You Can't Make Me

All through adulthood, I've wondered when I am going to feel like a grown-up.

I thought maybe 21 was the magic age. Then 30. Then 40. Then 50. Then I gave up.

I'm not sure if this is a byproduct of being the fifth-born in a brood of six. Or if it's just my personality type. But in a room full of adults, I still have the uneasy sensation that I'm an imposter.

Lucky for me, I married someone who is also childlike in many ways.

Appropriately, on our first date we saw an animated feature, and that seemed to have set the stage for our life. It quickly became apparent that we were never going to be on the fast-track to a vice-presidency. We would always be "those parents" who brought unhealthy snacks to school and sporting events. And whenever asked to volunteer, we would duck.

Neither of us feels like we've figured out life. We still act like neophytes in the learning department, eager to grasp new concepts, hungry for knowledge like starved rats in a cheese factory.

Our house may look like an annex to the Cleveland Public Library, but it does feel like a home. And, in spite of everything, we laugh. A lot.

Alas, our wicked sense of humor has found its way to our son. When discussing what Christmas gift to get his dad, he replied, "How about an urn with a plaque that reads, 'coming soon'?"

There are three ways for children to learn lessons from their parents. One is by imitation, the other is to hit the reject button and head in the opposite direction. And then, there is a third way. To cherry pick the things you thought your parents did well, and let go of the rest.

Obviously, what we let go of was being an adult.

Although, come to think of it, my dad was an unlikely prankster. We occasionally did see my parents being silly. And, in a drawing of my father-in-law on his retirement, he is depicted with a plunger in his hand.

So I'd say, yes, we can blame at least some of this on our parents.

I guess our kid is doomed.

Sorry, Joe.

Pussy Hats Galore

As we parked the car at the Rapid Transit station, I was a little sad to see it wasn't as packed as it was for last year's Women's March.

I needn't have worried.

(Mayor Tom L. Johnson behind me)

We boarded the train and easily found a seat, but it continued to fill up, and was standing room only by the time we arrived downtown.

And as we gathered in Public Square, I saw that there were, in fact, a crap-ton of people assembled and ready to rally.

The Cleveland Police Department estimates 7,000 people marched today, considerably less than the 15,000 who did so last year, but still a respectable number.

As he did last year, Mr. Ginley marched beside me and my fellow re-sisters, as did many other husbands, fathers and brothers.

For anyone who hasn't been there, it's difficult to describe the rush that comes from the collective energy generated by these women and men. It is an amazing feeling, especially after all of the horrific events inflicted on us by our government this past year.

The signs the crowd carried ranged from poignant to hilarious. My personal favorite, as it was last year, is "Love Trumps Hate." I also like, "I'm With Her," the poster that features a photo of the Statue of Liberty.

Photos courtesy of Mr. Ginley

Although, I have to say, I was tickled by the sign that read, "Feminism is my second favorite F word."

I believe we took to the streets for many reasons. To safeguard women's rights, certainly. But also to fight for our environment, for DACA, for civility and for simple human kindness.

Judging by comments on social media, there is a lot of vitriol being thrown at those who marched.

I don't give a fat rat's ass.

I was in exquisite company today. I'm proud to march with my sisters. I believe in them. I am buoyed by them. They inspire me.

And there's no place else I would have rather been today than marching by their side.

All the Way to Neptune

Spoiler alert: For anyone who was hoping I'd come in today and regale you with tales of adventure from my vacation this past week, alas, this week's post will disappoint.

No Mickey Mouse ears on this mouse. No cocktails on the beach. Or sightings of George Clooney. No snapshots of ancient ruins or sipping coffee with my secret lover in a Paris cafe.

I rather enjoyed running through all these scenarios in my head just now. But alas, that's where they shall remain. So if you want to bail here, feel free. I understand.

It was the kind of vacation I needed, one with no itinerary. We woke up each day, Mr. Ginley asked, "What do you want to do today? It's your vacation. If you weren't here, I'd just be doing the laundry or vacuuming." I replied, "I don't know, what do you think?" And it went along pretty much like this each day.

The weather had a lot to do with our plans. Monday, for example, we only ventured out to walk to the library. And later to Hatfield's. (Ken posted a photo of the sweet potato pie he was was just taking out of the oven, so we ran up there post haste. It was still warm. So gooood.)

Tuesday: We'd discussed going to the art museum downtown, but we were so slow getting up and about, we decided to go to the museum in Oberlin instead. It had a little of everything, from antiquities to Andy Warhol. An eclectic display of this and that to make things interesting. Afterward, we ate at a place called The Fev. Pub grub, kicked up a notch for the college crowd. Then we found a bookstore, and Mr. was a happy camper.

On Wednesday, it was clothes shopping. Alas, I was not the smart shopper, I realized as I stood in line with my purchases and noticed my coupon did not go into effect until the following day. I sucked it up and paid for my stuff. I did not want to return. One day in the "Chair of Shame" for Mr. Ginley was all I could ask.

Thursday it was ridiculously warm, but it rained. We managed to find a dry period and did the Planet Walk in the Valley.  (Hence, the reference to Neptune.) We are still sad that Pluto is gone -- it does shorten our stroll considerably. (The Planet Walk has markers based on the relative distance of the planets from the sun, so Pluto was a very good stretch of the legs, indeed.)

Friday was my eye doctor appointment. With the threat of the impending ice storm and the nasty rain that was already in place, we decided to scuttle home and hunker down.

On the plus side, I've done a few jigsaw puzzles, read some and watched several episodes of "Call the Midwife."

Best of all, I was off the grid as far as work was concerned, so I really feel like I got a good rest.

A feeling which should last until Monday morning at approximately 8:35.

Mr. Snow Miser Comes to Stay

So, here we are, in the gazillionth day of our sub-freezing extravaganza.

Everywhere, folks are wheezing and sneezing and coughing. A big topic at the water cooler is whether zinc really helps to prevent anything and how doctors are prescribing saline nose spray more than they used to.

Ah, to be in Northeast Ohio in the winter!

Of course, there are those folks who managed to escape for awhile. To the south or the west or anyplace where you can step outside without six layers of clothing and winter accessories. I'll have to live vicariously through them.

Next week, "hunkering down indoors" will be our primary vacation destination. I'm trying to use up the last of my PTO for the year. I imagine our travels will be to exotic places like the mall or the library or to see a movie, maybe.

On the up side, the temperatures are supposed to warm up considerably tomorrow. On the down side, more snow is predicted.

And anyone wonders whether God has a sense of humor. Hah!

It has been amusing reading the forecast in the paper. I do believe they've run out of ways to say "cold," although they haven't yet resorted to "cold as a witch's (body part)" or "too f***ing cold for life."

I imagine one day in my dotage I'll be harkening back to these days with phrases like, "This is nothing, why the winter of '17-'18 was colder than anything you could imagine."

My fear is that, with climate change, this winter will become the norm, not the exception.

For now, I am grateful for my warm home, blankets and Netflix.

And for the birds I heard chirping away this morning.

I hope they know something I don't know.

Take a Bow, Rose Marie

Rose Marie died this week.

She had an amazing life, but it still makes me sad to see that generation of performers slowly fade away.

Rose Marie Mazzetta was born in New York City in 1923. She began her show business career at the age of three, singing on the radio. She worked in vaudeville, on Broadway, in Las Vegas, in the movies and on television.

Rose Marie's most famous role was on The Dick Van Dyke Show, as Sally Rogers, a wisecracking writer for a TV variety show. Teaming up with Morey Amsterdam, who played Buddy Sorrell on the series, she was one of the first women on a television sitcom whose career was the focus of her life. Ironically, Mary Tyler Moore played the housewife/mom on the show, and would later be lauded as a pioneer for career women for her role on the Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Recently, Rose Marie came forward with her own #MeToo story. During the making of the film "Top Banana," she was propositioned by one of the producers. She responded, loudly, in front of the crew, "You couldn't get it up if the flag went by." Her musical numbers were subsequently cut from the film, and she had a difficult time for awhile getting roles.

Rose Marie was married once, to Bobby Guy, who was a trumpet player in Kay Kyser's band. He was only 48 when he died of a blood infection in 1964. She was devastated. They had been married for 18 years and had one daughter, Georgiana.

She called Al Capone "Uncle Al." Rose Marie's father worked as an arsonist for the gangster, burning down the warehouse of anyone who crossed Capone -- a fact she wasn't privy to until years later, when she worked in Las Vegas with Bugsy Siegel. 

The signature bow she always wore in her hair was donated to the Smithsonian in 2006. When asked what its significance was, all Rose Marie would say was that it was very personal, and she didn't want to share.

 Rose Marie wrote a memoir in 2003, called "Hold the Roses." And there's a 2017 documentary called "Wait for Your Laugh."  I'm looking forward to reading/watching them both.

Some of the most fascinating people are on the periphery of major stardom.

I think Rose Marie qualifies. What a run, indeed.

Sleeting Moments

I awoke this morning to the ticka-ticka-ticka of frozen precipitation hitting my window.

Bundling up, I prepared to retrieve my newspaper from the lawn, where the carrier normally throws it. Imagine my surprise when I opened my front door and discovered the paper on the porch. Which was very pleasant, indeed, considering the icy drops were coming down fast and hard, and I didn't want to add boots and an umbrella to my ensemble.

Like it always does, the question went through my mind: What's the difference between sleet and freezing rain? Only this time, I did something about it. I went to the Google and asked the National Weather Service.

Obviously, my search was not unique, because the answer popped right up.

Both forms of precipitation start out as just raindrops. The distinction comes when they hurl earthward. If the layer of freezing air is thin, you get freezing rain. The water doesn't freeze in the air, it does so when it hits the ground, making it a real challenge to clean your car and walk around without landing on your ass.

Sleet, on the other hand, reaches the earth in the form of frozen droplets -- confirming that this morning's precipitation was, in fact, sleet. (Now it's turned to snow. I certainly know what that is.)

It's entirely possible that this little weather lesson was an education only to me. I was probably taught it a long time ago during my school years, but it was lost in a haze of other knowledge, most of it useless, that is taking up space in my cranium. (Just to note, some people do think remembering Beatles lyrics is worthwhile.)

Oh well. I figure if I learn something of value every day, no matter how trivial, I can feel a little less like I'm rocketing my way toward a doddering old age.

Speaking of being an old fart, I decided, just for shits and giggles, to go to our 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica, Volume XXV, to see what it had to say about sleet.

Pretty much the same thing, it turns out, with one notable exception: It says that in some cases, sleet may actually begin as snow, not rain, with the transformation taking place as the precipitation encounters an air temperature just above the freezing point.

I'm sure the National Weather Service just decided this level of thoroughness wasn't necessary, that most folks would be satisfied with the edited version. But it does make me wonder how much of the knowledge we get from the internet is condensed in order to keep it mainstream enough for the person of average intelligence.

I'm not a big fan of abridged books, either. I prefer to get the whole story. I'm not comfortable with someone else deciding what's important to me.

But once again, I digress. If digression were an Olympic sport, I'd win the gold every time.

I'm sure there are those who would argue I need to be abridged. Maybe so. But it's my blog, and I have the luxury of bloviating to my heart's content.

Read at your own peril. You've been warned!

I Just Have Something in My Eye

I've never been a fan of Harlequin novels.

I do enjoy the cozy murder mystery now and again. But sappy romance novels? Not me.

So I am grappling with the realization that I am becoming hooked on the Hallmark Channel.

I don't know, maybe it's the time of year. Doesn't everyone get sucked into formulaic stories and happy endings during the holidays?

Or maybe it's just my age. I've heard from coworkers, whose moms are of a certain age (e.g. same as me), who are also hooked on Hallmark.

Or perhaps it's the rancid political climate. The Oh-My-God-I-Just-Can't-Watch-It-Anymore, pit in my stomach feeling that comes from too much CNN.

Could it be that it's just a guilty pleasure? It's relaxing, at the end of a stress-filled day, to sit back and watch two people meet in a small, friendly town, overcome some hurdle(s) or other, and find they want to spend the rest of their lives together.

I need a break from people crashing cars and bashing skulls. From fart jokes and parents who are dumber than their kids. From really, really bad football. From zombies and foolish teenagers who don't know enough NOT TO OPEN THE DAMN DOOR.

And, you know, it's okay if I cry a little at the end. It's all good.

So, now that I've confessed, I will also admit that The Ref is still one of my favorite Christmas movies. That I'm just a little bit in love with Chili Palmer. And Stranger Than Paradise is still my favorite local flick.

So I'm not a total mushy heart.

Now hand me the tuner. I want to see if Uncle Bernie and his bookstore are going bring Sean and Gina together in time for Christmas.