Stormy Weather

"I blame this all the on the New York Times," I told my brother at lunch yesterday.

He looked doubtful. I pressed on.

"They just published an article the day before the storm that talked about how lucky we are to live in the Great Lakes region because we're spared the catastrophes that other parts of the country have to suffer through.

"Well," he pointed out, "we don't experience hurricanes, tsunamis, big earthquakes and wildfires."

Point taken. We did get a tornado the other night, but no one was killed, and I suppose getting water in your basement, while nasty and destructive to one's property, hardly qualifies as a life-threatening event.

Still, you want to blame someone, right? Facebook was rife with those who called out  Mother Nature for flooding and power outages. Who could blame Her if she's pissed for the way we've treated her? On the other hand, I find it highly unlikely that she pointed at us and said, "I must smite those folks. I'll send some torrential rains to overload their sump pumps and ruin their rec rooms."

One community pointed the finger at local government, which has failed to resolve sewer issues in spite of repeated flooding. There's a little more logic to that finger-pointing, which brings up an issue that's been a continual thorn in the side for officials.

Admittedly, I did feel bad for the church that had its roof taken off by a tornado. They seem like good people, I hope they get it sorted out quickly. Also, those whose cars were smashed when a parking garage collapsed. And the folks who were up to their knees in water and wondering how much it will cost to fix the damage to their homes.

We were fortunate that we only got an inch or so of water under the porch in the corner of the basement. Sure, it was a pain to dry it out, but the shop vac ultimately did the trick, and it was dry by morning, so I'm not complaining. (Well, not unduly, anyhow, except I'm writing a blog article about it, so maybe I am a little bit.)

At the end of the day, it's all relative. I think about the people in Hawaii, floating in the ocean and watching their world burn. 

Compared to that, managing the aftermath of thunderstorms doesn't feel so bad.

Photo: Bain News Service, publisher, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

A No-Frills Existence

I readily admit that I've never been a snappy dresser.

Sure, I gave it the old college (well, high school) try back in the day. I mimicked my classmates, wearing what we called "elephant pants," huge bellbottoms with about 5 extra yards of material in them. They were hip-huggers, and I wore mine with a series of body suits that snapped at the crotch. (Not terribly convenient when one had to "wee" in a hurry.)

When I started working in an office, I wore dresses and skirts with pantyhose. (In those days it was unthinkable not to wear hosiery.) I did my best to dress like an adult, but there were still days when Judie would give me the Judie look and say, "Barb, brush your hair."

I just wasn't that into myself. 

Things went from not-so-bad to really bad when I began working from home. 

My first attire of the day is workout pants, white socks, black athletic shoes and a bright blue wicking (not wicked, alas) workout shirt. I admittedly have ventured outdoors in this get-up, but only to take out the garbage cans or retrieve the empties. No one is out at that time of day – except for Mr. S., who takes his daily constitutional about that time. Fortunately, he's too polite to question my choice of wardrobe or ask what in god's name possessed me to step outside the house looking like that.

Before reporting to work, I don sweat pants or pajama bottoms and a t-shirt or sweatshirt. If I'm going to be on a conference call, I will wear the obligatory company t-shirt to self-identify. I'll also brush my hair and make sure I'm holstered. 

Do I neglect my feet? Why, no I don't. I slip into my ever-faithful fuzzy slippers, featuring some sort of animal I haven't quite identified. (Sheep? Llama? Hedgehog?) I took a snap of them so you can decide for yourselves.

I figure the only person who sees me is Mr. Ginley, and while he may find my lack of attention to my appearance disturbing, he is generally too kind to say anything. 

None of this would matter much, except that I do occasionally have to dress up in my big girl pants which, unfortunately, have shrunk since I gave a shit what I looked like. Soon, I will have to buy at least a few new pairs of pants that fit. 

Also, it's about time for me to get my hair cut so I don't look like I've been coiffed by a Mixmaster.

Somewhere in the ether, my mother is face-palming. She'd never think of leaving the house without putting on lipstick, brushing her hair and changing into a clean shirt.

I guess this apple fell pretty far from the tree. 

On the plus side, think of all the money we save on beauty products.

You're welcome, Mr. Ginley.

The Movie, the Park & Other Things*

Conversations at our house go much like they did the other day.

Me: I have PTO tomorrow, what would you like to do?

Mr. Ginley: You mean you have a vacation day. What do you want to do? It's your day off. What's the weather supposed to be like?

Me: Didn't you watch the weather on the news tonight?

Mr. Ginley: No, they start doing all that happy talk, and I can't stand it. 'Are you watching The Bachelorette tonight, Suzie?' Why don't you just look up the weather on your phone.

Me: (Looking up the weather on my phone.) It looks like a chance of rain all day. We could go see Oppenheimer.

Mr. Ginley: We could do that. If you want to. What times are the movies?

Me: 11:00 and 2:45. Which one do you want to go to?

Mr. Ginley: It's up to you.

Me: I have to have blood drawn first thing, but I'm free after that, so let's do 11:00. But no popcorn or Milk Duds or anything else that's going to knock that crown out of your tooth.

And so our course was set. 

Admittedly, I was a little nervous. I'd read a lot in the paper about kids disrupting movies in the theater, although it was mostly during the Barbie movie. I couldn't imagine young teens sitting through Oppenheimer or even attempting it. We were a little concerned in the beginning because the folks in the row ahead of us were doing pre-movie phone checks, talking and rustling, but I guess they were just settling in because they were okay for the rest of the picture.

I thought the film was well-done, but Mr. wasn't happy about the parts they "tarted up."

"That stuff about what was going on in his head. That was dumb. I bet that didn't happen."

Well, maybe, but since we can't dig Oppenheimer up and ask him, I guess the filmmakers felt safe taking creative license.

After the movie, we headed to Piada, billed as "Italian Street Food." We hadn't eaten there in awhile because at some point, they stopped serving it your way. I had a taste for something different, so we went, were able to customize our order and headed down to the Valley to eat and watch the squirrels, birds and a few park-goers.

"This is fine, but I don't feel like walking here. We always walk here. Let's go to Lakewood Park."

For those of you who aren't natives, Lakewood Park is situated on Lake Erie. They've done a lovely job with it over the years. Many moons ago when I first started going there, it had a pavilion, ball field, a lot of grass and trees and some swings. Then they created a dirt path you could walk down on one side. These days, there's also a ramp that goes down to the water's edge, a tiered concrete seating area and those memorial benches you can sponsor. And one of those telescope things you can look through to see the boats close up and personal (the ABC way.) Do you hate my obscure references? Ah, well. 

The weather was perfect, and we parked ourselves on a bench and talked for an hour or two. It's nice to stop what you're doing every now and again and, as Connie Schultz instructs, "Breathe!" 

We've been so lucky with the weather so far this summer. (I say "so far" in case the weather gods are listening, they can be a vindictive bunch.) Thursday was a prime example of the not-too-hot summer days we've been having. I wish it could be like this all year long.

After the park, it was time to go home and feed Maggie whom, we imagined, was pacing the floor looking at the clock, muttering to herself, "Where are those assxxxxx." (I cleaned up her language for you. You're welcome.)

I know there were a gazillion other productive things we should have done instead. 

But making memories is a much better way to spend the day. 

*Props to anyone who got the Cowsills reference in the title. Or maybe it's a bad thing that you know how my mind works?

Pillow Talk

What to do with the Target gift card I received from my sister as a birthday present? So many possibilities!

I'm not sure where the idea came from – possibly the spirit of my grandmother who swore by hers – but I got the notion to acquire a body pillow.

To the uninitiated, a body pillow is exactly what it sounds like. It's a pillow the size of a short person (hold the wisecracks, please) and it helps you sleep. It's purported to be good for people who have pain in the back, hips and knees, relieving pressure and discomfort.

Off I went to Target.com to see what they had. I read a few reviews first, and learned that an all-memory-foam version was like sleeping with a sandbag. Hard pass there. The better option seemed to be a combination of shredded memory foam and fiberfill. So, I chose a model that seemed to fit the bill, hit the "buy" button and waited for my Fed Ex package to arrive.

Oh the glee that awaited that fateful package! Mr. Ginley helped me drag the box from the porch to the living room, where I extracted my prize. 

As I struggled to pull the pillow from its protective plastic covering, the thought occurred to me that perhaps this model was a little larger than what was required for the job. I quickly brushed this thought aside. It would be just fine.

That night, I was most anxious to give it a go. I stretched out the pillow and positioned myself next to it. The instructions I'd seen online said to hug the top part of the pillow to oneself and position the bottom portion between one's knees.

Okay, here goes.

It was like hugging a whale. Let's see if I can tame this thing. I threw my leg over the top of it, waiting for it to sink in. Sadly, my knee bobbed atop the pillow like a pool noodle. I shifted, trying to push my leg over the top. I did manage to get it partially over, but alas, my my foot merely dangled uselessly on the other side. 

Hoping that I had somehow botched the effort on the first try, I shifted up and back. For awhile, I managed to sleep, but when I awoke, my joints chided me for forcing them into such an awkward position.

Yet again, hope triumphed over experience, and I repeated the pillow shimmy the following night with similar results. 

Back to the Google I went to do a little more research. That's when I learned that simply hugging the pillow can trigger the release of oxytocin* in your brain. This supposedly alleviates pain and stress and gives a boost to one's immune system.

My hope is that, perhaps, after repeated "hugs," my sleep buddy will smoosh down just enough for my knee to scale it so I can achieve the desired position and bring relief to my joints.

I suppose that, if all else fails, it will make a wicked fancy cat bed.

*Not to be confused with oxycontin, which is something else entirely.