What I Did on My Summer Staycation

Well, I didn't go spelunking, but at least my two vacation days this week were spent doing fun stuff.

Following the lead of local author Erin O'Brien, we took an urban hike through Cleveland's Flats, exploring the bridges via a route she had mapped out. It's easy to forget that there are breathtaking things to see right in your own neighborhood. When we lived in the Washington, DC area, many of my co-workers hadn't been to a Smithsonian museum or the monuments for years. I used to think this was odd. But this week, I realized I'm just as bad. I'd never seen this particular view of the city of my birth.

The story is really all about the photos, a few of which I'm sharing here. Our goal is to go back to the Scranton Flats and do the path that hugs the Cuyahoga River.

Thanks to the internets, I also discovered a new favorite place to shop in Lakewood, called The Lion and Blue.  Lots of cool, woo-woo stuff. Crystals and scarves and trinkets and stuff.

On the second day of my glorious absence from work, we decided to go see a movie. The cool thing was it was discount day, so we only paid an arm to see the show and buy some treats. Plus, the theater was nearly empty, which suited us just fine. No loud talkers or wailing babies. We sat in the back row. Playing on the big screen in 3D was Minions, the prequel to Despicable Me. Great fun, indeed, especially if you lived through (or simply "get") the 1960s. Lots of sly references, very Bugs Bunny.

What amazes me about today's movies is all of the commercials. The cinema companies put together a short film to "entertain" you while you wait for the 17 movie previews before your film begins.
This short is a bunch of ads cobbled together. We usually get settled in our seats 10 minutes or so ahead of time, so we get to view most of this. Fortunately, there is a summary at the end, so we can see the ads we missed. Me being me, most of my snack has disappeared before the opening credits of the the movie.

It's nice to stay in town and toodle around. You save on the expense of transportation and lodging. No packing or unpacking. Of course, you still have chores nagging you to be completed. But they could  wait.

And they did.

Instant Carma

During my ample commute, I have lots of time to ponder the universe. And other things. Like the rudeness of my fellow travelers. 

I find myself wishing that some divine power would smite the drivers of those offending vehicles. 

That's how I came up with Instant Carma.

Say someone is tailgating you for miles. You're not in the fast lane (in fact, there's no one in the fast lane), yet this ying-yang has taken it upon herself to school you for not going 20 miles over the speed limit. You glance into your rear view mirror, willing her to back off. You tap the brake, nothing works. You have visions of a quick stop and her mini van ending up in your trunk. You finally pull over into the speed lane so she can pass you in the slow lane. Then you get behind her.

And...it's Instant Carma to the rescue! A 1993 rusted out Chevy pulls up to HER back bumper and hovers there. The driver grins maniacally. Of course, he has no insurance. His car is a disaster. He may even tap her back bumper. A few times. Before he races away with a wave. 

In our next scenario, you're driving on crowded city streets. There is traffic ahead of you but no one behind you. The guy races up and cuts you off. Here comes Instant Carma, pulling in front of the driver and going 5 miles under the speed limit, ensuring he is boxed in and can't get around. Of course, it means you have to go slow, too, for a mile or so. But just imagining the other driver's white knuckles and the veins popping out of his neck are compensation enough.

Then we have the distracted driver. She is on the phone or putting on her makeup or eating her breakfast. She gets on the freeway doing 35 and weaves back and forth, so you're afraid to pass. Then, just as you make your move, she finishes her task and guns the engine so you can't get around her. In this case, Instant Carma appears in the form of a police car and hefty speeding ticket.

Of course, the irony is, I'm probably bringing myself bad karma for wishing ill on others. 

But honestly, I don't want anyone to be physically hurt or anything. And I know that it probably wouldn't change the way they drive. Hmmm. Maybe more drastic measures are called for.

What if Instant Carma removed the driver from the vehicle, confiscated it and gave it to someone who couldn't afford a car but would drive responsibly.

Now, that's good karma!

P.S. My idea, like most, is not really new or original. As anyone knows who has seen W.C. Fields and Alison Skipworth in If I Had a Million.

My Paperless Porch

Today I can have me a watch that employs all the wonders of a Univac and much, much more. It can tell me where to go and what to buy and what Aunt Freda in Germany is up to and how far I've walked and how many calories I've burned.

But I can't get a newspaper delivered to my front porch. Like it used to be. For most of my adult life.

I grumbled when they stopped delivering The Plain Dealer every day. But at least, I figured, I was still going to get it Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. I still enjoy holding a newspaper in my hands, sitting in my easy chair, and reading what's what.

Yes, I have a tablet, but reading the e-edition on a hand-held device is a tedious task*.

So, when I get a paper newspaper, I relish it. But lately, getting the newspaper has been a chore.

We had one carrier for years and years. He was a gem. I never had to think about the paper showing up on my doorstep at 6 a.m. I could stick my arm out the door and grab it, no fuss, no muss. But for the last several months, getting my newspaper has been an adventure -- one I'd rather do without. When it does come (which, without me calling and complaining to an automated system, is about 75% of the time), it arrives by 8 a.m. and it's tossed onto the driveway in a plastic bag. When it rains, it often sits in a puddle until I retrieve the sodden mess. Some days there have been sections missing. One day this week, I actually watched the guy come up to my porch, place the paper on it, get back in his truck and depart. I was impressed. Until I realized only half of it was there.

I know what some of you are thinking. That I'm focusing on a little thing. That civilization as we know it isn't going to crumble because my newspaper delivery sucks. And, while the neighbors might raise an eyebrow or two, me having to trot down the driveway in my pajamas is really not big deal.

My fear is that the little civilities are getting lost. And that, like the vital bumblebees that are slowly, quietly dying, it is the disappearance of the little things that do us in. Cutting in lines and cutting each other off in traffic. Leaving a measly tip for good service. Watching an old man trying to get his foot up and over a curb without helping. (Something, I am proud to say, my son did NOT do.)

Matt Groening once said something like, "If you keep your expectations tiny, you'll go through life less whiny."

I've lowered my expectations. But the world keeps lowering the bar.

THAT's why I'm whiny.

But, just for today...I will be glad my newspaper arrived, safe and dry, all pages present. And I will go forth and read Sally Forth.

And I wish all of you a Happy Fourth!

*This is for my sister, Denise. (Inside joke!)

Happy Stumbling

Whenever my husband is tearing the house apart looking for something, I always tell him it will turn up when he's looking for something else.

My going-away card, designed by Randall.

This was the case for me this week when I was searching for a copy of a letter from my grandmother to my mom. I didn't find it, but I did find a ton of old stuff from my pre-mom era. A going-away card from my last day at Kay Jewelers in Alexandria. Postcards and letters from Julie & Brook's trip around the world. A transcript of my grades from high school. Writing samples and school papers and projects. Various minor awards, including the one from an Advertising Age contest and an honorable mention from The National League of American Pen Women (that's a whole other story).

And much, much, more.

This rainy day will be perfect for plunging myself into the past, trying to associate faces with the names on cards signed by everyone in the office. Glimpses of life 30 years ago from people my age, their futures all ahead of them then. I wonder where life took them, if they are happy with their lot, if they ever look back and see me.

Postcard from Greece

One more share before I toodle off to re-explore my past. I was in Parmatown Mall, and there was a bespectacled gentleman with a huge computer and punch cards. For a small fee, he said he would analyze my handwriting. Skeptical but intrigued, I agreed to give it a try. I signed my name on a card that was fed through the behemoth, which spit out a sheet of computer paper. Here's what it said:

YOU HAVE A VIVID IMAGINATION AND SHOULD PURSUE A WRITING CAREER. WITH YOUR HIGHLY RECEPTIVE LOGICAL MIND, YOU ARE RARELY FOOLED BY OTHERS. YOU HAVE A KIND, GENTLE HEART AND ARE EXTREMELY KID TO ANIMALS. IN LOVE RELATIONSHIPS YOU CAN BE VERY EMOTIONAL AND HIGHLY PASSIONATE. YOU NEVER HOLD A GRUDGE AND ARE THE FIRST TO ADMIT YOUR MISTAKES.

Honestly, I don't think Siri could have done any better!

But I still haven't found the letter I was looking for in the first place. I guess I will have to think of something else to search for.

Now, where did I leave my coffee cup...

P.S. Here is what Julie wrote on the back of the postcard (above): We wanted to send this "Greek God" to you in person but unfortunately, he is too buy posing for pictures.

Unicorns and Rainbows

I love Facebook. It keeps me in touch with relatives and friends and the Japanese photographer I love to the bottom of my soul.

Then, I hate Facebook. It sucks me in with stories designed to raise the hackles. Stories that have not been vetted to confirm they really did happen.

Artist's rendering (or why I'm not an artist)

In today's example, there is a woman in Baltimore who says she got a hate note from a neighbor because she put multi-colored mason jars in her yard. The neighbor accused her of being "relentlessly gay" and invoked GOD as frowning on her little yardly display.

Now, if this is a true story, the neighbor is a flaming a-hole, and the woman has cause for indignation. What she did next, however, makes me go, "hmmm."

She set up a "Go Fund Me" page to rainbow-ify her yard. So far, she has collected in excess of $37,000.

Some are lauding her for her ingenuity. Others are questioning the veracity of her claim. (The quirky capitalization on the note that matched her original Go Fund Me page, since edited, was called out.)

I decided to hold off contributing to her cause. How much rainbow-ing will $37,000 buy you? I supposed she could acquire a mini van and paint it like the Partridge Family bus and park it in her driveway. Frankly, her indignation might carry more weight if she donated her money to an organization like Forty to None, which helps gay and transgender youth who are homeless.

The lessons for all of us may be: 1. Don't assume what you read on the internet is true. It may be, but, unlike newspapers in the olden days, there's no certainty a story has been fact-checked before it goes viral. (Snopes.com is a good source, but they haven't weighed in on this story yet.) 2. Of course, you can donate your hard-earned cash to whomever you wish, but it's a good idea to check their bonafides to make sure the cash you're forking over is going where it's supposed to go. One source is http://www.consumer.ftc.gov/articles/0074-giving-charity.

Okay, okay, I'm climbing off the pulpit now.

It's almost time to go hang out at my own favorite non-profit. With the cool cats. To embrace the inner purr. And, of course, scoop the poop with the gang.

Movin' on Up

On the way to breakfast with my son yesterday morning, he said, "I keep hearing this song in my head. Maybe it's a dream I had or something, I don't know. The words 'movin' on up' are in it, and there's a chorus of African American gospel singers doing the vocals."

Seems like it was just last month...

Then he hummed a few bars. It was, of course, the theme song from the 1970s TV show, The Jeffersons. (We watch a lot of ME TV.)

I began to sing along, assured him it was a real tune, explained its origins -- and noted it was a good musical selection for moving day.

My son and his buddies rented a house on the east side of town near their college campus. His two closest friends helped him schlep his worldly goods to his new digs. Like most student living spaces, his will be outfitted with what we like to call "shabby chic," although "chic" is doubtless a stretch. In addition to his "heirloom" bedroom suite (a twin bed and mismatched desk and dresser plus a night stand acquired at a rummage sale), he is bringing along some outdoor wicker furniture and a table purchased from a friend (who got it from the now-newly-remodeled restaurant where he works).

I've been replacing my vacuum and other minor appliances and contributing my old ones to the cause. (Okay, I hear the chuckles, yes I actually think he may, at some point, vacuum. It's my fantasy, just let it be.)

The hardest part of all this was not the actual move, but the fact it's taking my son one step further from his childhood. On the one hand, I'm happy for him, starting out on his latest adventure -- and, I'm certain, learning experience. On the other hand, there's a part of me that misses things like story time and hot chocolate and being smarter than he is.

I know I'm not going through anything most parents of children his age are going through. And yes, I know I sound like an old fogey. (See? I just used the phrase "old fogey!")

I'm glad that he's movin' on up. And I really hope that he gets a (big) piece of the pie!

Between the Lines

I was sitting in the dentist's waiting room, waiting for my son, listening to some dreadful satellite radio station and admiring the gewgaws on the walls, when my eyes landed on an area set up for the youngest patients. And there they were -- a stack of coloring books and the 64-count box of Crayola crayons.

It was all I could do not to run across the room, seize a coloring book, and inhale the intoxicating scent of my childhood. I wanted to take the burnt sienna and the blue-violet (or was it violet-blue?) and color up a storm.

As a child, it seems I had the same few coloring books. For some reason, I never finished an entire book. There were always clean pages crying out for splashes of color.

Sorry to say, I was not a neatnik. I did not confine myself to conventional colors, and, in spite of my sister's admonitions, I was never able to stay in the lines. I was too impatient to get the colors on the page. To see how Mrs. Beasley would look in a pink dress (instead of blue). Or to see Buffy in green hair. Or Mr. French with hair.

Then, on the internet, I stumbled across a coloring book for adults. (No, it didn't have naughty pics in it, get your head out of the gutter.) These coloring books had elaborate patterns using floral and geometric themes. Admittedly, I was intrigued. I am even toying with the idea of going out and buying a coloring book. Not of the adult variety, however. I have a notion that coloring all of those teeny-tiny spaces would counteract the therapeutic benefit.

I'm hoping that: 1. They still make coloring books for kids. 2. That I can find said books. 3. That they have things in them that I want to color. (Yes, shut up, it matters.)

The next question will be whether to use the tin of broken crayons I have here, or to indulge myself in a brand new deluxe box of 64 Crayola Crayons.

And the final question...does it still have the built-in crayon sharpener?