Naming Wrongs

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

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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.

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"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.