And Those Whose Names Were Never Called

There have been a few articles lately about older women feeling invisible. 

Janis Ian. Photo attribution below

Funny, that. Because I totally relate to the notion, but I also recall feeling that way in my adolescence. 

I was a non-person in high school. Quiet, painfully shy, I lived in the shadows, did my schoolwork, and went home. I played music and burned candles and wondered if life would ever get better. Until my senior year of high school, I had almost no social life to speak of. If it weren't for my friend, Linda, I would have had no one at all. Even in my senior year, the people who befriended me were older, out of high school. I never went to proms or social functions. 

Not that I had a real pining to, mind you. I've always been okay on my own. And being invisible is a sort of super power, really. I find I'm always surprising the people who underestimate me. That's kind of a kick. 

I don't dwell a lot on my terrible teens, but every now and again I'm reminded by a book or a song or by Facebook, which is heavily into nostalgia sites. 

One day Janis Ian popped up on my FB page with a suggestion to follow her. That took me back to the song At Seventeen, which Ian composed (lyrics and music) and released in 1975. It's about an unpopular high school age girl who laments her status as a nobody. I immediately glommed onto this tune, totally relating. I thought I was the only one it resonated with, but it became a number 1 hit and in the ensuing years has been proclaimed an anthem for many, including those in the LGBTQ community. 

These days, I look back on my teen years with bemusement. I was quite the drama queen, really. These days, I feel invisible but in a less soul-crushing way than I did in my teens. My kid is grown and leading his best life with his beautiful life partner. My career, such as it is, is limping toward the finish line. And I accept the fact that I'm not going to set the world on fire anytime soon. 

It's pretty freeing, actually. And I realize I wouldn't want the beauty queen's life anyhow. I imagine her aging, packing on the pounds, and getting crepe-y arms just like me.

Maybe it's time for Janis Ian to write a sequel to her song.

It could be called "At 70."

Photo attribution: Eddie, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Hate Wins the Day

 Mr. Ginley always says I should avoid writing about politics. But today, that feels too much like fiddling while Rome burns.

I know there's absolutely nothing I can do about any of this mess our country is in. The truth is big and ugly and tears me up.

My fellow Americans voted to put a convicted felon and rapist in the White House. A criminal so vile that there's not one single positive thing that can be said about him. 

He's a big fat nasty ball of hate. He hates women. He hates minorities. He mocks people with disabilities. He calls American POWs cowards. He told people to drink bleach during COVID. And he discouraged them from getting the vaccine, although he did himself, of course. He lied and lied and lied and lied over and over and over and over.

Which leads me to wonder, what would that monster have to do for people to say that's enough, I can't vote for him? If he raped their daughter or ruined their business, would that do it? Or would the faithful simply shrug and say, "Boys will be boys. He's okay by me."

As if all this wasn't bad enough, my fellow citizens voted out Senator Brown. Sherrod Brown has been the one shining light in this blood red state. A decent man who fought valiantly for the rights of the people of our state. So who was elected instead? A car salesman who's engaged in sketchy business practices, ruined his employees, and generally just been a bad human being. 

Do we see a pattern here? Why yes, we do.

It feels like Pandora's box has been opened. Again. And while on some level I appreciate the efforts of my fellow Facebookers to come away with a positive attitude, I just can't. 

So, like many of you, I'm going to go back to my life, hunker down, and...what? Is this like the atomic drills in school where they tell you to crawl under your desk, curl up, and kiss your ass goodbye? 

Well, that's what it feels like. 

I wonder what his followers will think of him when he's dismantled our democracy.

Maybe something like, "At least he made the trains run on time."

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

We've come to the conclusion, Mr. and I, that marketers should pay us NOT to use their products.

still exists in the ether

At this point, you would be justified in scratching your head in puzzlement.

Surely, marketers want you to use their products, no?

But not in our case, for we've discovered we're serial product killers. 

What does that mean? Well, whenever we fall in love with a product, when nothing else will do, it's pulled off the shelves. Discontinued. Eradicated. Shitcanned.

OB-SO-LETE.

One wouldn't think it would be asking too much for the basic necessities to endure. But alas, we've had to bid a tearful farewell to so many favorites. Here are but a few examples:

Cream of Wheat, Whole Grain Edition. We hardly knew ye, oh grain of much bran. Unlike the basic, or I shudder to mention it, instant CoW, it had fiber aplenty, which my body needs, my doctor insists. Instead, I must eat oatmeal. Morning. After morning. After morning.  Until I go toes up. Yes, I can put raisins in it. And the occasional peanut butter. Top it with bananas. No matter, it's like lipstick on a pig. Oatmeal will forever have the consistency of wall paper paste and all the flavor of same. Sigh. (Just to note, the Everything Store still sells Whole Grain Cream of Wheat, only $70.99 for 12 servings. Such a deal!)

Fudgsicles: How can they be "The Original Fudgsicles" with "no sugar added"? Well, of course, they can't. It's like sucking on an ice cube sprinkled with cocoa powder. Gone is the creamy, fudgey, sugar-laden treat of my youth. Hard pass.

Tootsie Roll Pops. Yes, it's the same name. But I can still taste the original in my childhood memory banks, and this ain't it. It's passable, but only barely. Also, like most candy, it's gone down several sizes. 

Tuna Helper: This timesaver recently disappeared from my grocer's shelves. Whoosh. Just like that. Granted, it was a salt-laden, crappy-for-you, guilty pleasure, but I liked it anyhow. In the interest of true confession, I was able to find a copycat recipe online that uses natural ingredients. So while it's still not what you could call healthy (lots of milk and cheese), it's got a whole lot less salt and no artificial "cheese product" in it.

Of course, food isn't the only thing we're guilty of forcing out of existence. Many of our health and beauty products have bit the dust. Mr. loves his Old Spice pit swipe, but they only have it in the deodorant variety, not the the anti-perspirant/deodorant version he requires. His minty Halls cough drops are another casualty. And dental floss that could hold up to the rigors of too-close teeth has been replaced by house brands that shred at the first sign of a challenge.

I'd say this was a new phenomenon, but somewhere deep in my memory banks, I can recall my Mom having the same complaint about her favorite products being discontinued. 

Do you suppose it's hereditary?

Cast Your Vote: The King vs. The Fab Four

Through the ages, there have been several questions that would define one's character.

Do you put your toilet paper roll so the sheets pull from underneath or over the top?

Is it acceptable to put ketchup on your eggs?

Peanut Butter + Bananas: A match made in heaven or a culinary travesty?

I'm sure you can think of several more – feel free to chime in. But today's question is one that's come up over the years with Mr. Ginley and I, and it calls into question our compatibility. To whit...

attribution below

Are you a Beatles fan or an Elvis fan?

Mr. Ginley is in the Elvis camp, I'm firmly planted in the Beatles camp. Although I do admit to liking the early Elvis, and Mr. likes some of the Beatles' later music. 

Growing up, Linda and I faced the same conundrum. I would say that she won – she got her Dad to take her to see Elvis in concert, and he enjoyed it so much, he took her again. It was something they bonded over. 

My Dad never did cotton to the Beatles.

attribution below

I'm not sure if my older brothers hadn't been fans that I would have been in the Beatles camp. I grew up hearing their music over and over, to the point where I learned most of their songs by heart. (Although, admittedly, I still struggle a bit with I Am the Walrus. "Elementary penguin singing Hare Krishna," indeed.) So much of the music is tied to a time and place that's personal, so I guess I understand why today's youngsters don't get it. Much like I find a lot of modern music to be meh.

So, what do you all think? Elvis or the Beatles? No need to give a reason, just cast your vote. 

There's no wrong answer – unless you say "neither one."  

Photo attributions: Elvis, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons. Beatles Arrive at JFK Airport: United Press International, photographer unknown, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

An Ounce of Prevention

They say that youth is wasted on the young, and boy, howdy, is that true, especially if you've enjoyed good health most of your life.

Old-timey x-ray, public domain photo

This year, I reached Medicare Age, and it was like a timer went off.

Ding! Knee/hip replacement is in your future.

Ding! You've had some significant bone loss, you're heading for osteoporosis. Time to up the calcium and Vitamin D.

Ding! Start taking these eyedrops every night so you don't lose your vision (hopefully).

Of course, I'd already been through the colonoscopy thing a couple of times. Undetected polyps can turn cancerous. Mine were removed before that could happen. 

And there was that iffy mammogram years ago that turned out to be nothing.

So, why am I sharing my medical history with y'all? 

Just to remind everyone of the importance of early detection. Most insurance plans cover preventive procedures. (Although the bone scan wasn't covered by my insurance, may they rot for their misplaced frugality.) 

So, if you're due for a procedure, suck it up and swallow the solution, submit to being squeezed, or let the scanner do its thing. This is more important than anything in a busy schedule.

Okay, I'm getting off my soapbox. You may now resume your normal programming!

Chance Encounters

I've always had an active imagination. As a child, I played with my two invisible friends, Becky and Roger. I've no idea where I conjured up their names. But we had some great times together, just the three of us.

I suppose it's my imagination that also feels compelled to make up stories in my head when I chance upon something out of the ordinary. Like Daisy Duck, sitting on a bench in the MetroParks, trying to look nonchalant. 

She could be striking a pose. Or maybe she was dancing with Donald (where did he get off to?) Or perhaps that last cup of coffee was a bit much, and she's just off to the loo. I can certainly relate to that.

I paused to take her photo. She didn't seem to mind the attention. I figure I'm not the only one who wondered how she'd gotten there and if anyone would be back to retrieve her.

I'm not sure what the park's policy is on loitering, but given she's a duck, the rangers will probably give her a pass. 

I hope she finds a new place to hang out before winter arrives. 

Her dress doesn't look all that warm.

Sweet Mystery of Life

If you've seen Young Frankenstein, you no doubt remember the line that was sung by both Madeline Kahn and Teri Garr. 

To whit, "Oh. sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you!" 

If you're familiar with the reference, you may be tittering right about now. But I have a completely innocent reason for proclaiming these words.

On a recent trip to the thrift store, I was perusing the puzzles and games section, when what did I stumble across but a vision...a game I coveted during my preteen years. Could it be, yes, it was.

Mystery Date!

I put back the jigsaw puzzles I had eyed only moments before and nabbed my prize. A handwritten note on the top of the battered box said, "new inside." I had to make it mine.

Fast forward an hour or two, and there I was, sitting on my couch, the box open, and, indeed, it looked like the game had never been played. The game pieces hadn't been punched out of their cardboard frame, all the cards were there (I counted them twice), and the door worked (I tested it to make sure all of the guys appeared). The inside of the box said it was the original game, copyright 1965. 

Oh happy day. At last, the game was mine. All mine. I gazed at it lovingly and sighed.

But, alas, I'm not 10 years old anymore, and the novelty of owning this treasure vanished, much like my youth. Poof.

So now I am wondering, what does one do with such a relic? Do I find a vintage game store to sell it to? Do I keep it hoping for granddaughters who will play the game with me someday?

More likely, I'll store it in the closet beside my Barbie Queen of the Prom game. I doubt that future generations will give a toss about it. I'll probably just elicit something like, "Poor you, such a pathetic childhood you must have had to want this silly game."

Fortunately, there are one or two of you out there who understand. Who remember the thrill of finding the desired boyfriend behind the door. 

If any of you would like the game, you know how to reach me. 

My door is always open.