Chucking Chuck

I've always thought of myself as the queen of recycling. Mother Nature as my constant companion. Lover of animals. Patron of the parks. Hugger of trees. Sniffer of roses, etc.

Crime Scene

Then she came along. Mrs. Woodchuck.

Digging holes in my lawn. Waddling from side to side, she traversed my little backyard with all the grace of a hippo in a tutu. (Shades of Fantasia.)

In the spring, I saw that her number had tripled. She had two offspring with her, galumphing in her wake.

I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping a compost bin in my backyard. In my naivete, I didn't at first realize that the probable cause for the contents of the Rubbermaid bin's quick composting ability was because of my unwanted live-ins.

Until I read that ground hogs can smoosh themselves down to be nice and skinny and get into places you do not want them to get.

Aha.

So...in my attempt to be earth friendly, I had inadvertently been feeding this oversized rodent and her brood. Thanks, Mother Nature. Nicely played.

Now I have a bigger problem. While I wasn't quite so concerned when Chuckarina took up residence in the neighbor's shed, I was royally pissed off when I saw that she was starting to prepare a little vacation getaway under my back porch.

Off came the gloves. On went the Critter Ridder.

It worked for a little while. Unfortunately, once the smell wore off, my woolly friend returned. I piled bricks over the gap and put up some fencing, but all she did was dig around and under. I would go out to see that the bricks were moved, the fencing upended.

Curses, you rotten fur-covered burrower.

I did a lot of reading about woodchucks/groundhogs/whistle pigs/land-beavers. Unless I am willing to trap the beast and cart it off to a place more than 5 miles away (they do come back) or pay someone a chunk of change to do the dirty deed for me, this thing will likely stick around.

For my final act of defiance, I got some hot pepper from Chris to sprinkle around my porch. I made sure to put a bunch of it through the crack so it is under the steps, hoping that if the rotten creature makes it past my line of defense outside, she will be so overcome with sneezing that she abandons her new hibernating digs and goes back to the neighbor's shed.

Time will tell.

My other fear is that, much like the hobos in days of old, the Chuckster will leave a telltale sign for others of her kind (or other wild critters), indicating that my yard is a swell place to hang out. About a month or so ago, I saw a pair of oversized raccoons in my backyard. They turned and gave me a reproachful look.

I hope it was because I'm not putting food in my compost bin anymore.

Take that, you rotten rodents. And tell the others to go back to the MetroParks.

There's nothing for you here...nothing but a snootful of hot pepper.

Me Not Talk So Pretty

"I'm really glad you finally got to meet the guy, but I can't believe all you talked about was penises," said my groom of 29 years last night, as we walked out of the State Theatre.

It had been a really great evening, in spite of the rain and the fact that Mr. Ginley discovered earlier that he was coming down with some kind of virus.

Being the fossils that we are, it isn't all that often that we venture downtown to see a show at night. Earlier this year, we'd gone to see Alton Brown, who is one of Bill's favorite celebrities. Last night it was my turn, and David Sedaris was the headliner.

We had originally planned to have dinner downtown. However, we'd had a substantial lunch with our kid in Ohio City, and we hadn't yet worked up an appetite. Instead, we braved the raindrops and headed over to Heinen's before the show and shared a couple hunks of tiramisu in the store's mezzanine. We people-watched the wine drinkers and late grocery shoppers, and Mr. pointed to the murals above us and said he read they were painted by a guy who died on the Titanic.

When it got close enough to show time, we walked back to the theatre. I knew Mr. Sedaris would be signing copies of his books, but I figured it would be after the show. However, when we walked in, we saw him already at it. I ran back and bought one of my favorite books of his so I could get it autographed, but by the time I returned, the line was closed off, and the bouncer told me I'd have to wait until afterward.

I enjoyed the show very much (the overlong story about diarrhea notwithstanding). Mr. Ginley is not quite the fan I am, but he did laugh out loud through much of it.

Afterward, he nudged me to run out to the lobby and take my place in line. Unfortunately, four score other people had the same idea, and I waited for about an hour to get my book signed.

Mr. Sedaris was eating a dinner someone had provided and chatting amiably with others in front of me. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but there were smiles and laughter. He had some rubber stamps and was signing books and doing doodles in them.

When he got to me, he said, "Barb" and began to doodle. I don't know why, but somewhere during that long wait in line, a memory came to me.

During the show, Mr. Sedaris talked about how he never got a driver's license but he did miss the experience of yelling at others from the driver's side when they behaved badly in traffic. He spoke about people he met in Europe and all of the unique curses they would fling at other drivers. Many of these were graphic, some of them pretty awful. Not quite the old familiar suggestion ("go f*** yourself), but let's just say the male body part played a prominent role in most of the curses.

So when it came to my turn, I shared that years ago I worked with an Israeli gentlemen, who said in the country of his birth, they used to shake rubber penises at others when they were behaving like  jerks in traffic. Mr. Sedaris paused for a moment, then shared a Hungarian epitaph that he'd heard, and said the two sentiments may be related. I agreed.

He then pointed to the artwork in my book and said, "It's barbed wire." I nodded and smiled to acknowledge I got the play on words, and thanked him.

"Are you here alone?" he inquired.

"No, my husband is back there," I replied and waved vaguely behind me.

"It looks like he's biding his time on his cell phone."

I glanced around and saw it wasn't Mr. Ginley but a grizzled old guy who was, in fact, on his cell phone.

"Oh, that's not my husband," I murmured. "He must have wandered off. Thanks again!" And went in search of my significant other, who was engrossed reading about the artwork in the theatre.

On the way home, we navigated the drive-thru at McDonald's, because we were hungry by that time.

All it all, it was a wacky but enjoyable evening.

So appropriate for a David Sedaris experience.

Lastly, Through a Hogshead of Real Fire

Standing in the library last weekend, the conversation went something like this...

Mr. Ginley: Oh, look! It's the movie, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. In Blu-ray. Want to watch it?

Me: I've never seen it. The movie really got panned when it came out in, what, 1978?

Mr. Ginley: I thought it was pretty good. You know it has Peter Frampton in it. And the Bee Gees.

Me:  Well, Peter Frampton was pretty easy on the eyes. Barry Gibb, too. Okay, we can give it a shot.

So, Sunday evening we popped in the the disc and began to watch.

The premise was plausible enough. One Brit and three Australians, alleged natives of Heartland, U.S.A., take up the name of a band that was popular during the first half of the century, and start playing Beatles tunes.

Peter Frampton plays Billy Shears. The Gibbs brothers play the Hendersons. (Late of Pablo Fanque's Fair). Billy Preston plays Sgt. Pepper.

The music was reasonably well done. But someone was smoking something mighty powerful when they came up with the premise.

We watch as the improbable (certainly not a strong enough word) plot unfolds. A record deal is signed by getting the lads boozed and doobied up. They move to Los Angeles, where they are seduced by a team of, frankly, pretty skanky looking women. They party, they record, they go on with their lives oblivious to the fact that back home, the bad guy has stolen the town's instruments that were said to keep the moral fiber of the town on the straight and narrow. The town turns into a modern day version of Sodom and Gomorrah. Billy Shears' girlfriend (her name is Strawberry Fields) packs up and departs to the strains of She's Leaving Home to bring back the boys and save the day.

In the meantime, there is a van equipped with robots, Alice Cooper sings Because to his classroom of robotic followers, and Steve Martin, as Dr. Maxwell Edison, croons Maxwell's Silver Hammer. And, oh yes, Aerosmith plays a bad-boy band (big stretch) singing Come Together.

Spoiler alert: The lads return to the home of their birth and save the day.

Throughout the flick, Mr. Ginley says, "That's not from the Sgt. Pepper album, is it?"

"No, that's from Abbey Road," I reply. Or the White Album. Magical Mystery Tour. Let it Be. Revolver. Rubber Soul.

There are a lot of clever references to Beatles lyrics. Mr. Kite, played by George Burns, is a featured player. (Yes, THAT George Burns. He dances AND sings. Bless his heart.) The bad guy is named Mean Mr. Mustard.  And there is a Lucy. In the sky. With diamonds.

When we at last get to the boisterous, happy ending, the whole town comes out to sing. And, inexplicably, their are many familiar but up-to-that-point-unseen, faces. Carol Channing. Keith Carradine. Wilson Picket. Helen Reddy. Bonnie Raitt. Tina Turner. Peter Noone. Etta James. And many, many more. (Presumably to mimic the cover of the original Sgt. Pepper album, which featured a hodgepodge montage of celebrities.)

Well.

It was at this point that I reminded Mr. Ginley of his earlier opinion of what a good movie this was. His defense was his age and circumstances at the time he saw it. (i.e. There may have been alcohol involved.)

He also pointed out that our son, having viewed Paul Blart, Mall Cop, proclaimed it was the best movie he'd ever seen. Of course, he was not an adult at the time, so he may be forgiven (if still teased about it).

Did I enjoy the show? I can't say it was 113 minutes of my life well-spent. But there were elements of nostalgia that I suppose made it somewhat palatable.

On the other hand, we didn't pay good money for the movie, we could take it back to the library. So that's a plus.

A big plus.

At the Hop

One week ago, I was winging my way toward Columbus for the third and final sisters birthday extravaganza of the year.

I was on a high. The Indians had just won Game 2 of the series in a heart-stopping finish.

The weather was perfect.

And my sister, Diane, chose the perfect venue to celebrate her birthday: The Short North Gallery Hop. The three of us welcomed my sister-in-law, Kay, to the festivities.

We assembled at The Eagle, a restaurant that serves comfort food. Fried chicken, corn bread, mac and cheese and such. As one would expect on a football Saturday, the OSU game was on all of the big screen TVs. Only occasionally did I glance up to see the score and (another) Buckeye touchdown, before I resumed my participation in the conversation. It was nice because they seated us upstairs, away from the rabid fans, so we were able to visit and yack without too much hoo-ha.

The Gallery Hop is held the first Saturday of the month. The local art galleries stay open late, as do the many shops. Diane purchased a small pen and ink drawing. Denise fell in love with a painting of a monarch and its ascent to butterfly-dom, but the $2,000 price tag made it a no-go.

We each (except for Kay?) bought a little something from one shop or another. Handmade soap. Dangly earrings. Wax lips, a candy necklace, Elvis cards and a magnet (Big Fun).

The street was packed with folks of all ages (but mostly young uns), strolling and gazing at art in motion. It was bustling, fascinating and a lot of fun.

Sadly, Kay had to depart before we got to the ice cream. Our destination was Jeni's, but when we arrived, the line was around the building, and there was no place to sit and eat it. And we really wanted to sit at that point, so we went to a different Jeni's in another part of town. There were still several people enjoying their desserts, but plenty of room to sit. It was goooood.

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast with Diane and John, I headed for home. Wondering what next year's birthday adventures would bring.

And thinking maybe we shouldn't wait for a birthday to get together again.

Say What?

One wouldn't think that in traveling 30 miles one would encounter idiosyncrasies in language.

Devil Strip?

And one in particular that I still cannot abide: the absence of "to be."

As in the sign someone posted on the fax machine that said, "needs fixed." I wanted with all my might to add "TO BE" between the two solitary words, but I refrained.

However, as anyone who has ever worked on my team knows, the absence of "to be" is guaranteed to launch me into an agitated chorus of, "to be, to be, to be, to be!!"

I was convinced this must be a regional quirk, since I hadn't heard this particular usage anywhere else, even when I lived in the Old Dominion.

The other night, my suspicions were confirmed when we attended a talk by Edward McClelland, who penned the book, How to Speak Midwestern.

It turns out, Cleveland and Akron are in two different zones.

Cleveland folks, whom he terms "Inland North," originally migrated from New England.

Akron natives ("Midland") originally hailed from Pennsylvania.

And yes, the whole "to be" thing is also a Midland thing, originating in Northern Ireland with the Scots-Irish.

I felt slightly better knowing there was an origin to the phenom, and it wasn't just because someone got lazy along the way and decided to drop the "to be." (Although that certainly could have been the original motivation, who knows?)

Other quirks between our two cities include the phrase "devil strip" used to describe what I grew up calling a "tree lawn." Mr. McClelland theorizes it was originally called a devil strip by coal miners who wanted their kids to be afraid of getting too close to the street.

As time goes on, and we become a more mobile society, many of our twangs and quirks are blending and disappearing. In a discussion we had at work, some of the younger folks said it was their parents or grandparents who had certain idiosyncrasies in their speech that hadn't been handed down.

I know that when I lived in Virginia, I didn't think I had an accent at all, until I hit a word with a twangy "a" sound, and the entire room burst out laughing.

Which I found amusing, since I had been talking to folks who hailed from Thailand, Venezuela, Israel and Germany, as well as places all across the U.S.

Who knew I had an accent?

Buy Buy Baby

"Do you notice any difference," my husband asked.

He took them off and handed them to me. I put on the yellow-tinted glasses and looked out onto the road.

"Nope," I replied. The street lights are more yellowy but it doesn't improve my night vision any.

And so, once again, we are disappointed by an "As Seen on TV" miracle product.

Like our ancestors, who also perhaps fell prey at some time or another to snake oil salesmen, Mr. Ginley and I have purchased our share of highly-touted products that did not deliver as promised. In spite of the claims by the ordinary-looking folks on TV who swore they were the best thing EVER.

Of course, being in advertising myself, I should know better. But something primal within me wants to believe that the Ginsu will be the best knife I've ever owned. (Not so much.) And Mr., who begged to try the amazing callous remover was quite disappointed. He inserted the batteries, turned it on, and watched the roller spin around...until he pressed it to the heel of his foot. At which point it stopped. Pulled it away, it spun, touched his foot it stopped. It was good for comic relief, but not much else.

A few years ago, I got caught up in a demonstration by a guy who was shredding cheese with a battery-operated gadget. I was mesmerized. Mr. Ginley whispered it my ear, "You won't be able to get it to work the way he does."

"But it also comes with all those attachments, and look, he's giving away free apple corers, and look at how nifty they are."

I feel only slightly better knowing that being a sap for these pitches runs in Mr. Ginley's family, too. His mom once purchased a set of encyclopedias from a door-to-door salesman.  His dad managed to halt the delivery of the entire set, but they let her keep the first volume. (Henceforth, when he and his siblings wrote reports for school, the subject had to begin with the letter "A.")

We're getting a little better. The other day, when Mr. Ginley paused at the "As Seen on TV" wall at the store, he said, "I wonder if Joe could use this antenna-thingy. It says it picks up all of the local channels, and he doesn't have cable, so it could come in pretty handy."

I pulled out my phone and asked the Google if it was any good. Nope.

And thus, I was able to save us a few clams.

But if we ever see a Car Cane, I'm pretty sure he's going to make me buy one.

Experiencing Technical Difficulties

For the second time in two months, our 3-year-old computer flat-lined, and I had to take it to the tech doctor.

Hard wear.

The first time, the hard drive was toast, but a team of surgeons was able to extract most of our data and reload it onto a new hard drive.

"So," you are going to ask, as did the tech who serviced our machine, "did you back up your files?"

Well, we thought we did. Until we discovered the back-up drive, which is supposed to do its thing automatically, had pooped out sometime in April. After that, anything we hadn't backed up manually was available only on the damaged hard drive.

As I said, we were lucky, in that we were able to recover our data. Luck came with a $200 price tag.

Fast forward to this past week, when our computer once again displayed a dark screen with a different but equally ominous error code.

Before taking it in, I did an online search for the error code, and found that all I had to do was insert the recovery disk for my operating system. The disk that didn't come with my computer. The disk that, according to Asus, the manufacturer of my laptop, they no longer send to their customers free of charge. A woman with a foreign accent assured me that I could buy something that might do the job. Not feeling the love, I told her, "no thanks."

The other alternative, according to Microsoft forums, was to download something that would fix my computer. Unfortunately, I couldn't get to the internet to download the fix because all I could get on my computer was the black screen of death.

Into the shop it went. Turns out, it was a corrupted Microsoft update. This time, because it was a different error and thus not covered by the warranty from the last repair, it cost me $45 to fix. (Et tu, Microsoft?)

Fearful that a third mishap could be around the corner, I ordered a recovery disk from ebay. Hopefully, this will appease the Electronics Gods, and I won't ever have to use it. But I will be prepared, just in case.

Technology is a wonderful thing, really it is.

But I gotta say, I do wax nostalgic sometimes for the days when I wasn't a slave to hunks of metal with sketchy recall. 

When the only faulty memory was my own.