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?"

Public domain image

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.

A Friendly Thank You

As I was thinking about the years-long sentence I served in high school, one of the things that came to mind was the embarrassing moments I endured.

Such as...

Being too shy to acknowledge the cute guy next to me in class who was trying to get my attention.

The time I ignored the snickers behind me during an outdoor school break, only to discover upon returning to class that I'd stepped in dog poo.

A classmate who pointed out the unshaven hair on my legs and quipped, "Do you have have a dog at home?"

The smart-ass guy who rolled up a piece of paper and threw it at me in study hall, directing me to "stuff it down your shirt, you need it."

School is cruel, no doubt about it. So when people get all dewy eyed about their high school experience, I figure they are either wearing very darkly shaded rose colored glasses or they were just extraordinarily blessed with a winning personality.

As for me, I'm happy to have reached an age where my friends are true blue. They will tell me, for example, when I've accidentally tucked the back of my skirt into my pantyhose after a trip to the ladies'. When I have post-bagel poppy seeds stuck in my front teeth. Or when I've neglected to brush my bird's nest of a hairdo.

I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank these denizens of fashion and propriety, whom over the years have saved me from myself.

Be assured, if you ever inadvertently mark your face with a Sharpie, forget to zip up or are wearing two different shoes, I promise to pull you aside and tell you before the rest of the class discovers your faux pas.

That's what friends are for.

Eve of Destruction

Every now and again, a movie comes along that sticks with me.

Sometimes it's new. Other times it's a rediscovered classic. Like All About Eve.

If you haven't seen it, I invite you to dig in. 

Surprisingly, it was Mr. Ginley's idea to pick it up from the library. He'd seen a snippet of it on TV and was intrigued. It's not the sort of film he would normally like. All through the picture he kept asking if it had a happy ending. 

"Does somebody kill that b****?" he asked several times.

Maybe we've watched too many episodes of Midsomer Murders. In any case, he enjoyed it as much as I.

The basic story revolves around an aging star and a young understudy who finagles her way into the older actress' circle of friends.

No car chases. Nothing blows up. But it's such a rich collection of characters, well-paced and finely written, we found it irresistible. 

I guess we weren't the only ones who liked it. All About Eve received 14 Academy Award nominations, winning six, including Best Picture. 

Released in 1950, directed by Joseph Mankiewicz, the film starred the legendary Bette Davis and a 20-something Anne Baxter, supported by a brilliant cast that included George Sanders and Celeste Holm. It was one of the first 50 films chosen to be preserved by the U.S. Library of Congress' National Film Registry.

By the way, if you want to know if the b**** gets hers, you'll just have to watch it yourself. 

No spoilers here!

Don't Bug Me

We were watching TV last night, when all of a sudden, Mr. Ginley jumped up and yelled, "What's that?"

Fearing a home invasion of some sort, I was on my feet at once.

"Where, where?" I cried.

"There, on the ceiling. Get the thing and kill it."

For the uninitiated, in this case, he was referring to the fly swatter. Which, of course, I couldn't instantly lay hands on.

Rushing over, he grabbed it, muttering about my inability to find anything, and took a swipe at the fluttering target, which had landed conveniently on the wall.

He missed.

"What is it?" he asked again.

"It's a moth," I identified. 

By this time, it had reached the ceiling. He handed me the swatter.

"Kill it!" he commanded.

I got a chair, stood up to my full 5'1" height, and waved ineffectively at the ceiling.

"I can't reach it," I said, overstating the obvious.

A few more expletives were muttered as he grabbed the weapon, climbed the chair and successfully smote the intruder. It tumbled onto the easy chair.

"Get a tissue! Get a tissue! Get rid of it!" he ordered.

I executed my duties as swiftly as I could, feeling the satisfying crunch of the now-deceased insect. 

Disposing of the body, I returned the chair to its place, and we were free to go about our business, bug-free.

Let's just say, I was very glad I didn't tell Mr. about the yellow jacket I spied in the light fixture by the back door when I came home the other night. I dispatched the little stinger by leaving the light on, thereby to roast in his own juices.

I'll dispose of the carcass later. As in, the next time we change the light bulb.

Oh, that's right. I can't reach that high.

Oops. 

The Eyes Have It

"For God's sake, call the eye doctor," Mr. Ginley directed. "You're driving me nuts."

This, after I was unable to read something off the back of a DVD.

He was tired of being my eyes, I suppose. And I really couldn't blame him.

So, last week, back I went to the eye doc to (hopefully) see what was up. The world had become a gauzy place, a little at a time over the past few months. I bought stronger cheaters, but they only helped close up -- I still struggled with street signs and night driving. 

At first, I chalked it up to the dry eyes my doctor diagnosed. But different/better drops didn't work. Clearly, something else was afoot.

What I learned is I have "secondary cataracts." There are two lenses in your eye. The one in front is what they do the cataract surgery on. What routinely happens is the lens in the back clouds over, causing difficulty in seeing. 

The solution is a laser procedure that will take about five minutes in my doctor's office. Each eye is done separately on different days. There is no prep and nothing to do afterward. So, it is a pretty simple solution. Just one I hadn't anticipated...although I was assured by the doctor's assistant that I'd been warned of this when I was given the lowdown on my cataract surgery two years ago.

There's no doubt in my mind my doctor did tell me this. But I'm also certain I was so focused on the cataracts, I figured I'd worry about any other scenarios when I got there. 

So here I am, down the road.

Yes, it's actually a simple solution. It's nice to know I won't need a seeing eye dog. And it will be wonderful to see well again.

I just hate these reminders I'm not the youngster that lives in my head -- but an alter cocker after all.