Old School

I am firmly convinced that my mom and dad belonged to a super-secret society exclusively for post-World War II parents.

How else can you explain the oddball, quirky habits that are shared by the parents of others in my age group?

Organic social media (i.e. actually talking to my friends) has confirmed that my folks weren't alone. Some of these habits can be attributed to a childhood spent surviving the depression. Others may have appeared in Family Circle or Woman's Day, two affordable go-to magazines that were widely read by housewives (and which were located near the checkout counter at Kroger).

Here are some examples of what I'm talking about.

My mom used to save empty milk cartons and bread bags, put the bread bag in the milk carton, and stuff banana peels and other garbage into it. Then, when it was full, she tied up the bag and took it out to the garbage. Presumably, this was so that the garbage wouldn't stink up the rest of the trash.

Growing up, I didn't think much about this. But one day at work I got to ruminating with friends about the oddity of this particular habit. And, here's the weird part: my friends said their moms did the same thing. Which brings me back to wondering, how did they know to do this? It wasn't something that was handed down from earlier generations, because, of course, half gallon cardboard cartons didn't exist then. It just reinforced my theory about a secret society where moms shared tips and tricks.

Facebook, my secondary go-to social media source, featured a photo of a t-shirt that asked how many of us had received corporal punishment from a wooden spoon. Yep, there's another one. My mom was famous for wielding her wooden spoon. Me being me, all she had to do was threaten, and I'd sign over all my worldly possessions if she would refrain from striking me. This bit of theatrics usually worked -- my mom would be trying so hard not to laugh, she gave up being pissed at me.

The point is, wooden spoon? Really? A simple back of the hand wasn't enough? How did moms know to rummage through the drawer and choose a wooden spoon? Granted, it was ideally suited in shape and size, but they could just as easily have chosen a spatula. Of course, for awhile my mom did use a paddle from one of those hit-the-rubber-ball-with-a-paddle toys for her implement of punishment. Unfortunately, it met its match on the posterior of my younger brother (the crack heard round the house), and it was back to  the wooden spoon.

Other stuff: pouring fat from the pan into a soup can and putting it into the refrigerator to harden, then throwing it away so it wouldn't mess up the pipes. Re-purposing anything and everything, including bags from boxes of cereal. And refusing to wear new underwear until the old ones were in tatters.

And one more, this time from my dad. He used to flatten big cardboard boxes and put them on the garage floor to prevent oil from ruining the concrete.

It's pretty magical, actually. They didn't have the internets or infomercials to guide them.

Then again, they did have Heloise Hints. Hmm. That's something to look into.

I wonder if she has a website...

Duty Bound

There are a number of two-word phrases that make you groan: Pop quiz. Tax return. Disabled vehicle. Routine procedure. Special project. Fun challenge.

And...jury duty.

A few weeks ago, I received my summons in the mail. I went online and completed the necessary paperwork, then called when I was told to call. Monday: not needed. Tuesday: not needed. Wednesday: not needed. Was I in the clear? Was I not going to have to serve? Hope rose.

Thursday: report for duty at 8:30 a.m.

So, I cleared the decks, caught up with my work as best I could, made arrangements for a second-in-command, and had Mr. G. drop me off at the Rapid Transit station.

It's been awhile since I road the Rapid. They've gussied up the stations, but the trains still clickety-clack along beside the backsides of buildings, many scrawled with graffiti. Then, after West 25th Street, the stunning view of Downtown Cleveland, picture perfect -- or would be, but for the scratchy windows on the aging cars. What surprised me was the small number of rush hour commuters. Many moons ago, when I road the Rapid daily, it would be packed to the hilt with downtown workers. On this trip, I was able to get a window seat.

After arriving at the Terminal Tower, I walked out into a beautiful, sunny day. And a tableau of construction equipment and barriers. They are working on Public Square. So, I had to schlep around and work my way back to Ontario Street to get to the Justice Center.

I've served jury duty a number of times before, so I knew the drill. Stand in line, give them your card and ID, then go sit in the juror's lounge and listen to the presentation by a very earnest clerk, who explains the honor and thrill of being a juror. Her speech was lost on a Diana Ross diva type in dark sunglasses, who kept insisting that if she got on a trial, she wasn't going to be able to show up Monday, and with whom should she speak. The clerk patiently explained that if she was summoned to the courtroom, she should express her concern to the judge. Then she told her again. And one more time, before the woman huffed off to sit in a chair with her laptop, which couldn't pick up the piss-poor WiFi signal.

Then we all waited. An hour later, an officer came in with a list, and 16 jurors were called. I was not among them. (Diana Ross was, ha!) I wasn't sure if I was relieved or disappointed, but it really didn't matter. The remaining jurors had to sit in the lounge and wait until the jury had been selected.

In the meantime, I read my book and tried not to listen to Fox News on the TV. It was then that I decided I would rather have been called to serve on the jury. Ugh!

Lunchtime came and went. A fellow juror started berating the clerk. "I want to go get lunch, but what if they dismiss us? What will happen to my lunch? How much longer is it going to be? Five minutes? Two hours? Don't you have any idea?"

The clerk patiently explained, in polite terms, that she was not able to predict how long it would be.

It turned out to be another couple of hours before we were released, certificates in hand as proof that we had been there, and our assurance that we would not have to serve again for another two years.

After the two-year period, my name will be put back into the system for the random name drawing. It seems like some folks never get called, while others, like me, have been chosen multiple times. 

I should be so lucky with the winning lottery numbers!

Gone to the Dawgs

Anyone who knows me (or has read this blog) knows my love of sports, such as it is, is driven by a loyalty to my husband and son.

So, when my offspring called and offered to take us to see a new live show about long-suffering Browns fans, I was fairly "meh" about it. I can get by with rudimentary knowledge about the rules of the game. And, while I don't remember every one of the dreaded Browns' milestones (millstones?), I can tell you EXACTLY where I was when "THE Fumble" occurred on January 17, 1988. (In the parking lot of our apartment complex in Alexandria, returning from seeing a movie by myself because I was not up to watching the ill-fated game with Denver. Six floors below our closed-up apartment, I could hear Mr. Ginley screaming.)

In any case, my kid asked us to go with him, and my husband was game, so off we went.

Dawg Pounded was a great romp from start to finish. Considering the topic, it should have been a real downer, and in a few spots it was, but overall, it was so stinkin' funny, I laughed myself silly. Personally, I enjoyed the songs the most, a collection of parodies that were brilliantly written and delivered by a lively cast. But the dialog between the two main characters, Paul (Tom Hill) and Otto (Greg Mandryk), who spent much of the time in pain before a TV set we never saw, was equally entertaining. And Don Jones, as "Pittsburgh Pete" was convincingly annoying. (My son assures me he is a Browns fan in real life.) Props to Tim Tyler, who is the creator of the play.

Back in the day, I wrote lyrics for our Managers Meetings (such ditties as Hello Larry and Everything's Coming up Diamonds), so I have a pretty good idea of how challenging it is to get the words and the cadence just right. (Props to John Krol, Dawgs' music director.) If they ever come out with a soundtrack, I'm getting a copy.

Okay, okay, no, I am not auditioning to be the next Maven of Playhouse Square. I got a little sidetracked here because I think it's important to give credit where it's due.

The point is, sometimes you've just gotta do something that's outside of your comfort zone. I am so glad I did. Thank you, Joe, for treating your mom and dad to a delightful night out.

Woof, woof!

Kitchey in Pink

Here's to you, Don Featherstone, creator of the pink flamingo. Don passed away last month, but his brightly colored lawn ornaments will remain in our hearts for all time.

Especially those of us who grew up in Parma, where pink flamingos, white socks and polka music were the iconic symbols of a suburban post-World War II era, chock full of eastern European immigrants who headed west in search of work at the Chevy plant.

For those who wanted to inch their way a little higher on the social scale, there was Seven Hills. The ubiquitous pink bird was frowned upon there, where the neighborhoods were peppered instead with chrome balls on pedestals, which I always found to be just a little pretentious. 

And, don't you just adore the moniker, "lawn ornament." It sounds so lovely. Not quite descriptive of a duck with a gingham hat or what has become known as the "lawn jockey," the little guy, often black, who holds the lantern aloft. (Props here to Sherri Lofton on her Halloween costume a couple of years back.)

There have been those folks, and most of us have had at least one in our neighborhood, who cover every square inch of their yard with plastic and plaster. Maybe it's to keep people at bay. Or it's diabolically clever -- no need to fire up the lawn mower at Crazy Charlie's house!

My sister, Denise, once bought a home whose basement was littered with pink flamingos. One of them was used by my Dad in a brilliant prank he played on the neighbors. But I, alas, am flamingo-less. (Although I do possess a plunger with the fuchsia-colored bird's head perched atop the handle.)

My lawn ornaments decorate the inside of my abode. I wouldn't want anyone to walk off with my gnome or my Chinese guy.

Aside from which, the way I care for the vegetation in my yard, my treasured ornaments would probably get swallowed up by a hedge!

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!)