cops or interplanetary shenanigans. 

It seems that rom-coms (watered down as they are) have been relegated to the Hallmark Channel. The grand dames of the theatre have either retired or turn up on PBS playing dotty old women or wealthy socialites of yore. And suspenseful Hitchcock-like thrillers have been replaced by gory, graphic spectacles that leave nothing to the imagination. 

I'd love to sit in a theatre, munch on popcorn and Raisinets and be absorbed into another world for two hours. 

Ah, well. 

We can save the cost of admission, I suppose, and continue to watch DVDs at home. We saw the original Henry Fonda version of 12 Angry Men the other night, and I was struck anew by what a marvel it was. So many classics out the there to be rediscovered.

Back when Hollywood was breaking ground.

Now, most of the time, it's just breaking wind. 

Photo Attribution: Runner1616, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Localizing

A lifetime ago, I flew across the pond and spent some time in England. Back then, it was my dream to return again, although somewhere, deep down, I knew it was a one-and-done.

(photo attribution below)

As it often happens, life took turns in unpredictable directions, and my focus shifted to marriage and motherhood. One day I awoke to find my knees and back ached, flying had become a major ordeal and gas prices had risen to astronomical levels. And while I sometimes longed to visit faraway places, the lure was not enough to cause me to take action.

Mr. Ginley and I do daydream about winning the lottery and living in Ireland or Paris or London long enough to soak up the culture and see what it's all about, like natives. But we know this is a pipe dream.

Rather than groan about becoming an alter cocker and counting down the years until my demise, I'm taking another tack. I've decided to explore my own little corner of the universe to see what I can see. So here we go.

I feed the birds in my backyard and watch them. Mostly they're sparrows and can often be assholes, dropping their "thanks" all over my car. But they're also pretty fun to observe. Like passengers on the subway, they shove and jostle each other for position, fighting for their share.

As I opened my front windows the other day, a little boy, headed for school, stopped to pick a dandelion out of our yard. The backpack-strapped lad slowed his pace, held the dandelion to his lips and blew. He watched with delight as the seeds caught the wind and flew here and there, before he scurried to catch up to his companion, who'd witnessed none of this.

We returned home the other night from my son's house. It was dark by the time we pulled in the driveway, and as we parked the car, Mr. Ginley said, "Look!" And there, caught in the headlights, were two bunnies, munching away in the tall grass of the neighbor's lawn. Their eyes glowed, and they paused a moment. But if rabbits could shrug, these two would have. We just turned off the headlights and let them get on with it.

Malley's is a chocolate store that also sells ice cream. On a whim, Mr. and I pulled up to the pink-and-green store, went inside and ordered malts to go. They were the best. 

Thursday evening was lovely, so Mr. and I decided to grab some grub and head to the park. We pulled up, rolled down the windows and sat in our car. On other visits, we'd noticed a picnic table of older gentlemen, speaking some type of Eastern European tongue, while playing dominoes. Sure enough, they were there Thursday night, playing the game and arguing among themselves. I don't know any of them, but I love them just the same. If I were bolder, I'd go over and talk to them and get their stories. But I'm not. So, alas, I won't.

I know this isn't a very exciting post. And maybe there's not much to be learned from it. Except it's good to take a little vacation every day. I know I don't have to travel halfway around the world to experience things. 

Amazements happen locally, too.

Photo attribution: Eder Thorunensis, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Emoting

I suppose you could say emojis have always been a part of our culture. 

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons*

Yes, I realize the modern emojis were created in chatrooms in the 1990s, when folks started playing with the characters on their keyboard to make silly faces. Which they used to enhance otherwise graphic-less communication. (After all, exclamation marks can only get you so far). 

A little digging told me the story of the emoji. These are the quick facts:

• Shigetaka Kurita, a Japanese designer, is credited with creating modern emojis. There were originally 176 emojis designed for the Japanese cell phone company, DOCOMO, which used them for cell phones and pagers in 1999. 
• The word "emoji" comes from two Japanese words: letter and picture. (No, there was no connection with the English word "emotion.")
• Kurita was inspired in part by the Zapf Dingbats typeface and by graphic novels when he designed his first library of emojis. 
• You can see the original bank of emojis at the Museum of Modern Art.
• The most-used emoji is the "face with tears of joy":  😂 Today, you can also get the cat version: 😹
• Emoji" became word of the year in 2015.
• World Emoji Day is July 17. If you look closely at the calendar emoji, you'll see that date on it. July 17 was chosen because that's when iCal for Mac was introduced at the 2002 MacWorld Expo.
• Mr. Ginley's favorite emoji is what he calls the "kissing chicken": 😘

While the emoji clearly resides in the modern world, there are clearly predecessors.

There was the smiley face, created by Harvey Ross Ball in 1963 as an icon to boost employee morale. (It took him 10 minutes to come up with the graphic, for which he was paid $45.)

When girls used to pass notes back in the day, they would punctuate their messages with little hearts (sometimes as the dot in the letter "I" (as in "ick"). 

Many of us have used XXXOOO for kisses and hugs. And I've been known to add a face or doodle to notes to my family.

But before any of this, there were those wacky funsters, the medieval scribes. Under the heading of "monks just wanna have fun," these doodles were done when the scribe wanted to test the new nibs on their writing implements. There's a fascinating article by CNN about these 700-year-old "cheeky doodles," if you're interested. 

In the meantime, have a nice day! 

*Photo credit: GorillaSushi from Aurora, IL, US, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Techno Pooped

I owe a lot to the advancements in technology that have taken place during my lifetime. And I'm grateful.

Old faithful (public domain photo)

Truly, I am.

When I started out, I was tickling the keys of a Selectric typewriter, making copies on a machine that printed on rolls of stinky paper and answering phones using a switchboard.

As my work life progressed, I learned to code spreadsheets on a word processor, operate a personal computer, design small jobs using Quark (with a lot of help from Chris and Kim), build a site map for the first website my company ever had, populate that website with content, write copy for emails, help coordinate email scheduling and production, write a gazillion product descriptions and web pages, then supervise others who did. Thanks to Axel, I learned how to convert video tapes to DVD and MP4 formats. And now I create SEO content for web pages and blog articles. 

That's a lot of technological advances in a relatively short time. 

Over the past two weeks, we replaced our 10 (maybe 15?)-year-old phones and bought a new (used) computer for Mr. Ginley. And, I have to admit, there's been a whole lot of cursing going on. 

Alas, the genie has left the bottle, and there's no going back to life as our parents knew it. Still, I find that I'm scrolling Facebook less and less. I tend to get DVDs from the library rather than trying to stream programs or watch TV. I enjoy reading. And I'm doing jigsaw puzzles again. 

In other words, I'm scaling back on my own, not because I'm forced to, but because I'm a little exhausted by life in the techno lane.

Mr. Ginley is forever telling me to slow down, and I know he's right. I'm trying, I really am. Can this Type A personality kick it down a notch or two and cruise?

Time will tell, I suppose.

In the meantime, will someone please tell me how to stop getting Gmail notifications on my phone?

Handle Me With Care

May 7, 1988 was a big day for the Ginleys. We tied the knot on that auspicious date. What we didn't know at the time was on that very same day, the Traveling Wilburys were born.

At the library recently, I took out The True History of the Traveling Wilburys, a 3-disc set that included a documentary about the forming of the band. Although I'm a big Beatles fan – be they together or apart – I hadn't seen this documentary before. And it was definitely worth a watch.

For those who aren't familiar with The Traveling Wilburys, it was initiated by George Harrison, whose original intention was to noodle around with his mates and create a song for the B-side of one of his solo tunes. It went so well, he suggested the group put an album together. 

The members of the original Wilburys were:

Nelson Wilbury: George Harrison

Otis Wilbury: Jeff Lynne

Lefty Wilbury: Roy Orbison

Charlie T. Jr.: Tom Petty

Lucky Wilbury: Bob Dylan

Plus Buster Sidebury (Jim Keltner, session drummer)

Having watched the making of Let It Be, it was interesting how similar the Wilburys documentary was, although at 25 minutes, it was far more succinct than the Beatles' extravaganza. 

The upshot of the Wilburys biopic was, a bunch of very talented musicians (aka rock legends) got together to write and record some amazing tunes at Dave Stewart's* house. The album was recorded over the course of six weeks. 

Watching the film, there's no sense of friction at all, no clashing egos. Just a bunch of guys getting together to create music. There's Roy Orbison, strumming away in the corner, creating You're Not Alone. When he and his golden throat got behind the microphone, I felt the tears coming. Orbison had a heart attack and passed away just six weeks after the album's release. 

A second Traveling Wilburys album came followed two years later. The Wilburys changed personas:

Spike: George Harrison

Clayton: Jeff Lynne

Muddy: Tom Petty

Boo:  Bob Dylan

Only two of the remaining members remain. George Harrison died in 2001 and Tom Petty in 2017. 

The likes of the Wilburys will never be seen again. 

If you're interested, you can watch the video here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SUQ_gj-biIc

*If you're like me, you didn't know that Dave Stewart (of the Eurythmics) provided the setting for the original Wilbury recordings. George was living at Stewart's house in Encino, California at the time, and it had a small recording studio the band used to capture their music.

Her Majesty (Was) a Pretty Nice Girl

My mom used to enjoy drawing parallels between her life and that of England's Queen Elizabeth.

No, my mother didn't put on airs or wear a crown around the house as she did the laundry. But they were contemporaries, and I think in some fundamental ways, Mom related to QE2.

First off, they were born the same year. They'd come through the other side after World War II, got married to the loves of their lives less than one year apart and had a number of heirs. Mom won on that score, out-heiring the Queen by two. 

The Queen's offspring did come close in age to me and some of my siblings.  Charles was born in 1948, Anne in 1950, Andrew in 1960 and Edward in 1964. 

The Queen bested Mom in the end, outlasting her by living to the ripe age of 96. And she did it with all her wits about her, which is huge. My mother wasn't so fortunate.

I have this weird picture in my head of Mom welcoming Lilibet to the party, giving her a big hug. It just seems like something she would do. 

"Come over here and have a piece of cake and a cup of tea. You're going to love it here."

Rest well, ladies. You've earned it.

Photo of Queen Elizabeth is in the public domain.

Not the Vlasic Kind

This morning's newsletter from the New York Times focused on pickleball.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons*

Unlike the author of the article, we never played pickleball in school, so I had no idea what it was all about, other than the fact that I've seen some Facebook posts recently about people who were playing it.

If you, like me, have been curious as to all the hullabaloo about this new sensation, read on. 

Pickleball is defined as a cross between badminton, tennis and ping pong. Like many popular sports, it can be played by young and old alike, but experienced players have discovered secret squirrel strategies that they employ to best their opponents.

You can enjoy this sport indoors or outdoors on a pickleball court, which is the same size as a badminton court but with a different net. The tools of the trade include a paddle that looks like the kind you play ping pong with and a plastic whiffle-like ball. As with tennis, you can play singles or doubles.

I was surprised (as you may well be, too) to discover that pickleball has been around since 1965. Not surprisingly, it was created by three dads in Seattle who were trying to entertain their bored offspring. (I suppose this would account for the ping pong paddle and whiffle ball used in play.) Pickleball is touted as a popular sport in the US and Canada, although it's apparently gaining traction in European and Asian countries, too.

Another fun fact...a person who plays pickleball is called a pickler. In fact there is a whole special vocabulary for picklers. 

When I told Mr. Ginley what I was writing about, he asked why. "Who wants to run around with a raquet whacking gherkins? he inquired, then added, "Don't get any ideas. I'm not playing f-ing pickleball. It's for old people." 

As for Mr. Ginley, I imagine the only pickling he is interested in involves a brew or two as he watches the Ohio State game this evening. 

*Photo credit: TheVillagesFL, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons