It's a Virtue

"It takes time. Be patient."

photo attribution below*

So says every doctor, nurse, and PT person who's dealt with stroke victims. 

We're coming up on two months since the evil day, and yes, there has been progress. 

The left leg is showing signs of life, as evidenced from PT over the past week. I won't go into the details on toileting, but suffice to say, things are coming out nicely. And Mr. Ginley's sliding board skills have improved dramatically. I even helped him get into bed today. Obviously, the PT guy was still in the leading role. But I helped! (If you're hearing the kid's voice from the Shake 'n Bake commercial in your head right now, you're old like me.)

But I digress.

There are other changes, too. Bill is starting to assert himself more. He's working on returning to the take-charge guy I know and love, less the victim of circumstance. He continues to be a champ in PT, coaching himself all the way. He desperately wants to come home.

Christmas is looming. Mary B. brought in a little Christmas tree and some cookies for Mr. Ginley. Meanwhile, I look around the house, devoid of nary a sprig of holly and shrug. Just not feeling the spirit of the season this year.

On the other hand, I'm grateful that Mr. is still around, that the stroke wasn't worse than it was ("severe" was bad enough). And that there is hope for recovery. 

We just have to have...(wait for it) patience. 

Something I and the patient have in short supply. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Ginley and I want to thank everyone who's supported us through of this, whether you've paid Mr. a visit, advised, let me cry on your shoulder, said a prayer or two, or sent hugs and healing wishes. All are appreciated.

By the way, Merry Christmas. And, as Connie Schultz says, "For those of you struggling, may the day land gently."

*Photo attribution: D'Oyly Carte Opera Company, printed by Clement Smith and Company, London. Signed "J. W."Restored by Adam Cuerden, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

 

Only the Good Stuff

I will be very happy to bid this week adieu.

There were fiascos (transport for Mr. Ginley's visit to an off-site doctor) and triumphs (significant leg movement without assistance in PT).

When Mr. Ginley asked me what I was going to talk about this week, I said maybe it was time to take a break from what he (self-named Strokie McStrokerson) was dealing with. It turns out, he was of a like mind.

He and I were strolling down memory lane this week when he asked what my favorite day with him was. With so many years behind us, I said that was a tough one. So instead of concentrating one one, why not do a Top 10 List of Our Best Days. So here they are, in no particular order, and some are time periods rather than days, but you get the picture.

1. Our First Date

Bill and I met at JBR and worked together for six years before he asked me out in the hallway at work. (I was married before and had dated someone else for a time.) "Do you want this package sent UPS or FedEx," he asked. "UPS, please." He followed up with, "Do you want to go out with me Friday night?" "Sure." The rest is history. (Noting that this photo was prior to our dating. He'd lost the beard by the time we started going out. But lately, he's been making references to his monicker at the time, The Amish Kid, so I said I'd share a pic.)

2. Our First Trip Together

I suggested we go to the Shaw Festival in Niagara-on-the-Lake. So in the autumn of our first year together, we headed up north for a weekend away. We played room baseball (beware of the Paisley Monster), saw two Shaw plays, ate well, and generally had a wonderful time together.

3. Our Wedding Day

In our apartment in Virginia, we hosted six guests and Martha (the Justice of the Peace). There was a party tray, a home-baked devil's food cake, and lots of champagne. We said our vows and did the secret handshake to seal the deal. 

4. The Metro

Back in the day, Washington's Metro system was the bomb. We'd take it everywhere around town. Sometimes, we'd get on, pick a stop, and get off and explore. Georgetown is cool, but parking is premium, so we'd get off the Metro and walk across the Key Bridge. We met my niece, Rose, one evening and had dinner with her in Georgetown. So many good memories.

5. The Mall

Unlike many DC natives, we never took the Smithsonian for granted. We explored each of the museums, plus the National Gallery of Art, the monuments, and other attractions. And many Sunday mornings were spent sitting on the Mall, reading the newspaper and people-watching.

6. Cape May

There were two trips to Cape May. One before we got married and then again for our honeymoon. We drove to Delaware and took the ferry from Lewes. (I got seasick, of course.) Both were lovely getaways. We went early in the season, before Memorial Day, so we could hang out with the locals and get a better feel for the true nature of the place. We walked on the beach, strolled through town, and ate well. I'm sorry we haven't been back since. 

7. Our House

Two years after moving back home to take care of my mother-in-law, we were able to buy our own home. We moved in on Halloween and have remained in the Casa de Ginley, where we anticipate Mr. Ginley's return in the coming months. 

8. Joe

No, Joe, we didn't forget about you. (You'll notice these items are chronological.) Our son's birth changed everything, in a good way. And he has not disappointed us. He's turned out to be a wonderful human being, and we're very proud of him and all he's accomplished. There are too many days with him to call out just one. Graduations from preschool, OLA, high school and college. His wedding day. Reading him stories at bedtime. Lunches with him and Mr. Ginley when they'd come down to see me at work. So much good stuff. 

9. The Cruise

Seven days of bliss aboard The Freedom of the Seas, courtesy of my employer. In spite of Mr. Ginley's misgivings prior to the trip, he quickly converted to cruise fandom once he experienced the sheer joy of time spent together, the open sea, and a night sky full of stars.

10. A Grandchild

Our granddaughter was born this year, and we couldn't be happier to meet and spend time with her. We're hoping and praying that in the new year, we'll be able to do more of that once the worst of this odyssey is behind us. (P.S. I'm not sharing a photo out of respect for her parents' wishes, not because I don't love her to pieces.)

I'm sure I've left out many great days in this list (and that Mr. will point them all out to me). 

But with 35+ years under our belts, there's lots to be thankful for. Here's hoping I can add to this list in the coming year. 

Till the Mighty Rivers, baby.*

*Our song, credit to Graham Parker.

Finding Acceptance

"It won't always be like this."

Talkin' sports with Mark

I came across this phrase one day last week, and I wasn't sure whether to be reassured or disheartened.

It could mean things are going to get better. Or not.

We passed the one month mark on Sunday; one month since he had his stroke. It feels a lifetime ago. In a way, it is.

Meanwhile, it was the first full week at Mr. Ginley's new digs, and PT finally began in earnest. It's five days a week, and the PT staff is very good.

We started a new routine, whereby, I rise early, do my work at home, then go visit my husband at the skilled care facility. We catch up on our day. He tells me how PT went, what he had for breakfast and lunch, and whether he's talked to our son that day. It's a plus day if Mark stopped by to visit. 

In the beforetimes, Mr. Ginley would read the advice columns in the newspaper. Now I bring the iPad and read them to him. Then we do some speech therapy exercises on an app recommended by a former therapist.  

When dinner arrives, I lift the lid, survey his meal, and let him know what's for eats. I cut up his meat for him and arrange the food on his plate so he can see it. As the royal taste tester, I will sample things if need be to assure him it's okay to partake. 

Admittedly, I'm a bit of a taskmaster. I make him try at least one bite; if he doesn't like it, he can pass on it. I bring yogurt or somesuch for myself, and if he doesn't eat enough of what's on his plate, I'll let him eat my yogurt.

Who's a good wife?

After dinner has settled, I bring him his toothbrush and mouthwash. I clean him up and rub eucalyptus body lotion on him. It calms him and reminds him of home. Then I tuck him in, turn on ESPN, and kiss him goodnight. 

I think the hardest thing for me has been acceptance of all this. Clearly, denial wasn't going to work. Crying, while cathartic, was not helping the situation. And I was not prepared to go the way of a good stiff belt. (Ilene and I agree that ice cream is much better medication.) 

Now it's time to move forward, let go of the life we knew, and be grateful that we can be together each day. 

Someday, Mr. Ginley will be recovered enough to come home to me. 

And if that's the meaning of "it won't always be like this," that will be just fine with me.

Turkey Day Ramblings

It's Thanksgiving morning, and I'm sitting here with a heavy heart, wondering how I'm going to get through the day. 

the new view

I'm beginning to realize the trick is not to have any preconceived notions about what today is going to be like. Mr. Ginley and I will never be the same again. We've taken to calling life prior to the stroke "the beforetimes." It was another life ago. It sucks that this is our life now, but at least we have a life together, and there is hope that he'll come home to me one day. 

But for now, we have this, and this is what we have to work with. 
I'm going to eat my breakfast, do the dishes, take care of some laundry, have my coffee and read the funnies. Then I'm going to go and be with my husband on Thanksgiving. 

I am thankful that his mind is still there, even though things are jumbled and the rest of him isn't working so well.

I'm thankful for my health, because my ability to help him through this is the most important thing right now. I'm allowed to be sad. I'm allowed to be heartbroken. But I can't curl up in a ball and hide because that's not going to do anyone any good. 

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And now we jump ahead a bit to Friday night. The snow has been piling up, it's been a cold, ugly day, and I've shed my share of tears. Then the phone rings, and it's Mr. Ginley saying excitedly, "I'm moving my foot! I moved it again! And again!"

Of course this doesn't mean he's going to jump out of bed and run a marathon, but it's a very good sign that his brain is trying to reconnect with his errant foot. It's a victory, and we'll take it.

And so it seems I have another thing to be thankful for, after all.

Moving Right Along

In a few short days, Mr. Ginley will be making another move, this time to a skilled care facility. 

The good news is that it will be much closer to home. 

The bad news is that he won't be getting the same aggressive level of physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy he's enjoyed at Parma Hospital's Acute Care Unit. Also, we will both miss the crew that has taken care of him during his stay. I have learned so much from them, and they've been so kind and patient (but firm) with Mr. Ginley. He tells each of them, "you're the boss." (Although Lisa is the only one to have earned the title of "Coach.") I cannot recommend this team highly enough.

I think they will miss him, too. Who else will throw out musical references from the 70's and 80's? He was talking about Little Feat. He was singing along a little too loudly to Dave Edmunds on his ipod. And he coached himself by singing "Hold Your Head Up" by Argent, at which point he tried to explain about the song and got a lot of blank looks from the youngsters. But that's okay. That's what YouTube is for, right?

But I digress.

In the meantime, Mr. has made progress. He's able to sit up for longer periods with little or no assistance. He can use the board instead of the Hoyer device to get in and out of bed. His speech has improved quite a bit, and his diet has expanded. (Although he consistently orders the mac and cheese for lunch and dinner.) The catheter came out this week, which was a big plus. 

We continue to hope the brain will start communicating with the left side of his body again. In the meantime, he's learning how to adapt as much as possible. He's getting better at steering the wheelchair with his good foot. He can bridge his back to help with getting dressed. And he practiced folding clothes one-handed.

He left it to me to decide about shaving. I voted yea, and off came the whiskers. I think it's an improvement, but I'll leave it to my readers to chime in.

In the meantime, we'll be ready to move to the new digs on Wednesday. 

Doing our best to take one day at a time. 

(Kidney) Stoned

I never ever say, "What else could go wrong?" Long experience has taught me that plenty can and will go wrong, oftentimes in rapid succession.

Taking a short break from PT

So when we were told that the CT scan of Mr. Ginley's kidneys revealed he had two too-large kidney stones, they were blocking the flow, and he needed surgery, I was distressed but not shocked. 

Mr. has had problems with kidney stones dating back to our early years together. In fact, he was suffering from one the day we married. It was a running joke that he was on pain meds that day and therefore shouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

But I digress.

The plan was to put in a stent to improve the flow around the kidney. Any more drastic procedure, such as breaking up the large stones, was deemed unsafe given Mr.'s recent stroke. Surgery was set for Thursday, then postponed until Friday at 4pm. I decided to stay at the hospital overnight because I knew Bill would be upset and scared. 

They wheeled him in on schedule, and shortly thereafter, I began getting texts. The first said he was being prepped. The second said the procedure was beginning. The third said the procedure was finished and that the doctor would be speaking with me shortly.

The span of time between the start and end of the procedure was less than 10 minutes, an observation that sent my heart to my stomach. A few minutes later, I was meeting with the doctor, who told me they couldn't put in the stent because the stone wouldn't budge and they were afraid of doing more damage. It's likely the stones have been there for some time, so it was deemed prudent to postpone any further action.

So here we are.

In the meantime, Mr. Ginley is determined to work his ass off to regain as much of his pre-stroke abilities as soon as possible. He wants to come home. And I want him here. (I think I can speak for the cat and say she misses the big guy, too.)

In addition to his positive attitude, which includes boundless courtesy and appreciation of his caregivers, Mr. Ginley has retained his sense of humor.

"I want to pray to somebody, but I'm not sure who to pray to," he quipped last night. "Who's the patron saint of this cause? St. Bartholomew of the Bowels?"

If I can't laugh, I will cry. 

And heaven knows, I've done plenty of that over the past 2+ weeks. 

Sending out so many thanks to my support crew (you know who you are and I love each and every one of you). Thank you for letting me talk your ear off, giving me sage advice, offering up prayers and healing wishes, and sending me chicken noodle soup. You've done more to help me than you'll ever know.

A Stroke of Bad Luck

I'd always joked with Mr. Ginley that I could sleep on a box of rocks. But for the life of me, I could not sleep in that chair. I tried every position, but no go.

In the beforetimes.

It wasn't just that the chair was uncomfortable, there was that infernal beeping of machines. Rhythmic, then not. Like a leaky faucet with a syncopated rhythm. It was maddening.

Then there were the nurses, coming in at all hours to check his vitals. Or draw blood. Or take his temperature.

I tried to wake up, but I couldn't. I was awake. And the ugly truth remained.

Mr. Ginley had a stroke.

Now, nearly one week later, I still can't fathom how our world blew up overnight. He went to get out of bed Thursday morning, and he couldn't walk. 

I managed to maneuver him down the stairs and set him in the easy chair. Then I called 911.

The ambulance came, worked on him for a bit, and whisked him off to the hospital which was minutes away. I met them there. First, we were in Emergency. Then ICU. Over the next few days, a gazillion tests confirmed he'd had a stroke. But his symptoms were worsening. More tests. Then he was transferred to Cleveland Clinic's main campus.

More tests. No change. No progress. Time for rehab.

So here we are. Mr. cannot move his left arm or leg. His words are slurred. He can't see properly. He has no appetite. The one big plus is that his cognitive abilities are mostly intact. He remembers all manner of song lyrics. He sang our song to me tonight. And he recited major portions of the St. Crispin's Day Speech. He is unfailing kind to all his caretakers, asking their names, and assuring them that they're the boss. He cracks jokes.

I cannot process any of it. 

And so, I take each day as it comes. I send prayers to the heavens and hope there is a positive response. I can't think about what will happen next. I'm too afraid.

On the way to the rehab facility last night, I listened to Linda Ronstadt and lost it when she sang, "What'll I do when you are far away, and I am blue, what'll I do?"

Then I dried my tears, put on my happy face, and went in to visit my husband. Fortunately, he's determined to work as hard as he can to get his body operational again. And so many people have been praying for us, that is a comfort, thank you.

As for what comes next, I cannot fathom. It's baby steps. Small bites. And, if those prayers are answered, a miracle.

A True Blue Spectacle

It should not be a surprise to anyone, particularly Mr. Ginley, that I am easily distracted and should not take on philosophical discussions when I'm driving.

attribution below

And yet, here we are.

I'm not sure how we got on the topic, but somehow we landed on John 2:1-11. For those of you who haven't memorized your bible verses (frankly, I had to Google it myself), this is the story where they run out of wine at a wedding in Cana.

Jesus' mom (aka Mary) turns to her beloved son and says, "They don't have anymore wine. Do that thing you do." (I may be paraphrasing.)

An exasperated Jesus turns to Mom and says, "It's not my time yet. You don't get to tell me what to do."

What I imagine was left out of the bible story is Mary turning to Jesus and saying, "Are you f-ing kidding me, Son? Do you have any idea what I went through to bring you into this world? Do you think anybody bought the story of how I got pregnant? It was no piece of cake explaining the whole angel visitation and Immaculate Conception thing to Joseph. I go through all that, and you can't work a little miracle for your mother?"

Then, with righteousness on her side, Mary sidles over to the servants, points at her son, and says, "Do what He tells you to do."

It's not been recorded what Jesus' reply was, but undoubtedly, He was reminded of the 5th Commandment to "honor thy father and thy mother." Or maybe He just got a case of the guilts. In any event, He caved, told the servants to fill the jars with water and take them to the man in charge. The head guy took a swig and went steaming over to the bridegroom. 

"Hey, dunderhead, you're supposed to serve the best wine first. Then when everyone is slobberknockered, you give them the cheap stuff because they're too stiff to know the difference." (Again, I may be paraphrasing.)

Thinking about this story made me wonder aloud how women came to be considered subservient in the church. Maybe it's the bad publicity Mary Magdalene got. (No she wasn't the hooker, the one who anointed Jesus' feet with perfume to atone for her sins. Although church leaders did their best to meld two different women into one.) 

It was the women who wept at His feet when Jesus was crucified. And it was the women who went to the officials to claim His body and discovered the stone was rolled back. And where were the apostles? They were in hiding. 

After my rant in the car, I nearly missed a turn. 

It was a miracle I didn't get us totally lost.

Attribution: Mutialulu, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

  

Algorithm Follow-up

Well, so much for my experiment.

attribution below

As my regular readers know, last week I created a blog, put it out on FB, and asked for those of you who saw it to like it (even if you didn't) so I could see who was seeing my blog posts.

Yes, I cheated a bit by featuring a photo of my feline, because a post with a cat pic will often pop to the top of any cat lover's FB feed.

Even with Maggie's help, I had just 4 viewers chime in that they saw the post. Mind you, this is apropos of nothing, other than my curiosity about how FB presents things. It confirmed what I already knew, which is:

1. If there is money to be made from a post, that will appear in my feed, no problem.

2. FB will present dozens of random sites to me daily, trying to lure me into joining a new group or following a celebrity.

3. If I really want to see what's going on with friends and family, I need to go to the little spyglass and click on the folks who have posts, scroll through, and like or ignore as appropriate.

I realize there are no revelations here. And yes, I'm going to continue to blog, not because I'm setting the world on fire, but because I need a creative outlet. 

If you're reading this, thanks!

If you're not reading this, I hope it's because you've walked away from your FB page and the rabbit hole that ensues.

Just for shits and giggles, I'm including a picture of a Corgi this week. Maybe a dog lover or two will pay a visit!

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

I've Got Algorithm

 "I haven't seen your blog in awhile," my sister, Diane, mused recently.

"Well, that's weird," I replied. "I've been posting every week."

That's when I started paying more attention to my FB feed. As most of you have likely noticed as well, the top of the feed is chock full of ads, clickbait, and all kinds of stuff that the FB overlords think we want to see. 

I mean, sure I love a good cat video as much as the next crazy cat lady, but there is a limit. 

And soooo much political stuff. I know I need to keep up on the news, but isn't that what the news is for? FB was supposed to be a safe place, where you could see what friends and family were doing and spy on old boyfriends and such. The intrusion into my happy place is not appreciated.

I've started using the little looking glass thingy to see who of my friends/family have posted anything new. Now I go through and click on them instead of scrolling, and it's way more efficient. This, of course, is assuming that FB deigns to actually show all of the folks who've shared something, not just the ones with the most posts or the most popular ones.

That's when I decided to do my own little lab experiment. If you're reading this, bless you. And if you would be so kind, please either "like" it (even if you don't, that's okay, I won't take it personally) or post a comment (i.e. react in some way) to indicate that you've seen it. 

I'm just curious to see if my posts are actually showing up in my friends' feeds. 

Thanks in advance to all who participate in this little exercise of mine.

I'll update you next week on the results. 

P.S. If you're wondering, "what's up with the kitty pic?", I'm putting my thumb on the scale, so to speak, by throwing in a little cat porn. 

 

Learning the Joy of Learning

School always felt like a punishment to me, and that's a shame. Because learning should be an adventure, not a grind.

What a tangled web we weave...

To this day, I'm slow to learn new things. I'd like to go about my day, do my thing, and move along to the next thing. But that's really no way to live.

I want to be one of those people who wake up in the morning, greet the dawn with open arms and feel blessed to be given another new day. I really do.

But I'm just. so. tired.

In this era of living "intentionally," I've been attempting to notice the little things. I was washing my hands the other day, for example, and I marveled at the silky feel of the soap, the bubbles that glistened in a rainbow of colors, and the sensation of being clean.

I noticed a spider had woven a web into the window screen in the kitchen. Bees buzzing in these little teeny daisy-like wildflowers growing in the backyard. And wisps of steam coming off my coffee in the morning. All little things.

And yet, yesterday I was doing what I image my cat would identify as "the zoomies," cutting the grass on a break from work, making our lunches, and cramming in a few chores before heading back to my desk. None of this was conducive to being "intentional."

Have I learned nothing?

Well, I guess I'm a work in progress, but that progress is awfully slow.

Was there anything I learned in school that's helping me today?  Well, sure, I got a good Catholic education (grade school, anyhow). I learned my maths and my English pretty good. A little science. (Which I didn't enjoy at all until middle school and lab. Hands-on science is great, I discovered.) And a little geography (emphasis on "little"). Our schoolbooks made foreign countries sound about as exciting as a day in a cornfield. 

Of course, I was fortunate that in high school, I was able to take vocational classes, where I learned how to type, do basic accounting, and overall business skills. Home Ec taught me rudimentary cooking and sewing. And the co-op class my senior year had me working half days in a print shop, an experience that went a long way in providing depth to my education in a valuable way.

Looking back over my career, I've learned more than I realized. While others were reluctant about the internet when it became a thing at work, I embraced it. I've kept up with technology, although I still think that watching a DVD or reading a book I can hold in my hands is better than the digital alternatives, which live in a cloud and can go POOF at the whim of their host.

I'm learning to manipulate AI for work, although I find it worrisome. Am I contributing to the downfall of intelligent thought by using this tool? 

Perhaps I'm delusional (more likely than perhaps). But I believe that someday, people will want to shop in malls again, that we'll return to interacting in person, that cell phones will become passé, and we'll finally turn them off to get away from the exhaustion that is social media. 

Which is why learning new things is all well and good, but retaining basic skills from the beforetimes is important, too. Using our imagination, being in touch with the world around us, looking out for each other. The good citizens we were taught to be growing up.

So many important things we learned early on that seem to have been pushed aside. 

Although I can confidently say, memorizing the Jabberwocky poem by Lewis Carroll in 5th grade is not something that will ever prove useful in daily life.

But I digress. I've learned how to do that pretty well.

Naming Wrongs

In my dotage, I've discovered this fun new game. You hear hear a name, and you try to place it. 

attribution below

I call my game, "Schoolmate, Coworker, or Celebrity?"

In the beforetimes when I hadn't yet met many people, it was easy to remember who was who. Given the limited nature of my social circle, it was simply a matter of deciding which class a given person was in. That may be why I remember the names of so many early classmates.

This skill went by the wayside by the time I got to high school. There were 700+ kids in my graduating class. 

Things only got trickier through the years, as I worked for bigger and bigger companies. People were hired, fired, or retired, and pretty soon the pool of names to remember was simply too large to be navigable. Somewhere along the line, I began approaching folks I thought I recognized (but could not name) by simply saying, "Hey, man, how are you doing? Good to see you!"

It's reassuring when you look into the eyes of the person you've recognized and see the momentary panic as they try to place you. Clearly, I'm not the only one who has trouble matching names with faces.

At least with LinkedIn, you don't have to face the person.

"Tom Beetermen shared an article from Linda Cuthbert." Clearly, I admitted Tom into my LinkedIn group, but there I am, trying to remember if I worked with him at my last job, the job before that, or if it was someone I admitted simply because they asked me. (Which is something I don't do anymore. If I don't know you, I'm not letting you network with my peeps.)

But what really tweaks the grey matter is hearing a name that's familiar but you don't know why. That's where the game comes into play. 

You hear a name, let's say, Patty Lane. You're certain you've heard the name before, so you start running through the paces.

Schoolmate? No. Coworker? Don't think so. Celebrity? Not sure. At this point, you run it by the Google. (Oh, the wonders of modern technology!). And there she is, Patty Lane, Patty Duke's character on the Patty Duke Show. Is this cheating? Nope! My game, my rules.

Feel free to play right along with me the next time a name comes up that you can't place.

And when I see you in person, if I don't call you by name, you'll understand that I may be well-intentioned, but it takes awhile for my Univac-for-brain to crank into motion.

Thanks for reading this, man!

Photo attribution: Elizabeth Shippen Green, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Just the Vaxx, Ma'am

"I just read in the Washington Post that they're debating raising the eligible age for COVID vaccinations to 75," said Mr. Ginley yesterday. "Let's go and get ours while we can." 

Ernesh has a mohawk.

So I made an appointment for today to do the deed. I always try to get my shot before the weekend, because I don't feel great for a day or two afterward, and I can't afford to be loopy at work. (Bosses frown on that sort of thing.)

It turned out to be my lucky day, because I won lunch from Spin the Wheel at work today. So I was able to get my shot and a free burrito bowl. Winner, winner, chicken dinner! 

As for Mr. Ginley, for his bravery getting vaxxed, he got several treats. (Who's a good boy?) But alas, no sticker, so disappointing. I did point out that although a sticker lasts longer, you can't eat it. You could smell it if it was a scratch-and-sniff, like the email Robyn designed (but wasn't allowed to send) for April Fools Day. 

Did I mention a puzzle clue I stumbled on the other day, "A famous jewelry advertising jingle, 'Every kiss begins with ---.'" Funny/not funny that. 

You are probably wondering at this point if I'm capable of writing anything that's coherent. 

I'm thinking no. But then, if you've been a regular visitor to this page, you will likely say it's just business as usual.

So, I'm going to cut this short, share a picture of me and Ernesh, and call it a day. I think a little mindless TV is in order, don't you? Would you believe I rented Season 2 of The Love Boat? I thought you would. 

Maybe by next week, I'll have some nugget of wisdom to share.

If I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath. 

Purple Rain

"Are those blueberries?" inquired Mr. Ginley, peering out the kitchen window.

attribution below

"I'm not sure what they are," I replied. "But they are not blueberries. Just another weed in the jungle."

But, of course, it didn't end there. The questions kept coming, and I was compelled to contact my expert on the topic (aka, my sister, Diane). I went out and took a few snaps and texted her the best one (which, sadly, wasn't good enough to use here.)

Her reply was quick. Of course, she knew what it was. 

"Pokeweed," she replied. "Critters like it. Definitely an acquired taste. Will spread if happy. Yours looks mighty happy. Could end up with purple poop."

I was momentarily puzzled by the ending, until she continued a minute later.

"Droppings, that is...the critters, not you."

And so I was not surprised when I observed purple splotches on the ground outside the back door. 

As I've said before, I'm trying to be kind to birds, bees, and bunnies. (Thankfully, "woodchuck" doesn't start with a "b".) In return, I'm getting thanked with colorful driveway markers.

Of course, there are other perks. I get to watch squirrel antics in the tree over the fence. I've seen a few monarch butterflies. And fireflies. I've heard mourning doves and cardinals. Cicadas and crickets. 

The only downside this year has been the invasion of lantern flies. I've killed hundreds of the ghastly beasts. Thankfully, with the cooler weather, they are dying out or laying low. Either way, I'm glad their numbers seem to be receding. 

Soon, I'll have to go out and start chopping away at the now-denuded blackberry bushes, the dried up weeds, and yes, the pokeweed (once the berries are finished). 

For now, I'm going to enjoy the last remnants of summer, the cooler weather, and the crickets, which are still creating a lovely evening soundtrack.

Heaven knows, I won't be ready to shovel snow anytime soon.

Photo attribution: Cbaile19, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

School Faze

In my youth, Labor Day was a time of mourning. Because the next day, we had to return to school.

Mom cut my bangs.

Who will my teacher be? Will I get lost searching for a classroom (high school). Or, once uniforms were out of the picture, will my wardrobe pass muster or will I be humiliated by my peers? Who will I sit next to on the school bus? Will that cute guy I've had a crush on since last year be in any of my classes?

To this day, I occasionally have nightmares about roaming the halls of my high school trying to find my locker, then forgetting the combination and missing class. Sometimes I find myself half-dressed, running to catch the bus. Other times, I'm trying to take a test but I can't suss out any of the answers.

These things come to mind when people talk about the carefree school days of their youth. Surely I wasn't the only child who was anxiety-ridden, worried about whether I would be able to make friends, if my teachers would be nice, or if I'd get good grades. 

Nope, "school days" and "carefree" are two phrases that definitely do not go together.

I suppose if I weren't such a misfit toy, I'd have had an easier time in school, and maybe I would have carried a few good memories into adulthood.

Mr. and I were talking about the milestone class reunion coming up in two years and whether we'd attend.

I am honestly interested in what happened to some of the kids in my class. But I really don't need to talk to them in person. A "Who's Who From the Class of 1977" would be nice.

All the info, none of the social interaction. 

What I call a win-win.

Sailing on the Ruby Yacht of Omar Khayyam

Long before there was South Park, Rocky and Bullwinkle ruled the airwaves with their unique blend of bad puns, satire, and general hilarity. 

Kids loved the show for the goofy gags and silly but engaging plots. Adults enjoyed the sly references to current and past events and the clever wordplay that went over the heads of most children.

The cool thing is, Rocky and Bullwinkle never get old. Watching them today, I still giggle when the faux college football team Wossamotta U takes on Watchmakers Technical Institute (aka "Tick Tock Tech"). 

If you want to give yourself a chuckle, google "Ruby Yacht of Omar Khayyam." The AI assistant says, "The phrase 'ruby yacht of Omar Khayyam' is a reference to the Rubaiyat, a collection of Persian quatrains (four-line poems) translated by Edward FitzGerald in 1859. The phrase originates from a famous line in the Rubaiyat that reads, 'With old Khayyam the ruby vintage drink' and became widely known for its pun in the animated television show Rocky and Bullwinkle." 

Somewhere there's an ancient Persian either spinning in their grave or enjoying the word play.

But I digress.

Part of what makes Rocky and Bullwinkle topical is that they got into hot water with governments near and far with their political satire. It may have been wrapped up in a kids' cartoon, but there was no mistaking the digs at Russian leaders, the U.S. government, and other prominent figures of the time. Although it often targeted the Cold War, I'm sure I'm not the only one who can see the resemblance between Fearless Leader and our current dictator-in-chief.

And, lest we forget, the ensemble cast wasn't too shabby, either. Peabody & Sherman, Fractured Fairy Tales, Aesop and Son, and Dudley Do-Right, to name a few. 

Hokey smokes! I think it's a good time to re-watch the show that created so much silliness and static on the airwaves. 

"Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat." 

"Again?"

Fun Facts: The middle initial "J." for both characters is a sneaky homage to their creator, "Jay" Ward. And Bullwinkle was named for a Ford dealership in Oakland, California. (The writers thought the name sounded funny.)

Mellowing Out

The local rag expanded the number of advice columns it covers, so now I'm able to read about lots of other people's problems.

The album cover

Just the other day, I was reading about a woman who lamented the fact that her boyfriend went out one or two nights a week to spend time with the guys. Her reaction was to whine and complain to him (and the columnist). 

"Is she nuts?," was my first thought. Several hours of having the house to myself sounded like a little slice of heaven.

Now, don't look into this too deeply. Mr. and I are not having serious problems or anything. I just enjoy my own company. Maybe it's working from home and being around each other 24/7, but I relish time to myself.

Yesterday, for example, I dropped Mr. Ginley off at the Rapid station. He went downtown to do some research at the library. For most of that time, I was working, but when my day was done, I was able to squeeze out an hour or so of me-time.

So, what kind of hell does this alter cocker raise when left to her own devices?

I got out an album. An LP. The thing that spins around on a turntable and plays music. 

Well, y'all know I'm a relic from another time, and yes, I still have a turntable that works. Mr. and I share some music, but much of what I like is beyond his tolerance.

It was serendipity. I reached into my collection (yes, I still have a record collection, how 1970s) and pulled out an LP at random.

It was Donovan, a concert album, recorded in Anaheim, California, that I listened to frequently back in the day. There wasn't a copyright date on the cover or the record itself, but I discovered it was from 1968. Obviously, I bought it MUCH later than that. (Just to clarify.)

For any youngsters reading this, Donovan was a hippie-dippy artist who went through a lot of genres, and who continues to record music (as recently as 2022). The Scottish musician started off with folk (he was smitten by Bob Dylan's music), experimented with jazz and pop, and did the whole psychedelic scene for awhile.

The album I played had an interesting combination of each type. Some of you may remember "Mellow Yellow," but "Sunshine Superman," a 1966 chart topper, is conspicuously absent. As is "Hurdy Gurdy Man." 

Donovan turned 79 this year. Yikes, we're getting awfully old. (By "we" I mean "he," and come to think of it, 79 isn't all that aged. There are so many rockers in their 80s now.)

Winding my way back to my original theme...yes, I enjoyed listening to Donovan the way it was originally intended. My albums, by and large, are in very good condition. I've taken care of them over the years, and they've been played only on my original Philips turntable. (Thanks Gary and Tokyo Shapiro.) 

I imagine a lot of you have checked out by now. If you're still here, I invite you to pull out some old tunes from past (distant or recent), open the windows, and give it a blast.

You won't be sorry.

Backward Glance

Mr. Ginley has been spending a lot of time on YouTube lately, and one of the things he really enjoys is tripping down memory lane.

Having a snort with Jesus

There are several folks who've put together nostalgic images and made a slide show out of them. They have goofy captions like, "Lovin' the groovy summer 70s vibes with friends."

Some are clearly from a different era other than the 1970s, some are AI generated, and others are obviously ads from that era. But most seem to be authentic, featuring blurred photos and average-looking youngsters having the time of their lives.

"Would you go back to the 70s if you could?" Mr. Ginley has asked me.

What I remember of that decade was how poor my social skills were. I was awkward and silent, and sat in the back of the classroom whenever I could, avoiding eye contact with the teacher so I wouldn't be called on to participate in class. 

As for summers in high school, I remember plenty of boredom, hot afternoons, and walking up to the library or McDonald's or the shopping center just to pass the time. Sitting in my room, burning candles, listening to albums on my headphones, and being sad.

I had one friend in junior high school, Carolyn, who I spent a fair amount of time with. We walked to school together and played ping pong in her basement in the summer. In high school, I hung out with Linda, swimming in her pool, sitting on her front porch, and ogling any guys of the appropriate age and body build. (Oh, Richie Pohana, you were soooo hot.)

The summer before my senior year, I worked in the print shop in high school and hung out with Peggy, who was two years older than me. That was my wild child period. 

Considering Mr. Ginley's question, I answered, "No, I wouldn't want to go back. I mean, sure, I'd love to have my 1970s body back, but that's about it. I wasn't a fully formed person, I thought getting married was the big goal in life, and I was mostly lost."

He landed on another video, this one a Beatles concert from 1964 in Washington, DC. I don't know what made me tear up watching the Fab Four sing. Young lads in their 20s, taking the world by storm and having a ball. Shadows of the past. 

Admittedly, I would love to go back just for a bit, and experience them again the first time around. 

But the 70s? Not so much.