The Little Voice, Unheard (Again)

 In the beforetimes, when I worked at that-place-that-shall-not-be-named, David B. would always ask, "Is this a milestone birthday?"

Attribution below

Well, no, this past birthday was not any special number. But I did get plenty of well wishes, thank you one and all.

The day was pretty uneventful. I worked until dinnertime, when Mr. and I strolled up to one of the local bars for eats and drinks.

Now, it's no secret that I can't hold my liquor. I can usually handle one glass of beer or one mixed drink. Any more than that, and I quickly go from pleasantly buzzed to hellza-no-I'm-gonna-be-sick.

So I decided to order one margarita with my dinner. The surly waitress produced a tall glass with barely any ice in it. It was strong. Very strong. I should have had her take it away, but it's not in my nature to complain, so I took a few more sips and pushed it to the side.

"I'll eat dinner first," I said to myself. "Then I'll be able to drink it because the food will absorb the alcohol."

And so it went that I continued to sip the drink during my meal, but at the end, there was still a significant amount left in my glass.

As many of you know from experience, alcohol is the great deceiver. Once you get a buzz going, you think you can handle anything.

I finished the drink. I went to sign the check. So far so good. 

"Don't forget to take your credit card," Mr. Ginley said. Three times.

Getting up from the booth seating was problematic. Navigating to the front of the bar was also a bit of a challenge. Fortunately, Mr. Ginley did not imbibe during dinner. So I knew that if I collapsed, he could go home and get the car and fetch me.

It did not come to that. I giggled most of the way home, and Mr. and I had a pleasant jaunt. 

Everything was just dandy for the next hour or so. Then my stomach staged a revolt. Clearly, it was not happy with my lack of judgement. I didn't throw up, but I felt awful. I went to bed at the usual time, rolled over, and was out. 

Why is it we ignore the little voice in our head that tries to warn us that we're about to do something king stupid? 

"Nah, that can't be poison ivy, I'll be all right." 

"It's only supposed to snow a couple of inches, I'll be fine to drive home."

"Sure, let's go ziplining, sounds like fun."

You know, even Bugs Bunny knew that if you listened to the devil on your shoulder instead of the angel, there was going to be hell to pay.

As the comedian Larry Miller famously said in his bit, 5 Stages of Drinking, "I swear, I will never do this again, as long as I live – and some of us have this little addition – and this time, I mean it!"

William Andrews, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Meh at Work

"If you can't remember something, you should write it down," Mr. Ginley told me for the 4,000th time the other day.

But could Leonardo read his own handwriting?

But here's the rub. When I write a note to myself, I can't read my handwriting later. And when I type it into the Notes App on my phone, the autocorrect takes over, and days (weeks? months?) later, I have no idea what I was jibbering on about.

One of the things I try to do on the app is write down potential topics for my blog. Here are some of the entries. Maybe you can help me decipher them so I have something to write about next week:

Man From Primrose Lane, James Renner

Color emojis

Sledging

Dinner Warwick

Only Yesterday

Ida movie

Will Trent

It's a Gas

Just because someone us difficult doesn't mean you'll divorce them

Rush e

Write down, best mom

Hovering

Lucy cat song

Stone yard devotional

Garbage

The last showgirl

Ganesha

Freddie Bell and the Bellboys

Kinsale Ireland

There's plenty more, but you get the idea.

The trouble is, my notes app is a repository for everything, not just ideas for this rag. So I'm pretty sure there are things on this list that have nothing to do with brainstorming ideas.

Now that I take a gander at the above, the haze clears, and I do recall what some of these mean.

"Lucy cat song" is a tune my brother Gary told me about that I fell in love with. It's sung by Allison Young.

Ganesha is a Hindu deity. I have a small figurine in my workspace, and I wanted to know what to call him.

Kinsale Island was a destination on one of Rick Steves' shows. I want to go there. I'm pretty sure I won't make it, but a girl can dream.

"Dinner Warwick" is my cell phone's interpretation of "Dionne Warwick." Or it could be my clumsy typing. (I choose to blame my cell.)

Freddy Bell & the Bellboys did a song called First Train Out of Town. Did I like it? Did Mr. Ginley like it? 

As for the rest of the items on my list, I'm at a loss. They could be book or song titles. Maybe they're shopping list items gone bad.

Who knows? Life's too short, and I have better things to do.

Like checking out the YouTube playlist for Meh at Work.

This is a margin note written by Leonardo da Vinci that proves Lisa del Giocondo was the model for the Mona Lisa. Photo attribution: Louvre Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Permit Me to Prick Your Interest

It all started with a magazine Mr. Ginley got out from the library the other day about the history of fashion.

public domain photo

Maybe it's because the topic of fashion is not exactly in his wheelhouse, but I was intrigued. 

I'm not sure why one particular aspect of the theme popped into my head, but I've learned not to question these things, and just went with it.

"Do they talk about codpieces?" I inquired of him.

"They mention them in passing, but they don't go into detail," he replied. Thus ending my interest in the magazine. I mean, how can you leave out such a compelling topic?

Knowing my readers are well-informed, I'm sure you've come across the word, but you may not know much about codpieces.

Permit me to enlighten.

In the 15th and 16th Centuries, men wore tights. There was a left tight and a right tight, much like today's fishing waders. (I may not be getting the nomenclature just right, but you know what I mean.) This left a certain part of the male anatomy exposed. 

Enter the codpiece.

Originally, it was a triangular piece of material that covered the necessary area. But as men's tops (aka "doublets" or "tunics") began to shorten, fashionistas proclaimed that simply covering one's appendage was not enough. That's when codpieces became a thing (to cover one's thing).

Elaborate codpieces were the Renaissance equivalent of owning a big, jacked-up 4x4 today. The implication was that the owner was well-endowed. Unlike earlier discreet versions, later codpieces were often oversized and included padding. Some were decorated with jewels or bells, which, when they rang, were supposed to be complimentary to passing women. 

Ding-a-ling, indeed.

Sadly, history doesn't include many accounts of what women thought of this symbol of male virility. But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say there were a lot of yawns. Those who've got it don't need to go to elaborate lengths to show off. Am I right?

By the late 16th Century, codpieces were out of fashion, and aside from rock stars and such, they've never made a comeback. It's one trend that isn't likely to be reappearing anytime soon. 

Do you suppose it's because guys no longer feel the need to boast about their endowments? Or maybe it's because skinny jeans have filled that particular gap?

I would say there's no women's equivalent, but then I cast my mind back to the 1950s and the bullet bras. And stuffing one's bra with tissues.

Please tell me women don't do that anymore.

P.S. If you want to read more about codpieces, this is a fun one, and I adore the title: What Goes Up Must Come Down: A Brief History of the Codpiece.


Photo attribution: Formerly attributed to Steven van der Meulen, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

True Confessions

 "What could the average third or fourth grader possibly have to confess?" I mused the other day over a Big Boy® Burger and fries. 

Obviously, the priest's side of the confessional.*

Mr. Ginley and I were discussing our childhood as Catholics in training. Specifically, the Sacrament of Confession.

"My go-to confession was taking money out of my mom's purse," said Mr. Ginley. "It was always a quarter or dime or some small change. But I couldn't always think of something to confess, so sometimes I said I did something I didn't do because I felt pressured. I always wondered if the penance I was given covered me for lying to the priest. I mean, at the end, you do say, 'for these and all of my sins, I am heartily sorry.' On the other hand, it does give you something to talk about at your next confession."

"Yeah," I concurred, "But that could get awkward if the priest started grilling you about why you lied, and you'd probably get a lecture. Seems like more trouble than it's worth. Better to make it a sin of omission."

Mr. nodded his agreement. It was my turn to spill.

"I always told the priest that I was mean to my little brother, which was pretty much always true. I could be a shitty big sister," I confessed to Mr. Ginley. "And I'd say that I lied to my parents. I don't recall the priest asking me for specifics, but if he did, I probably made something up. We weren't allow to take the Fifth."

Looking back, confessional duty for youngsters had to be a pretty crappy job for the parish priests. Did they draw straws to see who was going to get stuck listening to a litany of childhood transgressions? 

"Sorry, Francis, you're on the hook this week," I can hear the other priests snickering.

When we complained about going to confession, my mother would always say, "I know it's hard to go, but don't you feel better coming out of the confessional?"

Well, sure, because the ordeal is over for another month or however long it might be till your next confession.

And if your mind wandered as you said your assigned 3 Our Fathers and 4 Hail Marys for penance, who was to know?

Nowadays, priests are encouraged to better align penance to fit the crime. You have to tell your Mom you took that money from her purse and pay it back and promise never to do it again.

But then, geez, what the heck do you confess next time? 

*Attribution: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f3/Wikiolo_in_Liechtenstein_%2883%29.jpg

Senseless Fashion

I think we can all agree that I'm not a girly-girl. 

In an earlier time in a universe that existed long, long ago (aka high school), I dabbled in makeup, eye shadow, lip balm, and nail polish. I even wore the occasional dress because I had nice gams back in the day. 

These days, I seldom put on makeup, my fingernails are a wreck, and I have a closet full of clothes gathering dust. Recently, I went through and gathered two garbage bags full of items to donate, but I'm going to have to do another pass. I just have too much stuff, and I don't have plans on wearing it anytime soon.

Now that I work from home and spend almost all of my time here, I tend to wear the same clothing over and over. In a thrift shop a few months ago, I found a very colorful top made of fleecy material. It was love at first sight. Up until the last week or so when temps soared up into the 80s, I was wearing said top quite frequently. 

At one point, Mr. Ginley felt compelled to step in.

"I draw the line at the fleecy top with the Cat Taco pants," he proclaimed. "It's not a good look."

I cast my eyes downward to the other beloved article of clothing I'd acquired recently. It could be argued that the two aren't a combination you'd describe as pleasing to the eye. 

Still, they each in their own way make me happy.

I simply shrugged. "No one's going to see me but you."

"But I have to look at it," he said. 

I'm willing to concede this point. And so, I'll have to find a different companion for each of my favorites. Something more neutral. 

For the foreseeable future, it'll be too warm to wear the colorful top, so I'll have a few months before I need to find a companion for it that doesn't offend. 

As for the Cat Taco pants, well, I'm wearing them now. With a paisley top. 

I may need to work on this combination.

So Fast

 Mr. Ginley is forever telling me to slow down.

Look, Teeny Strawberries!

"Where is the finish line?" he queries. "Why are you in such a rush to get there?"

I know he's right of course. There's plenty of evidence right in front of me. Every day on the news, some famous figure that I grew up with has passed on. This week it was Brian Wilson and Sly Stone. Sure, they were in their 80s, but that's not that old. 

Is it?

Don't answer that.

It's such a cliché that time flies, but it really does. I may grumble and wheeze and roll my eyes when the exercise queen Leslie Sansone talks about how fast a workout has gone by. But then, before I know it, I'm playing the DVD again and doing the workout again, and ya, so fast.

It's hard to slow down, though, when you've had the zoomies all your life. Getting up, having breakfast, going to work, coming home, making dinner, spending family time, going to bed. Getting up on the weekends and running all the errands I didn't have time to complete during the week. 

Slow down. Breathe. 

I'm trying, I really am. Maggie just showed up, purring. Reminding me what's important. I gaze into the backyard. It stormed earlier, and now raindrops are kissing the leaves of the bush outside my kitchen window. There's a cool, welcome breeze blowing in. And church bells. The coo of a mourning dove. A snapshot of something lovely.

If only that bush weren't blocking my view, I really am going to have to get out there and cut it back. And just look at all those weeds taking over. I wonder if the blackberries are ripening yet? 

Maggie turns around and whacks me with her tail.

I know, I know. There aren't that many miles to go before I sleep. If I don't slow down, I'll miss all that lovely scenery.

And wouldn't that be a shame.

Here's to the Dads

 "How do you get him to take his dishes out to the kitchen," someone once asked my husband at a family function.

Mr. Ginley replied, "He knows what's expected of him, and he just does it." But I could tell Mr. was pleased. 

That was many moons ago, when our son was very young. Now he has a child of his own. We were blessed to meet our granddaughter last Sunday. It's obvious that our child is smitten with her. He didn't turn up his nose at changing her diaper. He sends me photos of the two of them, snuggling, drowsing, or crying open-mouthed (a pose reminiscent of his own childhood). Dadhood suits him well.

As this Father's Day approaches, I've been thinking a lot about our son and his father. Mr. Ginley was a stay-at-home Dad, a more radical role than it is these days. "Well-meaning" people made fun of him, berated him, and told him he would regret it. 

He never did.

Six weeks after Joe was born, I went back to work. It was heart wrenching to hear of their adventures. They'd do the planet walk in the MetroParks. Get pizza slices and have a picnic. Or play games. Mr. was aware of my sadness, and frequently drove the 35 miles to my office so the two of them could have lunch with me. It always made my day.

Of course, parenthood isn't all moonbeams and unicorns. It took two coats to paint over the "bad boy corner," where many tears were shed during a time out. There was the epic destruction of the Playstation after many warnings about abusing time limits. And there was a lot of gnashing of teeth when someone proclaimed he wanted to be a writer when he grew up, and his Dad made him pen one page every day on a small yellow legal pad for an entire summer. (We still have those pages, and yes, his writing got progressively better.)

Mr.'s goal was always to be a father, not a friend. "You'll have lots of friends in your life, but only one Dad," he always said.

I may have felt conflicted about not staying home to raise our son, but I never believed it was the wrong decision.

I feel very lucky for all the Dads in my life. My own father was a hard guy, but he did his best. He got through the Depression, fought in World War II, and raised six kids on a meager salary. His father was absent from his life much of the time and died too young to help his son out much. 

But we're all doing what we can.

Mr. heard a quote recently that kind of sums it all up.

"Anyone can be a father. Not everyone can be a Dad."

Happy Father's Day to all the Dads, whether your offspring is biological, chosen, or four-legged and furry. Hug 'em if you've got 'em!

Photo Attribution: Dorothy Hope Smith, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

P.S. I'm not posting pics of my granddaughter out of respect for my son and daughter-in-law's wishes. They're concerned about sharing photos on social media.

Heaven Only Nose

"Make it smell like Christmas, Daddy!"

attribution below

This has become the battle cry whenever Mr. grabs a can of Glade, post bathroom visit.

The trouble is, someone doesn't know when to stop spraying. Soon, the whole house is doused in the scent of pine.

Don't get me wrong. A whiff, a hint, a sniff of pine is all well and good. But too much of a good this is, well, too much of a good thing.

A little pine does invoke memories of the holidays. Just as Play Doh puts me back at the kitchen table, my Mom admonishing me not to get it on my clothes, in my hair, or in my mouth. (It only took one time eating Play Doh to realize that although it looks yummy, this is one instance when pretend-eating is clearly the way to go.)  

Unlike airplane glue, there's no rule about not huffing Play Doh. That scent lingers in my memory, along with other smells I've carried around in my brain over the years.

The musty smell of my grandma's attic. where she kept the games and paper dolls we played with on our visits.

The scent of Crayola crayons. (Also not a delicacy.) We sat at the table and colored for hours. I always colored outside the lines, in spite of my siblings' admonishments. A clear indication of my future subversive nature.

When lily of the valley blooms next to our house, I can't resist sticking my nose in them. Mom used to pick them for me to take to school. And lilac, too. 

And the unmistakable aroma of Wind Song that, inexplicably, wafted from the perfume bottle my grandmother gave me, long after the contents were gone.

So, what do we call this? Nasal memory, perhaps? I don't know. 

But I am happy to share that the scent of old books is beloved enough to have earned its own name: "vellichor."

That's a story for another time.

Harry Whittier Frees, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. This photo has nothing to do with the topic, I just came across it in my travels and thought it was stinkin' cute. 

Dotty for Deco

I'm not a joiner by nature. 

photo attribution below

This doubtless comes as a shock (not really) to those who know me. In high school, at the insistence of my mother, I joined the ecology club, attended one meeting, and promptly dropped out (without telling my Mom). 

There was that time when Jan and I joined a racquetball club. We went there a few times and played, then stopped and let our membership lapse.

When my kid was in grade school, I was a member of the PTU . It was incredibly insular, however, and I never felt welcome. Don't get me wrong, the other members (mostly women) put on a good face, but I couldn't help feeling like I was in school myself, facing down the popular kids. I stuck with it for a couple of seasons, then gave up.

The years flew by, and other than signing up for AARP, I didn't feel the need to join any organization.

Then one afternoon a few years ago, I attended a symposium hosted by the Cowan Pottery Museum. I'd been smitten by the Jazz Bowl, created by Viktor Schrekengost (subject of another blog post of mine), and Mr. Ginley encouraged me to learn more. By the end of the talk, I was hooked. Today, I'm a card-carrying Cowan Pottery Museum Associate.

The Cowan Pottery collection is showcased in the Rocky River Public Library. Not surprisingly, Mr. and I are there pretty much every Sunday. I'm particularly taken with the Art Deco pieces. So when I heard this year's symposium focused on this genre, I knew I had to attend.

The main focus of the event was the 1925 Exposition Internationale in Paris. Art Deco (although it wasn't called that until years later) was the theme of the Exposition. It was a fascinating presentation, with lots of photos of the buildings and art that were showcased. Fun fact: only two major countries didn't participate: Germany and the United States. 

Sadly, it's difficult to get a real feel for what it would have been like to attend the event in person because black and white was the primary photographic option. There are a few brochures that remain with artists' renderings. But Art Deco is rife with vibrant colors like Egyptian Blue, so the absence of color is disappointing. (One exception is the photo featured above, which is quite lovely.)

The color issue was somewhat mitigated by another guest speaker, Joseph Davis, a local collector who brought several Art Deco pieces from the period and discussed the provenance of each. 

The symposium wrapped up with a contest. The presenter showed photographic details from Art Deco buildings around town, and the audience was tasked with determining where they were taken. Of the dozens of photos, I recognized exactly one. And that's only because it was from the State Theatre, and we'd just been there the week before.

Am I closer to being an expert after attending the symposium?

No, but that's okay. It was fun to just look end enjoy. 

I'll leave art experting to the experts. 

Photo attribution: Boudoir from the Hôtel du Collectionneur, at the 1925 Paris Exhibition, by Émile-Jacques Ruhlmann. One of the rare color photos from the event.

For your viewing pleasure, below are photos of some of the items brought to the event by Joseph Davis Decorative Arts and Antiques:

Dear Advice Columnist

I've always been intrigued by the advice columns in the newspaper.

attribution below

Presumably, I'm not the only one, because, in my local rag, there's a proliferation of this genre. Where once Dear Abby and Ann Landers ruled, we can now get advice from Carolyn Hax, Dear Annie, Asking Eric, Meghan Leahy, and Heloise (she of the "Hints" for better living).

Reading these columns is a sort of guilty pleasure. It's comforting to see that other people have the same problems as I do. Or different problems that are much worse than mine. Or petty concerns that make me roll my eyes and say, "I should be so lucky if that's all I had to worry about."

Me being me, I can't stop from ruminating beyond the stories presented in these tales of woe-is-I. 

For example, there's the "he-said, she-said" factor – you're only getting one side of the story. Yes, there are times when the snarkiness or evil intent of the writer comes through loud and clear. But there are other times when I can't help wondering how the person on the other side of the table perceives their behavior. After all, it's not difficult to stretch the truth when pleading your case. I'd love to see a column where the other person had an opportunity to rebut.

"Jane, you ignorant slut!" (If you don't get the SNL reference, feel free to look it up.)

I'm not the only one in this house who enjoys reading these columns. (And no, I don't mean the cat.) Mr. Ginley partakes of them all, and he watches a lot of these sagas on YouTube. He will even talk back to the TV, when the narrator asks, "AITA" (i.e. "Am I the A-hole). His answer is most frequently "No!"

Why do we love peering into the lives of others? Does it make us feel better that we're not the only ones experiencing whatever it is we're going through? A "count your blessings" scenario, realizing others have it much worse than we do? Or a superior "get a life" reaction because we know our troubles are much worse than the idiot who's whining about her wedding cake being the wrong flavor and how her day was totally ruined.

As for me, I can't imagine ever writing a letter to an advice columnist.

I mean, as it is, Mr. Ginley occasionally says something like, "I saw your letter in Dear Abby today. I would never grab your ass in a fancy restaurant." 

I simply don't need that kind of drama.

Attribution: Alfred Stevens, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

To Be Frank

It was May 17, 1990. We were sitting on the couch in our apartment in Virginia, Mr. Ginley and I, testing each other's trivia skills. Having a good 'ole time. When the telephone rang.

We looked at each other. He paled. Something was wrong, he knew it instinctively. He went to pick up the phone.

His Dad, who'd been on vacation with his two brothers and his Mom, had a heart attack and passed away on a walk through Zion National Park. He was 70 years old. 

The first time I met Francis Ignatius Ginley, Jr. was a shock. My then-boyfriend warned me that his Dad hadn't warmed up to any of his girlfriends. I shouldn't feel bad if he nodded at me and went into the other room to read the paper. But that ain't what happened.

I walked in the front door of their home and was immediately greeted by his Dad who gave me a big kiss and a hug. I don't think I had a chance to give him a hug back, I was that startled. This didn't seem to bother him in the least. He put his arm around me and led me into the house. I then met Bill's Mom and his sister, Mary. The rest is a blur, but there was no question I'd been accepted into the fold.

Like my Dad, Frank was a veteran of World War II. He saw a lot of action, but didn't talk about it much. Clearly, it shaped who he became. By the time I met him, the edges had softened. He was tired and retired. He'd been through a lot.

Sadly, I only had four years with the man who became my second Dad, but they were eventful years. Mary passed away after bravely battling lung cancer. And his son followed me to Virginia to start a new life together. Mr. and I became Mr. and Mrs. but, as we came to regret, our parents weren't there to witness the nuptials.

On our last trip through town before he died, Dad made Mr. promise to take care of his Mom if anything happened. Which is why we ended up back here. 

I only wish our son could have know his Granddad. I know in my heart of hearts the two of them would have gotten on famously. I hope wherever his spirit lives (and I know it does) that Dad's watching over our boy.

Today, as we mark the 35th anniversary of his passing, I remember sitting in church for his funeral, feeling bereft. When in my head, I heard Frank, loud and clear, say, "Who the hell goes to Utah to die?" 

That was Frank. We love you and miss you like crazy, Dad!

Weekend Getaway

 Last weekend was lovely. 

Rose-Breasted Grosbeak
photo attribution below

I took a trip to Columbus to see my sisters. I stayed with Diane and John. Diane and I shopped, we did jigsaw puzzles while John played DJ, and we (sans John) watched a Hallmark movie. 

The bird watching was a treat. If I had the skills of my friend, George, I'd share a pic of the rose-breasted grosbeaks that frequented her feeder on their way through town. (I cheated a bit and nabbed this online photo.)

Denise stopped by, and we all noshed on fish and chips from a place called Bag of Nails. Yum!

Sometimes you need to get out of Dodge, and this visit did not disappoint.

For those of you who are biting your nails and wondering, "How did Mr. Ginley fare in your absence?" – I assure you, he survived. Thanks, in part, to stocking up on his favorite snackables. Alas, the fruit I cut up remained untouched, but I suppose that was to be expected. 

To give him his props, Mr. was a good sport about being deserted – he encouraged me to enjoy my family time in C-Bus. 

To make up for last weekend's frivolities, I need to catch up on all the stuff that didn't get done in my absence. We got our T-Dap vaccines yesterday in anticipation of the arrival of our granddaughter.  I cut the lawn, which will please the neighbors no end. And we will be visiting various libraries to return books, stopping at Savers to drop off used items, and doing our semi-annual shopping for health and beauty items. 

And, oh yes, buying a microwave to replace our old rusted-out version. Although, admittedly, it's been nice having the extra counter space, we've decided we're not ready to do without this modern appliance. But it will be a more petite model than the behemoth we ditched. (If it takes a little longer to defrost the hamburger, so be it. We're not going anywhere.)

If you're still awake at this point, I can only offer my deepest gratitude. You get bonus points for fortitude and a winning attitude.

Did I use the Google to find a "tude" word to end this mess?

You betcha. I have quite the aptitude for wordery, eh?

Photo attribution: Paul VanDerWerf from Brunswick, Maine, USA, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Who Were These People?

So many times I've been talking with Mr. Ginley and said, "I wish I could ask Mom (or Dad) about that." 

It's probably an aging thing (or perhaps it's our impending grandparenthood) but we find that we're reminiscing more about our parents. And there's so much more I want to know.

But all I have are faulty memories, photos, mementoes, and a lot of baggage.

I mean, who as a teenager thinks to ask their Mom or Dad what hopes and dreams they gave up to raise us kids?

I did learn that my Mom had a yen to pursue art. She told me once that she wished she'd gotten formal instruction. In another time and place, she probably would have. But she had six kids instead. Don't get me wrong, she said she had no regrets, and we knew she loved us. Still...you have to wonder about unfulfilled dreams.

As for my Dad, he was such a hardass when we were growing up, as many men of his generation were, and reluctant to talk about any dreams that were left behind. He went right from high school to service to his country to marriage and fatherhood. What would he have pursued if the expectations of his time hadn't existed?

I also think about my parents' relationship. They didn't argue much in front of us. Dad sometimes yelled at Mom, which would upset us. But it wasn't until later in life that I realized how deep their love for each other went. He sang "You Are My Sunshine" to her every night before bed, until the dementia came. Mom looked after him for the rest of his life, talking to him as if he understood everything. And, who knows, maybe somewhere deep inside, he did. 

In the end, it turns out we really don't know our parents at all. We make assumptions about who they were based on our own telescopic perception. Did we mistake discipline for a lack of love? Did we think our parents were too hard on us? Or not hard enough.

In the end, we have to acknowledge that our folks, with all their faults, did their best. As those of us who are parents understand all to well.

And hope that our children cut us a break for the mistakes we've made.

Or, as Mr. Ginley was fond of telling our own son, "This is nothing that years of therapy won't cure."

Brown Out

The two of us don't often have an evening out, so when we do, you know it has to be something special.

"Hold my coffee"

In the case of Wednesday night, it was Alton Brown who lured the Ginleys out of their cave.

The event was called "Alton Brown Live: The Last Bite." We sucked it up, plunked down a wad of cash, and planned our big night out. 

The first roadblock came up when we tried to get a parking pass. We found out too late that the parking garage was sold out for the evening. 

The second roadblock came in the form of a Cavs playoff game, which was going on at the same time as our show and would no doubt push parking prices through the roof. 

Given that neither one of us are adventurous when it comes to driving downtown (let alone trolling for parking), we began to stress a bit. Sure, we could take the rapid downtown, but that would mean schlepping back to Public Square afterward at 10:00 at night along with whatever Cavs fans were also hitting the happy trail.

What's a codger to do?

Well, this codger pulled out her computer and emailed her favorite livery service (aka Axel Hoyer) and arranged for a ride home.

So that was settled.

Fortunately, the weather cooperated. It was a lovely evening as Mr. and I headed downtown. We were lucky because there were no issues with the Rapid, and we made it downtown in good time. From there, we headed out of the Terminal Tower, reminiscing about all the stores that used to be there. (Remember the Warner Brothers gift store? Brooks Brothers? The record store?)

As we strolled down Euclid Avenue, we recalled the other stores and fast food joints that are mere ghosts in our memories. Peterson's Nuts on the square. Remember that smell? It was a little bit of heaven, and damn near impossible to pass by without nabbing a quarter pound of cashews. 

We had decided ahead of time to nosh at Heinen's, so we walked to 9th Street and went in to see what good eats we could find. (Alton Brown fans will appreciate this reference.) I'd heard there was a Michell's Ice Cream shop inside, so I was all set. Mr. Ginley found a pasta salad, a bag of chips, and an orange soda. We sat and ate our goodies and people watched. 

Who knew so many people in the CLE were wine connisseurs? A lot of the grape was sold that night.

As showtime neared, we headed over to the State Theatre (aka the "KeyBank State Theatre").  I guess everything is for sale these days.

I decided to grab a coffee, and we headed upstairs where we stood for half an hour waiting for our semi-nosebleed seats to become available.

They turned out to be quite good seats, all things considered. We both had a clear view of the stage, and Alton Brown did not disappoint. I wish my brother, Paul, could have been there. Alton did an entire schtick on Cap'n Crunch Cereal, choosing the proper bowl size, and milk. (Also, there was a funny bit about buttermilk.) He talked about watching Saturday morning cartoons, which those of us of a certain age could totally relate to.

There were other entertaining skits, an intermission, and the finale, which featured Barnabas Brown's Weiner Wonder Machine. Team Cleveland just squeezed into the 10th spot. (You had to be there.) 

All in all, a good time was had. And when we exited the theatre, there was our ride. 

"Wow, people are going to think we're somebodys," quipped Mr. Ginley. 

Not likely. Still, we did feel quite special being picked up at the door. In no time at all, we were winging our way homeward, chatting pleasantly with Mr. Hoyer about grandchildren and such, and we arrived back at the Casa de Ginley weary but happy.

We may not be spring chickens anymore, but it was fun flying the coop if only for one night.

Eggs-treme Nostalgia

I wish I could hop into the wayback machine and travel to my childhood.

This would be the day when my siblings and I decorated Easter eggs.

My Mom would present us with pristine white hard boiled eggs, ready for the dunking. She'd divvy them up to provide eggs-actly the same number to each child. (That's how we rolled in the Schrimpf house.)

One of the elder sibs (most likely Diane) would pour the boiling water into bowls along with vinegar and the fizzy color tablet.

We'd each pick out a metal dipper, which we'd bend into shape.

If we were so inclined, we'd use the waxy crayon to write a clever or possibly profane message on the egg before dunking it into the colorful liquid. 

You could dip the egg halfway in for a dual-color presentation or go all-in for one overall solid color. The more patient you were, the darker the shade. 

Once the eggs were colored and dry, you could add stickers or rub-on transfers.

The best part was critiquing each other's eggs. Someone (Paul) invariable went for the ugliest egg, which was achieved by dunking the egg in multiple colors that didn't blend well. The result would be something resembling baby shitz. 

After the eggs dried and we'd all lost interest, Mom would put the eggs in the carton and store them in the refrigerator until the Easter Bunny hid them later that evening. In those days, there were no worries about eggs going bad. Unless one wasn't discovered and the EB forgot where it was hidden. Then we'd all chime in with, "Well, if we don't find it, the smell will give it away in a few days." 

But it never came to that. 

These days, Easter for the Ginleys is just a day when many of the stores are closed. No decorated eggs, no Easter bonnets, no big Easter dinner.

But now that I've taken that stroll down memory lane, I don't mind. A nice, quiet day at home and maybe a walk in the park actually sounds kind of nice.

As an added bonus, we won't be eating hard boiled eggs every day for the next week.

The tradition carried over to the next generation.
(My niece, Melissa, is sitting on her mom's lap.)

A Thrifting We Will Go

I know you've been biting your nails, wondering what I did on my day off. 

Never mind that you didn't know I had the day off. Work with me here.

We were doing our bit to save the planet. In other words, we were thrifting.

If you've never experienced the serendipity, the pure wonder, and the "what-the-hell-is-this?" of the thrifting experience, I can't recommend it highly enough.

Today's finds included two pairs of sweat pants, a fancy jacket for me (tags still attached, kaching!), some books, three jigsaw puzzles, and a few CDs. We hit Savers, Half-Price Books, The Exchange, and Value World.

Of course, the hunt is the best part, and there were some finds we left behind. The Value City glass brought back memories of Mr. Trusken and my brother, Paul. It was nifty, but I knew it would sit in my cupboard with all the other cool dishes I never use. 

I enjoyed trying on the hats. Mr. and I had just had a discussion earlier about our Dads and how their hats were an integral part of their work attire. 

Thrifting also gives you the opportunity to play "name that article." There were old telephones, 8-track tapes, and coffee cups from now-defunct restaurants and such. On a former trip, I discovered a box of piano rolls. The kind for old player pianos. 

Of course, there's no accounting for the odd folks you encounter in such establishments. But that just comes with the territory. It's best to just let them be. Avoid eye contact, and under no circumstances should you take them home. 

Unless you're the one who brought them.