Another Year

So, here we are. Since last week, I added another number to my age. It's no big deal, really. At least I'm on this side of the ground.

Admittedly, I was a little miffed the Indians decided to announce their name change on my birthday. It's causing quite the kerfuffle, and while I personally think The Guardians is a fine name, there are a lot of folks who don't agree. (Sorry, boss.)

Also, I learned on my birthday that one of my new coworkers is leaving. Fine, Justin. Go ahead and pursue a better opportunity. Sheesh. Be that way. (Seriously, I wish him well, but I still feel bad because our team will really miss him.)

As things generally happen in threes, I was waiting for another dramatic announcement from somewhere. Thankfully, the rest of the day was quiet. 

Mr. Ginley and I walked up to our local haunt, something we haven't done since pre-pandemic. We had drinks and noshes, and it was nice. My margarita was the first in a long while, and it was tasty. The eats were okay, but I think we both realized our every-Friday-night routine will not resume. Given my new job situation, I don't feel the need for that weekly wind-down like I did in the final days of my old full-time gig.

Thanks to all of you who sent along natal day wishes. And a "Happy Anniversary" shout-out to my sister, who got married on my birthday a bunch of years ago. 

They say a birthday is just a number. And while I wish mine was a little lower, I'll take it just the same. Creaky bones aside, I feel pretty good for this stage of the game.

I may not have a mansion or a Mazeratti or gold records on the wall. I don't go to parties, sometimes until 4. No worries about handling fortune and fame.

Still, life's been good to me so far... 

Being Like Katie

Normally my New York Times morning newsletter is about Covid. Or politics. Or climate change.

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The other day, the newsletter featured Katie Moser. And now, I can't get that article out of my head.

Fifteen years ago, Katie knew she had genetic predisposition to Huntington's Disease. She wanted to find out if she was going to get it.

She was 25 years old. Testing revealed she had the gene and will begin to show symptoms by the time she's 50.

Not one to sit back and cry in her beer, Katie set out to live to the fullest. She travelled when she wanted to, never holding back and saying, "I'll do that next year." Because she knew next year she might not be able to. 

At one point, Katie wanted to have a child, going so far as to plan artificial insemination with a donated embryo. There were three possible embryos. All three had the gene for Huntington's. Becoming a parent wasn't in the cards for her.

July 14th was Katie's 40th birthday, a date she shares with Woody Guthrie, who died of Huntington's at the age of 55.

Katie is wonder, and she made me think about my own path. 

Would I have wanted to know my life was going to be cut short? Would I have seized the day, as Katie did or would the knowledge have crushed me? What in my life would I have done differently?

I am guilty of getting hung up on the day-to-day dramas of life, and they often consume me.  Stupid human things. Worries about the car or work or paying bills or what to make for dinner. Sulking over the abundance of rain this week.

I don't have the itch (or the scratch) to do a lot of traveling. But I could take some time for myself. Spend a few hours in the park, watching birds. Take a long walk around the neighborhood. Or watch a chick flick. I did all of these things in abundance, years ago, before I got bogged down with all the crap. 

Maybe it's time to get in touch with that Barb again.

That's the funny thing about people like Katie Moser. They don't really know how many others they touch and inspire.

Thanks, Katie. I wish you well.

Return to the Improbability

I've been taken lately with puffins. I don't know why, perhaps because they're so stinkin' cute.

In a fiction tale I've been reading, the protagonist finds a wounded puffin and takes him home. The vet advises her to return the bird to the flock once his wounds are healed. 

A puffin being separated from the rest of his improbability (which is what a group of puffins is called) started me thinking about the past week. And the 24 months preceding it.

As most of you know, I was "separated" from my job of 25+ years in 2019. Since then, I've been looking for full-time employment in my field with little success. Initially, I didn't make the cut because no one believed I could write about anything but jewelry. 

Fortunately, a friend brokered a gig with a small company that does website design. I was able to write web content, learning a little something about SEO along the way, and thus boost my experience. 

Then Covid came along. And, well, you all know what that was like.

Thankfully, Axel took me in and let me work at Enjoy Again, where I learned to convert video tapes to DVD and MP4 files. This was a godsend, enabling Mr. Ginley and me to enjoy all the luxuries of life, like eating, keeping warm, making car payments, etc. In my time with Axel, I learned not only how to convert old media, but to fix broken VHS tapes and get fussy equipment to work (yes, I talked to them).

Also, I saw people's memories flash by in the form of births (not my favorite), school plays, sporting events, concerts, Christmases, First Communions, Disney vacations and a few Bar Mitzvahs. It was a great experience, and I'm thankful to Axel for the opportunity. Also, I will miss working at the ranch, although I won't miss some of the wildlife. (When he told me one day, "I don't know where the mouse went," I had to consider whether he meant the furry variety or the computer device.) 

Axel's been a great boss. I will miss the beer, the ice cream treats and the Friday evening German bar song. 

Meanwhile, in the past few months, with the easing of Covid restrictions, more jobs started popping up. One of those was from OuterBox, looking for an SEO Content Writer. The interview I had with them was the first I'd had where I said, "I really, really want to work there."

I started this week. And it's been great. 

Returning to the puffin thing (I know you were wondering), joining OuterBox feels like coming home. It's great to be writing full-time again. And there is so much energy, intelligence and quick wit among my coworkers. 

I really missed engaging with other creative writers, and I can't tell you how much I am enjoying the experience. And hanging with others who appreciate my sense of snark. Although I don't know much about gaming or modern music, I like listening in.

It's great to be part of the improbability once again.

Progress Shmogress

I was toodling through a book from the library called Midcentury Kitchens, when it occurred to me.

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Where are all those space age appliances we were supposed to have by now? I mean, my ideal growing up was Jane Jetson, who just pushed a few buttons, and voila, out came dinner. I feel cheated somehow. And don't get me started on Rosie the Robot. Alexa/Siri? Not even close. 

So, where have all the innovators gone? Sure, we have spiffy electronic devices that have gotten more sophisticated over the years. But what about my kitchen? Why did we stop at the microwave?

As I work to throw together dinner in quicktime, it occurs to me I'm no better off than my mom. It takes us the same amount of time to cook stuff. The microwave speeds up some things. But it's not a life changer.

The same with cleaning and laundry and other household chores. You can buy a Roomba, I suppose. They have the added advantage of being a carnival ride for cats (according to the internet). But I wonder just how good a job they do. How does a round appliance get in corners, for example? Do all your nooks and crannies end up crammed with the cat fur your Roomba can't reach?

This was supposed to be the age of better technology and more leisure time, but frankly, I'm not seeing it. Sure, I can shop from my couch, but I still have to get off it if I want to eat or fetch something. 

Going back to my book, I see all the promise of a new space age. Alas, here we are. 

So I have to ask the question, where is that American ingenuity we used to brag about? 

Alas, I guess I'll just have to get used to my kitchen of yesteryear. 

And be thankful I have no appliances in avocado green. That's one trend from the last century I was happy to skip.

Weighing In (Again)

So much has been written about the quest to shed weight.

What I've found is, it isn't the initial loss that's as challenging as the effort to keep the pounds from finding their way back.

While my son's wedding being Covid-delayed a year was a bummer for him and my daughter-in-law, it was a good thing for my weight loss plan. I had an incentive to stave off the weight for the big day.

Now that it's come and gone, I've been engaged in a battle of wills between my brain and my waistline. 

My brain is whispering things like, "It's okay, you can have some chocolate. Or another slice of pizza. Or a hot fudge sundae. You'll just exercise it off tomorrow. And, hey, remember, you're cutting the grass this weekend, that really burns off the calories."

Meanwhile, my waistline is saying, "Welcome back, fat cells."

In an effort to motivate myself and prevent backsliding, I made a trip to the second-hand store with all the pants that are too big for me. And I treated myself to a few pairs in my new size. I keep hoping this will be enough to quash the devious whispers in my brain.

Also, I have a weekly ritual with my scale. I get on it, shut my eyes tight, send a quick prayer to whichever deity is in charge of weight loss, and peek at my current tonnage. 

If I'm up a pound, I know it's time to get out the "personal training" video and crank up my workout. And limit my visits with Stella (Artois) to once or twice a week, as opposed to nightly.

I've been here before, and I know the challenges. Getting older is not helping my cause any. It's harder and harder to shed and keep weight at bay. 

Also, I find it discouraging (though not surprising) that there's a roll of fat clinging to my waist that's not going to disappear, no matter how many times I do Denise Austin's abs exercises. I can at least blame this on childbirth and/or genetics. 

All I can do is get up every day and keep chugging along, accepting my limitations and doing my best.

And, of course, give the Dunkin' Donuts at the corner of our street a very wide berth.

Dulcimer Tones

"Want to listen to some dulcimer music?"

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The invitation came from my sister-in-law, Rita, during a recent visit to my brother.

Honestly, dulcimers have never really been on my radar screen. When my son was a baby, there were dulcimer lullabies. And I sometimes listen to new age music, which features the instrument. But I've never sought it out.

But, being the adventurous soul that I am, I acquiesced. And that's how I discovered the music of Dizzi Dulcimer.

Okay, okay, the name is a little flaky. (And, truth be told, Dizzi is, too.) But her music is breathtaking.

The experience piqued my interest, and I wanted to know more, including how to obtain some of her work.

Off I went to ask the Google. 

I discovered that Dizzi has her own website and YouTube channel. She teaches as well as performing the dulcimer. As you may have surmised, Dizzi is a nom de plume -- her real name is Rebecca Cree. She was a child actress until, at the age of 16, she learned to play the drums. While playing clubs in London, she discovered the hammered dulcimer, and there was no looking back. She was smitten.

With a combination of time, patience and natural talent, Dizzi mastered the dulcimer, taking it on the road to perform at a variety of venues including weddings and Renaissance festivals. 

So, what's the deal with dulcimers? Back to the Google to learn more.

The dulcimer, a trapeze-shaped instrument, is a descendant of the psaltry, an ancient instrument played by plucking its strings. The first dulcimer in Europe likely came from Persia in the 15th Century. Its popularity spread throughout England, Germany, France, Italy and Holland, each country giving the instrument its own distinct name.

The pianoforte is the next generation dulcimer, with the hammers hitting the strings using keys. 

The hammered dulcimer is not to be confused with the Appalachian (or "mountain") dulcimer, which is played with one's fingers, a quill or stick. 

In spite of what Mr. Ginley says, I don't believe there is any "dull" in "dulcimer." I find the music soothing and soul satisfying.

But then, I've always been a little dizzy myself.

P.S. Here's a sample of Dizzi's work: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TxjpYHhfRyI&list=RDEMYfc9pTxRhWAfvLpCt8XpoQ&start_radio=1

Vagabonds Welcome

My friend Robyn is the quintessential cat lady.

Stray felines beat a path to her door. Somehow, they seem to sense her soft heart and generous nature.

Of course, Robyn already has cats of her own and isn't looking to add to her brood. But, well, you know, they can be so stinkin' cute, especially when they are kittens. We all know these youngsters have the innate ability to wrap themselves around our hearts and elicit a plethora of "awwws" on social media.

It occurred to me that perhaps, like hobos of the Great Depression who left markings to indicate welcoming homes, cats have a way of knowing where cat people live. In researching my theory, I discovered there is a symbol transients used to indicate a house was friendly to their kind. They could knock on the door and receive food or other assistance.

And what, you may wonder, was the symbol they used?

I only have intelligent FB friends, so I'm sure you all got there by now. The picture was of a cat, and the message for fellow hobos was "Kindhearted Lady."

If ever there was a symbol created for Robyn, this is the one.

Others may think a picture of a sucker would work just as well. I'm sure Robyn would agree.

But she'd still welcome the critter, even as it mooched its way into her heart.

All of this made me wonder if there was an appropriate sign for our house. Running through the chart of hobo symbols, I found a few but couldn't land on just one:

1. Housewife Feeds for Chores

If someone was willing to trim the out-of-control vegetation in my yard, I'd gladly give them eats.

2. Bad Dog

Well, sometimes. Every one has their day.

3. Get Out Fast

Always good advice.

On the whole, I don't think anyone really needs to put a symbol on our property. 

The "No Soliciting" signs pretty much have it covered.