That's How We Role Here

I wonder if we will ever get to the point where we can stop putting people into little boxes and slapping labels on them.

Facebook is rife with posts about this article or that article that makes sweeping statements about what women should do or men should do or parents should do.

I think, here at the Casa de Ginley, we not only broke the mold, we smashed it into itty bitty pieces.

My husband began our son's life as a stay-at-home dad. When were were discussing how our child would be raised, Mr. G. said he didn't want him to be raised in a day care setting. He would stay home and raise him. Many sacrifices were made, but I must say, our son turned out remarkably well.(So far. Don't screw it up, kid!)

We took a certain amount of flak for our decision, often from quarters we had not expected. But in the end, they had to admit, it was an arrangement that worked for us.

I knew things were a little topsy-turvy when my son, who was about five years old at the time, chided me for taking down the curtains to wash them. "That's man's work," he insisted. That's when I knew we were on to something.

So, what am I trying to say here? That this model works for every family? No. I'm just saying this is what worked for our family. And if someone had come to me and implied I was less of a mom for going off to work and leaving my husband and son to navigate domestic matters, I would have told them to piss off.

Which is why I don't feel I have the right to tell anyone else how they should be a family. If it works for you, great. Whether mom stays home or dad stays home or both parents work, or if there is only one parent who plays both roles, or if there are two moms or two dads in your family, it's all good. And even if your family doesn't include children, it's still a family.

Everybody has to find their own way in this life. And as short as our years on this rock are, they should be as happy as we can make them.

Do I sound a little preachy here? Oh, well, it happens sometimes. Since I'm on my high horse, I'll finish with this: Go give your family a hug. That's an order!

It Takes a Village...

Pam and I had lunch the other day. I love Pam, she's got a good heart, and she's a good friend. It reminded me of our shared history, which began at J.B. Robinson Jewelers.

I started at JBR in 1980 in the accounting department. I was the secretary (yes, secretary, not "Admin,") to the Controller. Later, I moved to Advertising, where I eventually ended up working for Pam. Which is where I stayed until the company was bought out by Kay Jewelers in 1986.

Larry J.B. Robinson, the Diamond Man, was at the helm. He took over the operation of a single store after his father's death and built the company into a respectable chain of jewelry stores. He espoused a philosophy of "customer first" long before it became a mantra. He believed in doing things the right way. He was a brilliant businessman, sometimes hard on sales staff, and somewhat quirky. He owned the radio airwaves for decades in Cleveland. There are still many folks who remember his catch phrases..."Are you engaged or thinking about becoming engaged?" and "You'll find a far larger, more valuable diamond for less than you'd expect to pay at J.B. Robinson Jewelers." And, of course, there were his buying trips to Antwerp, when he phoned in and recorded the calls for his radio spots.

J.B. Robinson Jewelers attracted a core of employees who were smart, dedicated, and bad ass. I hope I may count myself in this group. We worked hard, groused, and laughed a lot. Back in the day, we had to take yearly lie detector tests. The guy who administered the test would ask, "Did you ever falsify your time card so it didn't reflect the actual number of hours you worked?" We all said "Yes." When pressed, we would say it was common practice for us to punch out and continue working. He would roll his eyes and say, "Get out of here. What's wrong with you people?" We didn't tell our bosses we were doing this. It was an unspoken thing. The work had to get done. You did what you had to do.

Of course, working hard and playing hard go hand in hand. So, we get to the Village parties.

The Village was a hole-in-the-wall bar in Lakewood whose main attraction was its ability to host a sizable group of semi-rowdy 20-somethings who were looking for a way to unwind. There are many stories I'm not at liberty to discuss. Many of these I've heard from my husband, who started at JBR a few months before I did. The invitations were informal, usually a notice on the bulletin board in the lunch room. During the last year or so, I got to write the invites (Pam did the art).

A few of us got together some months ago (Sue, Damir, Frank, Tom, and Pat) and told stories about JBR. Most are familiar, some were new to me. I'm not sure what it was about the place. It was more than a job, it was a common cause. You did it the right way because if you didn't, you were screwing the people who were second in your heart only to your closest relatives.

Before there was "No I in Team" there was JBR. And there ain't been nothing like it since.

Fifty Years and Counting

There's been a lot of hooplah about yesterday's 50th anniversary of the Beatles' arrival on our shores.

The adults in the room, for the most part, were unimpressed with the four mop-topped lads. I have a vague recollection of my own family gathered around the TV set. I was only five at the time, so my memories are sketchy. But I know that my two teenage brothers were the driving force for Beatlemania in our house. After watching their performance, we were all fans, in varying degrees -- except for my Dad.

The first Beatles album I owned.

My father's music appreciation included Mitch Miller and Mantovani, with a side of Herb Alpert. He never did embrace rock and roll music. My mother, on the other hand, was open to new kinds of music. She liked a lot of the early Beatles stuff, but her enthusiasm waned when they got to the hard stuff.

My brothers were dia-hard fans all the way. They would go out and buy the latest Beatles album as soon after pressing as was possible. Then they would bring it home and play it. And play it. And play it. Which is probably why I can sing the lyrics to most of the Beatles songs. I consider it a blessing that my brothers didn't have headphones. My dad did not share my enthusiasm.

Many of the memories of my childhood are tied to Beatles music. Paperback Writer is associated with summer. I remember listening to Michele as I gazed at our Christmas tree. And, later on, when I had my own collection of Beatles albums, I remember being home alone and playing Revolution #9 and scaring the shit out of myself. I also remember seeing the movie Help when it first came out. We were at my grandmother's house, and my parents had dropped us off at the movie theater. My brother called to ask my mom if we could sit through it a second time. We did.

The Beatles were a balm to me, their music made personal in the memories I associated with it. I was not an outgoing child, I had an overactive imagination, and many times the Beatles felt like long-lost friends. Just listening to their music made me feel right somehow.

There were other musical groups I enjoyed. The Monkees diverted my affections for a time.
In school, my love of the Beatles was viewed as a little weird by my peers, who were into the Partridge Family. For a brief time I liked Bobby Sherman (he was dreamy in a dopey kind of way). But my go-to band was definitely The Beatles.

My sister, Diane, despaired of me ever growing out of my love for the Fab Four. At one point, she and my brother-in-law gave me a Bad Company album. It was good. I still have it. And my tastes have expanded significantly since then. I like hard rock, soft rock, a little bit (a very little bit) of country, some jazz, some classical, some New Age. I don't like rap in general, but there have been one or two pieces that I've found catchy. In general, I don't dismiss an entire genre of music because there's usually something there that I like.

But it always comes back to the first four.

Uma Thurman, as Mia in Pulp Fiction, tells Vincent (John Travolta), that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who like Elvis and those who like The Beatles. She said you can like both, but when it comes right down to it, there's no contest. Linda, my best friend, growing up, would choose Elvis every time.

In My Life, it's The Beatles. Ya, Ya, Ya!

The Clothes on My Back

I've never been much of a girly girl about make-up or clothes or accessories. At least, not always. There have been times in my life when, many pounds lighter and several years younger, I found joy in shopping for and trying on fetching new styles.

Not so much these days. Now comfort is key, and fashion is something I admire on younger women.

I hadn't realized how bad I'd gotten over the years until I saw an older Saturday Night Live "commercial" in which they poked fun at "Mom Jeans." And I'm sitting there thinking, "Now, those jeans look pretty good." It made me feel a little nauseous. I used to laugh at that skit, but this time, it made me uneasy. I started to take a mental tour of my wardrobe, and realized that my winter clothes consist of slacks and jeans, all with the word "relaxed" in their name and in a size that would have made my 23-year-old self weep. Then there are the oversize sweaters and tented t-shirts to cover an abundance of too-many-donuts syndrome.

Although my weight is certainly a factor, style is still a problem. If I did lose the weight, would I be any more stylish than I am now? Or would I just get smaller sizes of the same mom-style fashions I currently don?

The truth is, I just don't have the style sense -- or the the energy -- to become a fashionista at this stage of my life. I have friends in my age range who continue to carry it off beautifully (you know who you are, Pam). I, alas, am not so blessed.

Someday, maybe, when I shed the weight, I will reward myself by trolling the internet for the perfect ensembles to show off my new svelte self. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll wear clothes that make me look sophisticated, elegant, happening.

End of dream sequence.

In the meantime, I need to head over to the department store to pick up a couple pairs of pants for work. Time to don my blinders so I only have to see myself  one-way in the three-way mirror. And remind myself not to peek until all surfaces have been covered.

Wagons ho!