Goodbye, Mork

We were sitting in the parking lot, waiting to pick up a pizza. Mr. G. was getting antsy, so I handed him my phone so he could see what was new on Twitter.

"Oh wow," he said. "Robin Williams is dead."

Then he said, "They think it was suicide."

I was crushed. I went inside to get the pizza. I wanted to tell the young girl who took my money, but I was afraid she wouldn't know who Robin Williams was. So I said nothing. Mr. G. was not affected all that much. He was a little sad, but he doesn't take celebrity deaths to heart. So why do I?

I know it's not like I was best friends with the guy and I'm going to miss having coffee with him or hanging out with him. It's just the idea that he's no longer in this world.

He was Garp and Mork and Mrs. Doubtfire and John Keating. Manic funny, deeply thoughtful. He touched me in ways you would not think possible for someone on a screen. What magic makes that possible? I'm getting teary just sitting here thinking about him.

Does the way he died have anything to do with it? Would it have been any less hard to take if he had been killed in a car accident or had a heart attack?

No, I don't think so. He's still gone. He won't be around to make us laugh or cry or think in that special way he had. But his work lives on, and that is something. I want to go back and see him again. Thanks to technology, I can do that.

And, while I'm at it, I'll try out the Orkin handshake. Or is it the Vulcan greeting? Did he live long and prosper? Maybe he lived as long as he needed to. And I hope he found enough happiness here on earth to prosper. From where I sit, he did good. I hope he's found peace now. And can enjoy his laughter again. 

Na-nu, na-nu.

Don't Poupon My Parade

Contrary to popular belief, the act of hunting and gathering is alive and well in modern America. Any stroll down the well-stocked aisle of your local supermarket will confirm this.

Granted, the activity has changed over the millennia, but the objective is the same: bring home sustenance for the clan. Fortunately, weapons are not required. Although I have been tempted from time to time when faced with the indecisive deli-orderer. Or the 10-items-or-less-items line cheater.

But I digress.

Shopping is a sporting activity. The object of the game is to spend less than the supermarket wants you to. Of course, we all know it's like playing blackjack in Vegas. The odds are stacked for the house. But every now and then, you find a buy-one-get-one of something you actually use, and it's a win.

One of my frustrations is the endless re-packaging of processed products by food distributors. For example, spaghetti sauce used to come in 32 ounce jars. My old recipes call for this much sauce. But now, many of the jars are only 24 ounces. Sometimes this works out, because the spaghetti noodles used to weigh in at 16 ounces, but are now 13.25 ounces. It makes my head hurt. The worst part is the feeling that the food companies are trying to sneak one by us. Attempting to make the box LOOK bigger when it's actually smaller. Understand, Mr. Big Food Conglomerate, we know what you're doing, and we don't like it.

Unfortunately, we know there's not much we can do about it, so we grumble and roll the cart down the aisle. And adjust the recipe when we get home.

Reading labels is also a large part of the sport of shopping. Do they really need to put all of that stuff in there? I sigh with pleasure when I pick up a can of kidney beans, and the only thing in it is beans and maybe a little water. Searching for carefully hidden trans fats and the dreaded high fructose corn syrup can be a full-time pursuit. I do my best, but I'm not rabid. I still let my kid eat cereal bars, I just close my eyes, wrinkle my nose and hope he gets enough good food to counteract the seemingly endless list of mysterious additives and chemicals.

When people say we have it easier than our ancient ancestors, I suppose on some level they are correct.

But there are days when I think I would rather try to nail an antelope at 20 paces than roam the supermarket in search of the food that is slowly killing me.

On the other hand, while the big plastic kiddie-friendly shopping cart that blocks my way aisle after aisle is certainly annoying, it won't kill me. It may even make me stronger.

After all, patience has always been a big part of hunting, right?

It's Nice to be Kneaded

Most of my vacation time is taken a day at a time. Often it involves doctor visits. Earlier this year, I took three days off to attend a funeral in New Jersey. My vacation time is so uninteresting, in fact, that one of the women on my staff quipped, "Don't tell me what you have planned. I'd rather imagine you out spelunking."

Well, I sure surprised her this past week when I told her what I was doing with my Friday vacation day.

It all started when Mr. G. informed me that he and our son were going to the Sports Collector's show. And that I would be chauffeuring them (to save the $8.00 parking fee). Mr. extended the invitation to me, saying that I was more than welcome to join them.

I respectfully declined.

(Artist's Re-Creation)

Instead, I decided it was time I used that spa gift card I got for my birthday (last year). So, after I dropped off the boys, I made a beeline for "The Oaks," where I received my hour-long Swedish massage. If you had told me 10 years ago that I would enjoy this experience, I would have scoffed. Now I know better. I used to be squeamish at the idea of another person working me over like a ball of dough. Especially when it involves being mostly undressed. But the weird thing is, there's nothing uncomfortable about it. Like there's this barrier between you and the one who's massaging. They are just kneading and kneading and you are needing and needing. Ahhh. The only part I'm not keen about is when she works the bottoms of my feet. Too ticklish.

Once I tipped my masseuse and depleted my gift card, I walked over to Wendy's and had a salad for lunch. Then on to Westgate to do a little shopping. Target is a wild and wonderful place. Yes, I can say that and mean it. I love what Mr. and I call "The Wonder Wall," all the little gewgaws that you don't need but must have. Like Yoda notebooks. And mini maglite flashlights. Anyhow, I managed to walk on without indulging, and got all the practical stuff I needed.

The trick is to keep your eyes closed.

To reward myself for showing restraint, I went to Panera for dessert. There I was pleasantly surprised to learn I had earned a free birthday pastry. So I got a brownie and a cup of coffee and sat outside to enjoy the beautiful weather at a shady table. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine myself at a bistro in Paris. (I attribute this to the after-effects of the massage. I was still feeling mighty relaxed at that point.)

After filling the gas tank, I decided to take a walk in the MetroParks. It was lovely but got warm and sticky after a mile or so.

Walking is fundamental.

Then back home, where I watched the very first Alvin and the Chipmunks. Complete with Clyde Crashcup and Leonardo. (That's "Crash" for crash and "cup" for cup. "Crashcup.")

After that, I was the one who crashed, until I got the call. The boys, tired but buoyed by their shopping, were ready to come home.

That's what we call a "Win-Win!"

Gifts

Growing up, birthdays were a big deal. My mom baked a cake in whatever shape we wanted and in our favorite flavor (cake and frosting). We got gifts from our parents and exchanged presents among the siblings.

Sunflowers from Pam.

One year, my brother, John, gave me an assortment of teen magazines, including Tiger Beat and 16. I was in heaven reading about the Monkees, the Beatles, Hermans Hermits, and all of the other popular groups of the time. I took out the glossy, full-color photos and stuck them on the wall. And loved them to pieces. (I still have most of them, or what is left of them.)

Flash forward several years to this past week. I received many presents. They were all fabulous...the DVD's from my husband, the odds and ends from my son, the books from Steph, the candle and flowers from Pam and the cards from my sister and Linda. The goodies brought into work by my boss and co-worker, Kim. And many, many birthday wishes on Facebook.

But what mattered most was the time I got to spend with people I love. Dinner with my family. Lunch with Pam. And the fact that people remembered my day, that they cared enough to celebrate with me. Enjoying the gift behind the gift. Now I know, that's the best part.

My Pitiful Laundrette

We could hear "Taps" playing as our washing machine officially croaked.

So, last Saturday it was off to Sears to buy a new model. Our normal approach is to do a little research ahead of time, then buy whatever the salesperson talks us into. This time, Mr. Ginley insisted I pre-shop. Using the internets, I did my smart-shopper thing, although I must confess the online reviews baffled me. One guy loved it, one guy hated it...they seemed to cancel each other out. Finally, I settled on what I believed to be an acceptable model. Then I headed to Sears Outlet on my lunch hour to check it out.

The good thing about this particular location is they are obviously not well-versed in selling appliances. Lawn tractors, yes. Washers, not so much. This was a good thing for me because I wanted to shop without a hovercraft at my elbow, extolling each machine's virtues (especially the ones over $800). In this way, I was able to locate my model and see it up-close-and-personal.

The next day, Mr. and I headed out to the Sears at the mall and were able to complete our purchase with a minimum of fuss. The guy did not try to sell us up, which was refreshing. And soon we had scheduled a delivery date and were on our way.

The downside...the machine would not be delivered for a week. And we had dirty clothes that needed to be cleaned for the week ahead. Off to the laundromat we went.

The last time I had been in a laundromat (when our last washer gave up the ghost), coins were required. I assumed this would not be the case this time, but I wasn't sure exactly what to expect. All of the other campers seemed to know what they were doing. The smart thing would have been to approach one of them and ask what the routine was.

But, if I had done this, I wouldn't have anything to write about today.

I approached an ATM-like machine that dispenses cards. I'm not unfamiliar with this particular technology, so no big deal. I put in some money and got a card. Then I went over to the first machine and filled it with all of our blue jeans. Figuring this would be a sufficient load, my kid put the detergent in the top, locked it up, and away it went. So far so good.

That's what we thought.

On to the machine next to it, which was smaller size but still quite roomy. As we were loading that washer, a woman sitting nearby called me over and said, "I don't know if you've been here before, but that first machine holds six loads and this one holds four." Then she waved her hand toward the back of the laundromat and said, "And those machines back there are for one or two loads."  I thanked her for the advice (wishing she had told me before we started up the behemoth), and we proceeded to pack more clothes into the second washer. Then we headed for the back of the place, and filled a much smaller washer with our final load of whites.

Then we waited. 

Things were humming along just fine, until the behemoth, un-marked six-load washer started its final spin. For what seemed like an hour and half (but was probably only 3-4 minutes), the monster shook and banged and looked like it was going to burst from its mooring and explode, spewing shrapnel and wet blue jeans over all of the launderers.

We were mortified.

We sat silently, praying to the God of Laundry to deliver us. As we watched the spectacle in horror, my husband leaned over and said, sotto voce, "There's a sign that says we have to pay for any machinery we break."

We sat meekly, avoiding the eye contact of the other, obviously more experienced clothes handlers. We were sure they were staring daggers at us. I asked our knowledgeable laundry-friend if this was normal for this machine. She eyed me with pity and murmured, "Only when you don't put enough clothes in and it's out of balance."

We prayed some more. That was all we could do, because the machine was on lock-down. And, at the end of this particular cycle, when my son tried to open the door, it remained locked. To our shock and dread, it started to fill with water again. We waited. And went through another cycle of nail-biting until the heaving, noisy beast finally came to a halt, still intact.

We removed our clothes, then waited in agony and embarrassment until the other two machines completed their work. We gathered up everything and slunk off to finish the job in the still-functional dryer at home.

Our new washer is coming today. I will love it and care for it. I will schedule the once-a-year visits covered by my 5-year maintenance agreement. And I will cherish it always.

Or, at least until my next trip to the laundromat.

It Just Is.

Life is so arbitrary. We go along in our own world, day after day. Always with the assumption that tomorrow will be much like today. You go to work, come home, make dinner, go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Then you get the curve ball. Like we did this week. When one of our own at work was struck with a deadly disease. No one saw it coming. It just happened. She was there walking down the hallway, en route to the cafeteria. She looked fine, maybe a little tired. Then we heard she was in the hospital fighting for her life.

And suddenly, we were all thrown out of our complacency. How could this happen? We just saw her, we just spoke with her...about racing...about her son. It was so quick. So unexpected.

In our Friday morning meeting, we talked about the fragility of life. Everyone had a story, someone close whom they'd lost. A parent, a sibling, a neighbor, a friend. We reminded each other of the importance of telling your family, your friends how much they mean to you. To say "I love you" to those who are close to you every time before you hang up the phone.

Because there are no promises. This is it, folks. So turn around, hug the one you're with.

And please  send up a little something to Terri and the family she left behind Friday night. A wish, a prayer, a blessing. A memory of a woman who was too young, too fun and too good to be gone so soon.

Where My Nose Begins

This year's Fourth of July Parade through West Park was the same as every year. Led by Cleveland's Finest, complete with the bagpipe contingent, the parade slogged its way down Lorain Avenue.

There is a comfort in the sameness of the parade. The politicians hand out flyers. Participants throw candy at the kids sitting expectantly on the curb. And we all wave back at people in fancy automobiles and trolley cars and fire trucks.

Alas, there were no marching bands this year. I really like the marching bands. But there were veterans and churchgoers and lodge guys with fezzes and Knights of Columbus with feathery maned hats and gleaming swords. And a few horses. And the requisite gift that horses leave along the parade route. (Beware all who follow.)

And flags. Lots of flags. There is always talk about patriotism on these holidays. And freedom. Freedom is grand. But when I was growing up, we were taught that the right to extend your elbow ends where the next guy's nose begins -- that we do have rights, but with those rights come responsibility for self and consideration for others.

I thought about this later in the day, when the folks in the apartment complex on the next street decided to play their music VERY LOUDLY so we could hear every BOOM BOOM BOOM throughout the house, even though we had our windows closed.

I don't believe those people meant to ruin my holiday with their music. But I also don't think they would have cared if they had known.

It's disheartening. But I guess that's the human race for you. People want to protect what they view as their own rights, even if that means trampling on the rights of others.

We've turned our government over to big businesses who are chipping away at our freedoms. We've turned our souls over to Christian leaders who have clearly missed the whole point of what Jesus  taught, vis-a-vis, the most important commandment is this: "Love one another as I have loved you."

This one statement is at the heart of all religious faiths. And yet, it's so often left at the curb, along with all the candy wrappers and other discards from a parade meant to symbolize our freedom and our belief that we are the best country in the world.