The Little Voice, Unheard (Again)

 In the beforetimes, when I worked at that-place-that-shall-not-be-named, David B. would always ask, "Is this a milestone birthday?"

Attribution below

Well, no, this past birthday was not any special number. But I did get plenty of well wishes, thank you one and all.

The day was pretty uneventful. I worked until dinnertime, when Mr. and I strolled up to one of the local bars for eats and drinks.

Now, it's no secret that I can't hold my liquor. I can usually handle one glass of beer or one mixed drink. Any more than that, and I quickly go from pleasantly buzzed to hellza-no-I'm-gonna-be-sick.

So I decided to order one margarita with my dinner. The surly waitress produced a tall glass with barely any ice in it. It was strong. Very strong. I should have had her take it away, but it's not in my nature to complain, so I took a few more sips and pushed it to the side.

"I'll eat dinner first," I said to myself. "Then I'll be able to drink it because the food will absorb the alcohol."

And so it went that I continued to sip the drink during my meal, but at the end, there was still a significant amount left in my glass.

As many of you know from experience, alcohol is the great deceiver. Once you get a buzz going, you think you can handle anything.

I finished the drink. I went to sign the check. So far so good. 

"Don't forget to take your credit card," Mr. Ginley said. Three times.

Getting up from the booth seating was problematic. Navigating to the front of the bar was also a bit of a challenge. Fortunately, Mr. Ginley did not imbibe during dinner. So I knew that if I collapsed, he could go home and get the car and fetch me.

It did not come to that. I giggled most of the way home, and Mr. and I had a pleasant jaunt. 

Everything was just dandy for the next hour or so. Then my stomach staged a revolt. Clearly, it was not happy with my lack of judgement. I didn't throw up, but I felt awful. I went to bed at the usual time, rolled over, and was out. 

Why is it we ignore the little voice in our head that tries to warn us that we're about to do something king stupid? 

"Nah, that can't be poison ivy, I'll be all right." 

"It's only supposed to snow a couple of inches, I'll be fine to drive home."

"Sure, let's go ziplining, sounds like fun."

You know, even Bugs Bunny knew that if you listened to the devil on your shoulder instead of the angel, there was going to be hell to pay.

As the comedian Larry Miller famously said in his bit, 5 Stages of Drinking, "I swear, I will never do this again, as long as I live – and some of us have this little addition – and this time, I mean it!"

William Andrews, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Meh at Work

"If you can't remember something, you should write it down," Mr. Ginley told me for the 4,000th time the other day.

But could Leonardo read his own handwriting?

But here's the rub. When I write a note to myself, I can't read my handwriting later. And when I type it into the Notes App on my phone, the autocorrect takes over, and days (weeks? months?) later, I have no idea what I was jibbering on about.

One of the things I try to do on the app is write down potential topics for my blog. Here are some of the entries. Maybe you can help me decipher them so I have something to write about next week:

Man From Primrose Lane, James Renner

Color emojis

Sledging

Dinner Warwick

Only Yesterday

Ida movie

Will Trent

It's a Gas

Just because someone us difficult doesn't mean you'll divorce them

Rush e

Write down, best mom

Hovering

Lucy cat song

Stone yard devotional

Garbage

The last showgirl

Ganesha

Freddie Bell and the Bellboys

Kinsale Ireland

There's plenty more, but you get the idea.

The trouble is, my notes app is a repository for everything, not just ideas for this rag. So I'm pretty sure there are things on this list that have nothing to do with brainstorming ideas.

Now that I take a gander at the above, the haze clears, and I do recall what some of these mean.

"Lucy cat song" is a tune my brother Gary told me about that I fell in love with. It's sung by Allison Young.

Ganesha is a Hindu deity. I have a small figurine in my workspace, and I wanted to know what to call him.

Kinsale Island was a destination on one of Rick Steves' shows. I want to go there. I'm pretty sure I won't make it, but a girl can dream.

"Dinner Warwick" is my cell phone's interpretation of "Dionne Warwick." Or it could be my clumsy typing. (I choose to blame my cell.)

Freddy Bell & the Bellboys did a song called First Train Out of Town. Did I like it? Did Mr. Ginley like it? 

As for the rest of the items on my list, I'm at a loss. They could be book or song titles. Maybe they're shopping list items gone bad.

Who knows? Life's too short, and I have better things to do.

Like checking out the YouTube playlist for Meh at Work.

This is a margin note written by Leonardo da Vinci that proves Lisa del Giocondo was the model for the Mona Lisa. Photo attribution: Louvre Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Permit Me to Prick Your Interest

It all started with a magazine Mr. Ginley got out from the library the other day about the history of fashion.

public domain photo

Maybe it's because the topic of fashion is not exactly in his wheelhouse, but I was intrigued. 

I'm not sure why one particular aspect of the theme popped into my head, but I've learned not to question these things, and just went with it.

"Do they talk about codpieces?" I inquired of him.

"They mention them in passing, but they don't go into detail," he replied. Thus ending my interest in the magazine. I mean, how can you leave out such a compelling topic?

Knowing my readers are well-informed, I'm sure you've come across the word, but you may not know much about codpieces.

Permit me to enlighten.

In the 15th and 16th Centuries, men wore tights. There was a left tight and a right tight, much like today's fishing waders. (I may not be getting the nomenclature just right, but you know what I mean.) This left a certain part of the male anatomy exposed. 

Enter the codpiece.

Originally, it was a triangular piece of material that covered the necessary area. But as men's tops (aka "doublets" or "tunics") began to shorten, fashionistas proclaimed that simply covering one's appendage was not enough. That's when codpieces became a thing (to cover one's thing).

Elaborate codpieces were the Renaissance equivalent of owning a big, jacked-up 4x4 today. The implication was that the owner was well-endowed. Unlike earlier discreet versions, later codpieces were often oversized and included padding. Some were decorated with jewels or bells, which, when they rang, were supposed to be complimentary to passing women. 

Ding-a-ling, indeed.

Sadly, history doesn't include many accounts of what women thought of this symbol of male virility. But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say there were a lot of yawns. Those who've got it don't need to go to elaborate lengths to show off. Am I right?

By the late 16th Century, codpieces were out of fashion, and aside from rock stars and such, they've never made a comeback. It's one trend that isn't likely to be reappearing anytime soon. 

Do you suppose it's because guys no longer feel the need to boast about their endowments? Or maybe it's because skinny jeans have filled that particular gap?

I would say there's no women's equivalent, but then I cast my mind back to the 1950s and the bullet bras. And stuffing one's bra with tissues.

Please tell me women don't do that anymore.

P.S. If you want to read more about codpieces, this is a fun one, and I adore the title: What Goes Up Must Come Down: A Brief History of the Codpiece.


Photo attribution: Formerly attributed to Steven van der Meulen, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

True Confessions

 "What could the average third or fourth grader possibly have to confess?" I mused the other day over a Big Boy® Burger and fries. 

Obviously, the priest's side of the confessional.*

Mr. Ginley and I were discussing our childhood as Catholics in training. Specifically, the Sacrament of Confession.

"My go-to confession was taking money out of my mom's purse," said Mr. Ginley. "It was always a quarter or dime or some small change. But I couldn't always think of something to confess, so sometimes I said I did something I didn't do because I felt pressured. I always wondered if the penance I was given covered me for lying to the priest. I mean, at the end, you do say, 'for these and all of my sins, I am heartily sorry.' On the other hand, it does give you something to talk about at your next confession."

"Yeah," I concurred, "But that could get awkward if the priest started grilling you about why you lied, and you'd probably get a lecture. Seems like more trouble than it's worth. Better to make it a sin of omission."

Mr. nodded his agreement. It was my turn to spill.

"I always told the priest that I was mean to my little brother, which was pretty much always true. I could be a shitty big sister," I confessed to Mr. Ginley. "And I'd say that I lied to my parents. I don't recall the priest asking me for specifics, but if he did, I probably made something up. We weren't allow to take the Fifth."

Looking back, confessional duty for youngsters had to be a pretty crappy job for the parish priests. Did they draw straws to see who was going to get stuck listening to a litany of childhood transgressions? 

"Sorry, Francis, you're on the hook this week," I can hear the other priests snickering.

When we complained about going to confession, my mother would always say, "I know it's hard to go, but don't you feel better coming out of the confessional?"

Well, sure, because the ordeal is over for another month or however long it might be till your next confession.

And if your mind wandered as you said your assigned 3 Our Fathers and 4 Hail Marys for penance, who was to know?

Nowadays, priests are encouraged to better align penance to fit the crime. You have to tell your Mom you took that money from her purse and pay it back and promise never to do it again.

But then, geez, what the heck do you confess next time? 

*Attribution: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f3/Wikiolo_in_Liechtenstein_%2883%29.jpg

Senseless Fashion

I think we can all agree that I'm not a girly-girl. 

In an earlier time in a universe that existed long, long ago (aka high school), I dabbled in makeup, eye shadow, lip balm, and nail polish. I even wore the occasional dress because I had nice gams back in the day. 

These days, I seldom put on makeup, my fingernails are a wreck, and I have a closet full of clothes gathering dust. Recently, I went through and gathered two garbage bags full of items to donate, but I'm going to have to do another pass. I just have too much stuff, and I don't have plans on wearing it anytime soon.

Now that I work from home and spend almost all of my time here, I tend to wear the same clothing over and over. In a thrift shop a few months ago, I found a very colorful top made of fleecy material. It was love at first sight. Up until the last week or so when temps soared up into the 80s, I was wearing said top quite frequently. 

At one point, Mr. Ginley felt compelled to step in.

"I draw the line at the fleecy top with the Cat Taco pants," he proclaimed. "It's not a good look."

I cast my eyes downward to the other beloved article of clothing I'd acquired recently. It could be argued that the two aren't a combination you'd describe as pleasing to the eye. 

Still, they each in their own way make me happy.

I simply shrugged. "No one's going to see me but you."

"But I have to look at it," he said. 

I'm willing to concede this point. And so, I'll have to find a different companion for each of my favorites. Something more neutral. 

For the foreseeable future, it'll be too warm to wear the colorful top, so I'll have a few months before I need to find a companion for it that doesn't offend. 

As for the Cat Taco pants, well, I'm wearing them now. With a paisley top. 

I may need to work on this combination.

So Fast

 Mr. Ginley is forever telling me to slow down.

Look, Teeny Strawberries!

"Where is the finish line?" he queries. "Why are you in such a rush to get there?"

I know he's right of course. There's plenty of evidence right in front of me. Every day on the news, some famous figure that I grew up with has passed on. This week it was Brian Wilson and Sly Stone. Sure, they were in their 80s, but that's not that old. 

Is it?

Don't answer that.

It's such a cliché that time flies, but it really does. I may grumble and wheeze and roll my eyes when the exercise queen Leslie Sansone talks about how fast a workout has gone by. But then, before I know it, I'm playing the DVD again and doing the workout again, and ya, so fast.

It's hard to slow down, though, when you've had the zoomies all your life. Getting up, having breakfast, going to work, coming home, making dinner, spending family time, going to bed. Getting up on the weekends and running all the errands I didn't have time to complete during the week. 

Slow down. Breathe. 

I'm trying, I really am. Maggie just showed up, purring. Reminding me what's important. I gaze into the backyard. It stormed earlier, and now raindrops are kissing the leaves of the bush outside my kitchen window. There's a cool, welcome breeze blowing in. And church bells. The coo of a mourning dove. A snapshot of something lovely.

If only that bush weren't blocking my view, I really am going to have to get out there and cut it back. And just look at all those weeds taking over. I wonder if the blackberries are ripening yet? 

Maggie turns around and whacks me with her tail.

I know, I know. There aren't that many miles to go before I sleep. If I don't slow down, I'll miss all that lovely scenery.

And wouldn't that be a shame.

Here's to the Dads

 "How do you get him to take his dishes out to the kitchen," someone once asked my husband at a family function.

Mr. Ginley replied, "He knows what's expected of him, and he just does it." But I could tell Mr. was pleased. 

That was many moons ago, when our son was very young. Now he has a child of his own. We were blessed to meet our granddaughter last Sunday. It's obvious that our child is smitten with her. He didn't turn up his nose at changing her diaper. He sends me photos of the two of them, snuggling, drowsing, or crying open-mouthed (a pose reminiscent of his own childhood). Dadhood suits him well.

As this Father's Day approaches, I've been thinking a lot about our son and his father. Mr. Ginley was a stay-at-home Dad, a more radical role than it is these days. "Well-meaning" people made fun of him, berated him, and told him he would regret it. 

He never did.

Six weeks after Joe was born, I went back to work. It was heart wrenching to hear of their adventures. They'd do the planet walk in the MetroParks. Get pizza slices and have a picnic. Or play games. Mr. was aware of my sadness, and frequently drove the 35 miles to my office so the two of them could have lunch with me. It always made my day.

Of course, parenthood isn't all moonbeams and unicorns. It took two coats to paint over the "bad boy corner," where many tears were shed during a time out. There was the epic destruction of the Playstation after many warnings about abusing time limits. And there was a lot of gnashing of teeth when someone proclaimed he wanted to be a writer when he grew up, and his Dad made him pen one page every day on a small yellow legal pad for an entire summer. (We still have those pages, and yes, his writing got progressively better.)

Mr.'s goal was always to be a father, not a friend. "You'll have lots of friends in your life, but only one Dad," he always said.

I may have felt conflicted about not staying home to raise our son, but I never believed it was the wrong decision.

I feel very lucky for all the Dads in my life. My own father was a hard guy, but he did his best. He got through the Depression, fought in World War II, and raised six kids on a meager salary. His father was absent from his life much of the time and died too young to help his son out much. 

But we're all doing what we can.

Mr. heard a quote recently that kind of sums it all up.

"Anyone can be a father. Not everyone can be a Dad."

Happy Father's Day to all the Dads, whether your offspring is biological, chosen, or four-legged and furry. Hug 'em if you've got 'em!

Photo Attribution: Dorothy Hope Smith, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

P.S. I'm not posting pics of my granddaughter out of respect for my son and daughter-in-law's wishes. They're concerned about sharing photos on social media.