Hopping Down the Bunny Trail

Except for the year I had chicken pox, in my childhood, Easter was a happy holiday.

The day before, we would color eggs. It was an adventure with all those kids. My mom was a saint. What a  mess. But a fun mess.

The Annual Easter Photo, BP (Before Paul)

Sunday morning meant wearing a new dress and hat to church. Then coming home and hunting for (real) Easter eggs "the bunny" would hide. As we aged and the real identity of the bunny (or, bunnies) was revealed, my older siblings would advise them when it was time to drop hints because the younger hunters still hadn't found two of the eggs and were losing interest. My parents did not want to leave the errant eggs unfound, to be discovered days or weeks later when the overpowering odor gave them away.

Then there was the Easter basket.

As with all things, my mom was excruciatingly fair. We each got a chocolate bunny, a certain number of chocolate eggs, etc. I would not be surprised if she counted the jelly beans. (I don't think we ever bothered to compare that closely, but now I'm curious.)

At some point in time, my mom stopped taking the annual photograph in the back yard. We would stand at attention in our finery right after church (the Easter clothes had be changed immediately afterward). My mom read somewhere that you should have the sun behind you when taking a picture, so we would squint gamely into the sunshine, trying not to burn our retinas, while she encouraged us to smile.

Later, with the eggs back in the cartons and secured in the fridge, destined for lunchboxes, we would nosh on chocolate until my mom held a cease fire. At around noon, we would gather to feast on ham. (I think it was ham.) And all the fixings. Then it became a typical Sunday afternoon. Then a typical Sunday evening, except with The 10 Commandments.

And we didn't have to go to school the following week.

This year, my kid will be doing his Joey Donuts thing on Easter Sunday, and, albeit with chocolate, it will be a pretty normal Sunday.

But I'm thinking of putting on a little Mitch Miller. And taking a turn around the coffee table. Just for old time's sake. (Care to join me, Paul?)

Happy Easter, everyone!

A Smoggy Day in Cleveland Town

We've established that I'm a Luddite.

Photo by John Schrimpf

And yet...I don't always long for the good old days. My friend, Lynne, shared a link to Cleveland.com on my Facebook page. There is a photo gallery of images from 1970's Cleveland that was created by the EPA for a study they did on air pollution.

Their picture of Cleveland is not anything the visitor's bureau would have shared. It depicts our town as a smoggy wasteland. Men of my parents' generation used to say we shouldn't complain because dirty skies meant full employment. That's why they moved to the suburbs.

Personally, I'm thrilled that the EPA stepped in. While you can still get a whiff of the factories if you're cruising down Jennings Road, it's nothing like it was forty years ago. The photos bring back how bad the air was and what a long way we've come.

Besides the industrial part of town, there are photos of downtown buildings and stores. And Chester Commons, where I spent many a lunch hour (in the 80's, though, not the 70's). There was a certain noir about the place. I love the "Eliot Ness for Mayor of Cleveland" sign painted on the side of one building. (My brother photographed that same wall back in the day when he lived on Prospect Avenue.)

It's fun to go back in time, but it's also good to acknowledge that some things are better left in the past. It was not fun living in the city dubbed "The Mistake on the Lake."

Hopefully, the weather will turn warm for good, and I can visit Lakewood Park and pay homage to the EPA for helping to restore the beautiful views we enjoy.

P.S. If you're interested, the photo gallery can be found here:
http://photos.cleveland.com/4501/gallery/vintage_photos_of_cleveland_in_the_1970s_a_gritt/index.html#/0

Cel-ing Out

Eleven thirty last Friday night, the phone rang.

I said to Mr. Ginley, "This can't be good."

It was our son, reporting that his cel phone had croaked. Into the wee hours of the morning, he would work with a technician, who told him all of the things to do that didn't help. The phone was officially deceased.

In light of how tethered our son is to his device, we decided it would be best if we schlepped to his side of town and took him and his phone to the store.

My first mistake was in not scoping out exactly where the store was. Our kid said he had directions. In his defense, he didn't say he had the most direct directions. So, we meandered our way in a manner that would have delighted Jeffy from Family Circus until we arrived at our destination. Which was located right next to the freeway that would have gotten us there in half the time.

Mr. Ginley decided he did not want to participate. He does not like to get involved in matters of technology because they just irritate him. So off he went, book in hand, to Wendy's, to read and eat, while my kid and I stormed the Bastille in pursuit of the best deal.

The trouble was, the plan was two weeks from its expiration date. Begging, pleading and threatening to go to the competitor did no good. They would not give us a new phone. We had three options:

1. Go two weeks without a phone. (Not really an option.)

2. Let them send his phone to the factory (probably overseas) and get a refurbished phone in a couple of days. There was a caveat with this one. If they opened up the phone and the tech found any indication of water damage, we would be billed $200. We looked at each other, and I knew we were envisioning the same thing: some guy in China with a water bottle, spraying the phone and murmuring, "Yes, I see evidence of water in this phone." So that option was a pass.

3. Take advantage of their newest scheme,  whereby you "lease" a phone. The upshot is, you buy the phone on time for a ridiculous amount but supposedly without interest (it's built into the cost). You wind up paying the same amount each month, which is how they sell it. And if you have any problems, you can bring it back and trade it in for a new one. We decided this was the least of the evils, albeit Hobson's choice, and agreed to go with it.*

Somewhere, my Dad was shaking his head in disappointment. I knew this. But I also knew I didn't want to spend another hour in that store and my kid needed a phone, stat.

At the end of this emotional drawing and quartering, the salesperson informed me that, "Oh, by the way, your first bill will include the taxes on the phone. A one-time charge." How much? $45. Nice touch. A final thrust through the ribs to seal the deal.

Once the deed was done, we took our son back to school. We didn't take the side streets because he wanted to show us the house where he will probably be living next year. As we turned onto the main street, my husband cried out and pointed to the unmistakable logo on a storefront located minutes from campus. Apparently, it's a new store, not even listed on the internet yet.

The good news is, when my son has issues the next time, we won't have to slog across town to help him.

On the way home, I came to a decision.

My next phone will be a Jitterbug.


*Those of you who are baby boomers will recall that Ma Bell used to "lease" her phones. Every month there was an equipment charge on your bill. It was a big deal when they decided you could actually buy your phone. Somehow, it didn't seem to lower the price of the monthly bill. What comes around goes around?

A Pie for a Pi

Bakeries everywhere, rejoice. The pun is afoot. Today is National Pi Day, honoring pi, or 3.14.

The idea of a number that is irrational and never ends somehow resonates with my life. Perhaps it does with other folks too, and that's why it has become so popular.

My knowledge of pi being hazy at best, I decided to do a little research via the Google.

Today is a very special Pi Day, because it only happens once every century. With the year being 2015, we honor the first five digits of pi: 3.1415.Going one step further, if you figure in the hour, minutes and seconds as well, you can extend the streak to 10 digits: 3.141592653 (9:26:53). There is some controversy among folks who follow such things as to whether this occurs once or twice today. (I guess that depends on whether you run on military time.)

Thanks to the internets, I also learned that the Greek letter π symbolizes pi because it is the first letter of the Greek word for perimeter, περίμετρος.

All of this falderal got me wondering. National holidays like Pi Day are a relatively new phenomenon. Pi Day was declared in 1988. Not to be confused with National Pig Day (what a difference a letter makes), which, sorry you missed it, took place on March 1st.

Are all of these national holidays merely a diversion from our otherwise lackluster days? I don't know. What I do know is that, although Mathematics and I have had an on-again, off-again sort of relationship over the years, one thing remains constant.

My love for pie. Pass the French Silk, please!

A Public Apology

Featured in yesterday's newspaper was a story about an 85-year-old man whose house has been pelted with eggs for the past year.

They look so innocent.

The attacks happen after 10:00 at night, and police believe the perpetrator lives a block or two away. So far, no arrests. Everyone is stumped.

The first thing that occurred to me was: How angry would someone have to be to figure the trajectory, build a launcher and invest in all of those eggs. Police are so stumped, they even had the eggs analyzed to see where they came from. Still, no arrests have been made.

So, what did the octogenarian do to incur such wrath? Or was it the 49-year-old daughter or her 51-year-old brother who incited the heinous revenge?

Thinking about the awfulness of this attack made me wonder if there is anything I have done that would incite someone to take measures against me. If I did, I apologize here and now. Going one step further, I would like to call out as many transgressions as possible. In this season of Lent, the timing seems appropriate.

When all the trouble started.

To my husband: For falling asleep on the couch every week night after dinner.

My son: For taking those embarrassing photos of you as a small child.

My siblings. Gary: yes, I was the one who took your 45's from the attic and played them over and over again.  (I still have them if you want them back.) John, sorry for hiding in your closet and jumping out and scaring the bejesus out of you that one time. Diane: for pestering you as only a youngest sister can. Denise: for everything, including but not limited to, racing your doll's stroller up and down the driveway until the wheels fell off. Paul: For pushing you down when no one was looking. And all that other stuff I did to scar you for life. Sorry.

To my coworkers: For being whatever the female equivalent of a prick is. I could say it was because I just wanted the job to be done right. But I'm pretty sure it's also my inability to smile and use euphemisms when I really want to rant.

To my neighbors: For appearing on my porch in my pajamas every morning (or, at least, the mornings when we have a newspaper on our porch).

To random strangers: I'm sorry I flipped you off, even though you drive like an...Oops. I digress.

I hope this covers everyone. If you don't see yourself here, I apologize. For everything.

Except for the time in high school when I showed up at Rick Chmara's house with Peggy on New Year's Eve and he was too embarrassed to get out of bed.

That was just fun.

Reality Check

There was a lot of buzz about "the dress" this week.

In case you've been off the grid, this was the photo someone snapped of a dress they saw online, and there was fiery debate over whether the dress was blue and brown/black or white and gold. Some people said they saw it both ways. Some said they were sitting next to someone looking at the same screen and they each saw different colors.

Half full or half empty?

What surprises me is how surprised people are about the phenomenon.

Don't we live every day in our own realities? Don't our own perceptions of ourselves and others color everything we do? Two people can watch the same movie or view the same incident and come away with two opposed descriptions of what happened. And how many different religious factions are out there insisting their god is the only one?

Just for the record, I saw the dress as blue and brown. Someone, who took the time to make swatches and check them against Photoshop, came up with blue and brown, too.

So I'm right. Ha!

Except...the original dress, the one that was viewed online, was blue and black.

Oh well. I've always been a little off. Ask anyone, they'll tell you. They just may not all tell you the same thing!

Dreaming of a Green Summer

The past week was brutal. Record-low temperatures, more snow and white knuckle driving were the stories of the day. But I just can't talk about that anymore.

Instead, I find myself thinking about childhood summers.

Riding my bike down a street canopied with maple trees. Flapping against my spokes was the bubble gum card -- either a discarded baseball player my brother didn't want or maybe a bullshit Monkees card with a scene from the show that didn't have any of the boys in it. The one blip in my memory of this is the year we had the cicadas, flying at me from the trees, leaving their discarded shells to crunch beneath my bike tires. (Creepy stuff, but I'd still rather be crunching cicada shells than snow.)

The year I got a hula-hoop for my birthday, just like my sister's. And I shoop shooped my way through summer. Learning how to spin it so it came back to me. 

The teen summers. Hanging out with Linda on her porch (she had a glider) and watching for boys. Especially the guy down the street we nicknamed "Bwam" because he rode a motorcycle. Swimming in her pool. Walking up to McDonald's for a coca-cola or a shake.

Snippets of memories of sunny, warm summer days to push away, if just for a little while, the shoveling that will need to be done a little later today.

It will get warm again one of these days, right?