The Weighting Game

Oh so many moons ago, when I was living in Virginia, I won an honorable mention in a poetry contest. The subject of my poem was weight control. I decided to attend the award festivities, so I asked my friend Judie if she'd like to come with.

Farewell, my lovelies...

She obliged.

The evening was joyful and unique. As I recall, there was a dinner and a lot of awards, and they read each of the entries aloud. The crowd was predominantly older. (Okay, a lot of them were octogenarians.) But they were all so delightful, I still have warm memories of my then-30-something self participating in the magical night.

What strikes me now is that I wrote a poem about weight loss. I scoff. I really didn't need to worry about losing a lot of weight at that time in my life. Maybe I was just being prescient.

In any case, I've decided I've had it with feeling like a stuffed sausage, avoiding mirrors and huffing and puffing after climbing two flights of stairs.

It's time to take back my life! No, seriously, I mean it this time.

So, why publicly declare my intentions? Part of my master plan involves shame. If I tell all of you that my goal is to drop weight, maybe you will raise an eyebrow when you see my hand reaching for that luscious Boston cream donut. Or you'll gently clear your throat when I make more than one trip to the Tupperware container with the fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. (For the record, I only had one yesterday.)

I realize that ultimately it's up to me to drop the pounds. I will feel better and look better and all of that. And no one else is responsible for my weight.

 But sometimes, it takes a village to save an idiot from herself.

So, please, won't you help? One look, one tsk tsk is all it takes.

I thank you.

O-H-I-O

In today's news, Ohio has decided to lower its expectations for students.

It's kind of like giving every player on the team a trophy just for showing up.

Unlike other states, Ohio has adopted a less rigorous standard for its students. Apparently, too many of them were not qualifying as "proficient," so what do we do? We change what we label as "proficient."

It's brilliant, really. No need to look at how we teach or why our grown children can't count out change without the help of  a cash register. Or, as a friend, discovered, why they don't know that England is part of the United Kingdom. (He was trying to ascertain if his phone would work in England. After being told that England was not on the list of countries, he had to tell them to try looking under United Kingdom.)

No, we'll just say that what used to pass for failure is now success. That's how we roll. It's not about the education, it's about the testing.

You may point out that I'm not a teacher, and I don't know my ass from my elbow about modern education. What I do know is, the best teachers I've had showed me how to take the material they were teaching and apply it to everyday life -- which didn't include test-passing.

Just to end on an up-note, Mr. Ginley read about Ohio State University's football team, where they conduct "Real Life Wednesdays." Student athletes are taught practical things such as how to write a resume, balance a checkbook and other basics of personal finance. Like what FICA means on a pay stub.

Of course, you'd have to pass the college entrance exam first.

Ah, there's the rub.

Riddle Me This

I love doing puzzles.

Jigsaws, crosswords, logic puzzles, mazes, quote-acrostics.

But, hands down, anagrams are my favorite. I love to take the mixed-up letters and help them to find order in a chaotic world. I do the Jumble in the daily newspaper. And I love to play Scrabble. (Although, admittedly, I'm not a champion player because I get a bigger kick out of finding a spot for a good word than I do from racking up the points for teeny, obscure words.)

I've wasted countless hours on my Kindle unscrambling letters. I used to tsk tsk at people who spent chunks of their lives playing Farmville or Candy Crush, but honestly, I am just as bad. I tell myself that I'm working my brain, so that must be a good thing. But maybe it's just obsessive behavior.

You would think that after putting words together all day at work, I'd want to veg out in front of the TV in the evening and sit slack jawed while others did the work for me. And, yes, I do that on occasion. But oftentimes, even when Mr. Ginley and I watch together, we choose a mystery that requires our participation, and we sit there speculating aloud who the culprit is. More puzzle solving.

Fortunately, my better half also enjoys doing puzzles. He works the crossword and the Sudoko that appear in the newspaper. And he does the Jumble after I do (we compare notes over how difficult we found it to be that day).

And, one day soon, I'm going to clear a space on the table so we can put together a jigsaw puzzle. I have about 30 of them sitting in the basement, just waiting to be assembled. Mabel, our geriatric feline, may be to the point where she won't knock the pieces on the floor and skitter them under the sofa. I'm ready to test the theory.

What I will not do is one of those jigsaws where all of the pieces are the same color. There's no skill in guessing. Maybe I'll try the one we got at a rummage sale, the one that features a map and tourist spots along Route 66.

Hopefully, all of the pieces are there. My grandma used to indicate when she had a jigsaw with a missing piece -- she'd mark where the missing piece was located by drawing an approximation on the back of the box.

Well, we'll see. If you hear growls of frustration, you'll know I'm a piece or two shy of a full puzzle.

Of course, you may think that anyhow...

Upcoming Attractions

Even though I ate them one at a time, the Snow Caps were gone before the movie even started.

I always do this.

Mr. and I buy our tickets and enter the theater 10 minutes or so before the flick begins. We choose our seats and get settled in. They we are assaulted by a barrage of ads carefully constructed to look like entertainment. In fact, they even do a little summary at the end, where the slightly-over-the-hill model grins alluringly and says something like, "Thank you for watching this endless series of commercials. In case you thought you had escaped, here is a summary of the advertisers who made it all possible." And then plays snippets from all of the "stories."

Just when you think you're cooking with gas, the parade of previews gears up. Our routine never varies. Mr. and I watch each one, look at each other, and say, "We'll be skipping that one" or "That looks like it might be good" or "Maybe, but only when it gets to DVD." (Which will be about five minutes after it stops showing in the theater.)

I remember a time when commercials were on TV, not on the big screen. When the popcorn didn't taste like the container it came in. And before they had to tell you things like, "Hey, don't be an inconsiderate douchebag, turn your phone off."

The good thing about going to the movies on a Tuesday afternoon is the tickets are cheaper, and there's not much of a crowd. In fact, there was only one other guy who saw Man from U.N.C.L.E. with us. Not a bad way to spend a sultry late-summer afternoon.

And, I have to say, the stadium seating is a whole lot nicer than the pop-up seats and sticky floors of the theaters of my youth.

No need to yell, "Down in front" or "Hey, lady, remove your hat."

If you said, "huh?" never mind. My fellow codgers know what I'm talking about!

Oh, You Kid!

“The children now love luxury. They have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise.” 

So said Socrates. And adults before and since. The truth is, the "yutes"* of today are really no different than at any other time in history.

As I was rooting around looking for something else, I found a packet of postcards that had been sent to my grandmother. They are dated from 1907 to 1911. I have no idea why she chose to keep these particular postcards. They are from different people, none of whom was my grandfather.

What the postcards do contain is youthful chatter that would not be out of place in a Twitter posting.

Although they lose something in the translation (the cursive writing in fountain pen is very cool), you'll get the idea:

"The other side"

"Hello you kid. How you was? Say could you come to Cridersville Sat eve? Drop me a postcard with the word yes Ha Ha. and I will be there. This is my best for you. Look on the other side. Well I will haft to close. S.W.A.K. as ever."

"Hello Ethel or I mean Jack. Ha! Ha! I haven't any dates in my book yet have you? I was sick when I got your postal with the sore throat. Are you coming down to the fair this week? I hope I will see you there. Well I'm glad your sorry for it. I'm not. Gill."

Back in the day, there were pithy sayings called "Ginger Snaps." They appeared, among other places, on postcards. There's one in the packet that says, "Usually when a man gets down to business he soon gets up in the world. -- Ginger Snaps." On the back, someone wrote, "Good to eat snaps." 

I wonder who these people were and what their lives were like. My grandmother would have been 15-19 years old when she received these postcards. She was 20 when she married. And 37 when she died of tuberculosis. I'm happy to have these small glimpses into her life, but sad to know so little else about her, especially her youth. Have any of the postcards she wrote to her friends survived? I don't suppose I'll ever know.

So what happens to our children's grandchildren when they go to learn about their grandparents? Will they be able to access old Twitter accounts? Will they laugh over the way the posts were written? Or, because there is so much electronic information, will the task of sorting through all of it be too tiresome?

Well, time will tell, and it won't be my story to share. For now, I'll go back and reread these treasures and enjoy a glimpse into days that have passed with youthful musings that will remain youthful for always.

*If you've seen My Cousin Vinny, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you haven't seen it, you should.

Don't Fence Me In

Folks are naturally averse to being caged, incarcerated, walled or fenced in. American settlers kept a-movin' across the land until they had infested every acre of this vast county. The irony, of course, is that they sequestered their predecessors on reservations, thereby relieving them of their freedom to move about the country.

As long as there have been fences and walls and prisons, there have been people going around them or over them or breaking out of them.

Which is why I think it's hilarious that some think it's a great idea to put up a fence on our southern border.

And what do they point to as the poster child for successful restraint? The Great Wall of China. The fortress that took countless lives in the building, cost untold sums of money and stretched for thousands of miles. It was built to keep the Mongols out. As a structure, it's a wonder of the world.

The six million dollar question is...did it restrain the Mongols? Were the Chinese able to fight off the vicious invaders from a position of strength? Did the Mongols manage to breach the wall?

Nope. They bribed their way in.

So, what have we learned from this little history lesson? Nothing, apparently. Except that walls don't stop people. Nor do fences. Even when they have big red signs with words like "DANGER" and "KEEP OUT" and "YOU'LL GET HIT IN THE HEAD AND KILLED BY THAT BIG, FAST, GAZILLION-POUND ROLLER COASTER IF YOU COME IN HERE." (So tell me, friend, what kind of reception does your cell phone get in heaven?)

If people want to get past the barriers, they will. And putting up a wall or a fence isn't going to stop them.

So what would keep people from entering the U.S.?

Well, you could put Trump at the border and tell the potential emigres that our country is seriously considering him for president.

That might just do it!

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...