Right of Way

Year after year, the Canadian geese keep coming back. This in spite of the guy with the dog and the motorized mini boat whom they hired to chase the geese from our ponded shores.

In an act of defiance, the large fowl strut in numbers through out parking lot, emitting loud, throaty honks and leaving behind a trail of green goo. They have been known to hiss menacingly at passersby. While I believe that yes, they are a nuisance, there is an underdog part of me that believes they have just as much right to be annoying as we do. Presumably, they and their kind were there first. As were the field mice, ground hogs, chipmunks and other critters that turn up from time to time.

There has been a lot of grousing in the news about the deer population. The latest solution is to hit them with paint balls. While this would certainly lend a certain color to the neighborhood, I'm not sure it would be much of a deterrent. "Oh look, Henry, there's that green deer we shot yesterday."

I suppose that's the way people are. Not just with animals, but with each other. First, we find a patch of land we really like, then we chase the inhabitants off said land, until there is nowhere left for them to go. When they fight back, we exterminate them. That's how we roll!

I don't know, maybe coexisting just isn't in our DNA, even in today's "civilized" society. If you need evidence, all you have to do is head to a busy shopping center and hang out in the parking lot.

Let he who has not felt a shiver of triumph at beating someone else to the best parking spot cast the first stone!

Taking a Trip

Some would call Mr. Ginley a pessimist. "Look down," he always says. "Watch where you're going."

Me, I'm always looking up at the sky. Or the squirrel in the tree. Or other things.

Him: "You didn't see that guy jogging over there, did you?"

"Icing" my injury...

Me: "The one with the nice tan and glistening pecs? Nope."

But I digress. There are times when it pays to look down rather than up. Yesterday, for example. While waiting for the coffee to brew at the Starbucks at work, I stepped onto the patio to enjoy a little sunshine. A nice reprieve, I thought. I forgot about the 12-inch drop in the pavement. I didn't go down, but I did manage to twist my ankle enacting a series of maneuvers no foot likes to perform.

Ouch.

For the next several minutes, I sat breathing, hoping it would be one of those times when it hurts like hell for awhile, then you stand up and shake it off.

No such luck.

I hobbled back inside. The barrista, oblivious to my escapades, eyed me with concern. I wasn't limping when I walked in the first time. After explaining my mishap, she handed me a bag of ice. I fetched my coffee and hobbled off. It quickly became clear that this pain wasn't going to go away anytime soon. So, off to the infirmary I went.

My caregiver took a peek at my ankle, confirmed it was swelling up, and took my information about the accident. Did I want him to call an ambulance? No, I was humiliated enough, thanks anyhow. He told me I should get it checked out. I signed a paper and took another form to complete later. Then he handed me a couple of ice packs, and I continued the hobble back to my desk. There, I elevated my foot, and was forced to depend on the kindness of my co-workers to deliver my job jackets for me.

It's funny how, once you're injured, you appreciate all that your body does for you. I never thanked my feet properly. Oh, sure, I bought them new orthotics and most of the time I wear sensible shoes, but I still take them for granted. All that walking, and what do they get? A lot of work and not a lot of appreciation.

So, I'd like to propose a toast: To healthy feet. Here's to you, for being there every step of the way, in rain, sun and snow. Despite frostbite and bunions, corns and callouses, you take me where I need to go. And, especially now, I am grateful for your service.

Soak 'em if you got 'em!

Making Lemonade

My husband and I always tell our son that someday he will have enough material to write a multi-year sitcom.

To date, we are certain he has at least a year’s worth of scripts.

Tapping into genes he’s acquired from both sides of the family, our son has the ability to turn minor disasters and other unhumorous situations into comedy gold. This is a must-have if you aspire to be a good writer. Which he does.

We just hope that when he looks back on his years of indentured parental servitude, he is able to forgive and, if not forget, at least to make sculptures from the wreckage.

As much as we want our parents to have all the answers, the inevitable day comes when we realize they were just human, too. And that they, in turn, had their own ghosts to wrestle with. My father, in an unusually unguarded moment, once told me, “Compared to my dad, I’m stupid. My dad was a genius.”

Over time, and with the gift of hindsight, I’ve been able to see my mom and dad as adults. I know there are things I would have done differently from them. But I also know we’re all doing what we can. I wouldn’t trade my folks. It wasn’t all shits and giggles growing up, but I’ve learned no one, if they’re honest, gets through childhood unscathed. And sometimes you just have to let it go.

Or make it funny.

Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. 

For the Love of Cats

I was trolling the internet one evening in search of a volunteer opportunity. My kid doesn't need me much these days, and I've been feeling that whole, "what's-my-life-all-about-should-I-be-doing-something-more" thing.

The verdict? Cats.

Thanks to the Google, I was able to locate a no-kill shelter nearby called "Purr-fect Companions." A few quick emails later, I was on my way to becoming a volunteer.

The shelter is located in a house where most of the cats roam free. There are two special smaller rooms where a handful of felines reside for either health or personality reasons. The owner walked me around the place and introduced me to the residents. Each one has a story. And it's hard not to want to take all of them home. Like a mantra, I repeat, "I will not bring any cats home. I will not bring any cats home."

So far, I've managed admirably. I go there, scoop the poop, help Rose clean a little bit, and then hang out with my new buds. It's important for them to have human interaction and play time.

The funny thing about volunteering is what you get back. I know it sounds corny, all that stuff about getting more than you give, but, at least in my case, this has been true. Spending time with my new-found friends, I'm getting to know all of their personalities. Ozzie and Fran are "cling-ons." With a little encouragement, they'll climb aboard and literally hang with you until you remove them. There are the cats that don't like to be picked up but do like to be petted. And all of the residents have stories. Gabby had a companion cat who was put to sleep, then his owners moved across the country without him. Mr. Pusserkins had to be surrendered because of a change in a rental agreement. One resident, T.J., was an outdoor cat who wanted to come in, and did. (Part of one of his ears is gone -- there's a story there, too.)

The shelter is like a microcosm of life. Most of the cats are older, and therefore harder to place. People want cute little kittens, not a cat who has lived through traumas and rejection and who-knows-what.

Sometimes I look at Mabel (our cat) and wonder what her life was like before she came to live with us. She, too was a shelter cat.

There was a time in my younger self's life that I wanted to save the world. Now I'm just aiming for a very small part of it. Maybe my scooping litter and hanging out with cats won't change the course of the universe. But it does make a difference to this particular herd, who have known pain and rejection.

Hey, Arthur, want to go another round with the cat dancer?

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!"