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?

It's That Day in February

As usually happens with gift-giving holidays, the nature of my work ensures that by the time the big day rolls around, I am thoroughly over it.

Valentine's Day is no exception.

In my childhood, Valentine's Day was a big deal. My mom insisted I had to give everyone a Valentine so that no one would feel left out. I took the box of cards, picked out the biggest/best one for the boy I had the crush on at the time and chose the next-to-best cards for my friends. The ones I thought were nasty went to the kids I didn't get along with, and the middle-of-the road variety were destined for the rest of the class.

Being a child of the Baby Boom era, class size was in the 30-40 student range. So selecting and addressing the cards was quite an undertaking.

I remember walking around the room, handing out the cards and wondering how mine would be received. Some years, if I'm remembering correctly, we decorated a box to take the cards home in.

When my son was in grade school, the students were not permitted to address the cards to anyone in particular. They just signed their name, and the Valentines were handed out one to each student. While I suppose this is more fair, it also seems more generic and less interesting. Plus, it got to a point where they weren't allowed to bring in candy, either, because it wasn't healthy.

Sometimes, I don't think kids today know what they are missing. (Oy vey, listen to me, such an alter cocker!)

Also lamentable is the lack of creativity in today's Valentine cards. There are lots of zombies and super heroes and such, the but the writing on them sucks. Back in the day, the cards were tongue in cheek, with groan-worthy puns and visuals to match.

Oh well.

These days, my husband and I swap cards. He makes a card for me. This year, I made a card for him. I'm going to bake chocolate chip cookies, since it looks like the snow will deter us from heading out.

So we'll hang around, watch a little TV, maybe find a good book and chow the cookies as they emerge from the oven.

 These days, that sounds like the perfect way to spend Valentine's Day!

Snap Shots

There is a photograph of my grandmother as a young girl, which was probably taken sometime in the late in the 1800's or very early 1900's. Her chin is on her fist, and she is gazing into the distance.

When I was growing up, the photo hung in my parents' room, and I would stare into her face for long stretches of time. I wondered how old she was, what she had been thinking about, what her life was like. Her mother died when she was eleven. I'm pretty sure she was younger than that in the photo. I wonder if her mother was sick for awhile before she died, if my grandmother had any inkling that she would not have her mother for long.

I find myself doing that with other old photographs, too. Doineau and Atget with their pictures of Paris. People who lived and passed, but who remain fixed in a place and time because a camera captured them on film. I think about their lives and wonder. What they ate, where they worked, whom they loved.

Snapshots of moments.

In this age of digital over-information, I speculate whether people will try that hard to extract our essence in the future. Or if there will be such a glut of movies and pictures that capture every triumph and tragedy and foolish act, to the point where future earth dwellers will become numb to this generation, what we experienced, and what we cared about.

If I am blessed to have grandchildren some day, I hope they will care. I hope they will look into the eyes of my photograph and imagine my days. And wonder about me.


 

Checking Under the Hood

I took Mr. Ginley in for routine maintenance this past week.

Going to the doctor is such a downer. First, you have the drawing of the blood. The weighing in. The vitals. Then, at the end of it all, the elicited promise to eat better and exercise more.

The older we get, the harder it is to lose weight. Back in the day, dietary transgressions could be erased with a few aerobic sessions or a quick cutting back on the fatty foods.

Alas, this is no longer the case.

So, both Mr. and I are reducing portion size, adding more exercise time and eliminating some of the goodies that are so lovely but so fat-making.

The thing that honks me off is we haven't been all that bad. I know I've been stress eating at work, and I have to address that. But he's mostly been sticking to the plan. Of course, there were the holidays, when we were, as Mr. Ginley said, "making quite merry." A few too many hot chocolates. And Christmas cookies. But certainly not enough to warrant the increase in weight.

Sigh.

It's cruel, really. There should be some reward for aging. Instead, we grow forgetful. Everything creaks. There are pills to take. And when we get misty-eyed and talk about our youth, kids roll their eyes and reach for their cell phones.

The only cool thing about getting older, at least for me, is the realization that there's nothing to be in a hurry for. That, in itself is gold.

But the phlebitis I could do without!

There's Snow Place Like Home

As winter slogs along, I dream of living in a warmer climate, leaving the house without a parka, hat, gloves and boots. I would simply open my sliding glass door and step out onto my patio and into a world of sunshine and tropical flowers.

I see Facebook posts from my friend, Kate, who lives in Myrtle Beach. Her young son flies along the sand with abandon, and I sigh. One of these days I'm going to lose it, get on a plane and go see her. (Watch out, Kate!)

In the meantime, I suck it up, slog my way through the snow, curse at douchebag drivers who cut me off when it's icy, and hunker down at home as best I can.

In all of my imaginings, though, I know the truth. I will probably live here until I go toes-up. I enjoy my little city, and as bedraggled as it is at times, and with all its faults, it's still home to me.

And I can still find wonderful things to do here.

Last weekend, Mr. Ginley wanted to go see the 1964 Browns exhibit at the Western Reserve Historical Society. I was not too excited myself, but I went along because I knew there would be other things to see, too. We lucked out because there was a speaker from the Pro Football Hall of Fame, who talked about the history of football helmets (among other things) and was really interesting.

Then a gentleman came up to talk about Browns Stadium, and a season ticket holder in the audience started to complain about how the stadium renovations have messed up his view. We all let him rant for awhile, but when he started to say they don't need so many women's restrooms because women don't go to the games late in the season, I had to set him straight. The other ladies in the crowd "here, here'd" me and the guy shut up.

But I digress.

When we walked into the museum, paid our fare, and got our parking token, we were asked if we wanted tokens for the carousel ride. Of course we did. Did we each want two or just one? Two, of course.

So after we saw what we went there to see, we rode the ponies.

The carousel was part of the now-extinct Euclid Beach Park. It has been full restored and it gleams. It's indoors and glides past big picture windows. I hitched myself onto a horse (a feat in itself) and rode with pure joy. We had a blast. And, when the ride stopped, we handed over our second token and did it again.

I was reminded that there are many, many things I haven't yet experienced in this city. We want to take in a film at the Capitol Theater. A coworker told me about the artists' studios in the old Lake Erie Screw factory. And I'm not nearly done with the West Side Market and its culinary joys.

So much left to do right here.

But, Kate, that doesn't mean I won't show up on your doorstep for a visit!

Mixing it Up

I had big dreams for me and my Cuisinart. We would blend. Whirr. Create beautiful things together.

Then it arrived. Last June.

I opened the box, pulled out the blades and attachments, spread them all around me. I tried to read the manual. Then I panicked. Where was Alton Brown when I so desperately needed him?

So I did the only thing I was capable of doing. I put everything back in the box, put a bag over it and put it on top of the refrigerator. Where it has lived ever since.

I've tried to recreate the excitement I felt before UPS delivered my bundle of joylessness. I've tried to imagine all of the cool stuff it could do, if only I could master it. But all I see when I look at the thing is failure. My failure.

Although I'm not one for making New Years resolutions, I have resolved that this will be the year I master my Cuisinart. I will buckle down and figure out how each attachment attaches, what each one is for and how I will move on with my life, confident in my newly found skills. I will make that homemade peanut butter. I will smooth that smoothie.

Now all I have to do is remember where I put the manual...