Tricky Memories

Aside from my childhood, Halloween has never been a big deal for me. 

You bet your life it's me

In high school, I did dress up as Groucho Marx. That was pretty fun. I had a Barbie theme going during my former employment. (Retired Malibu Barbie and Moroccan Barbie.) But mostly, I left the creative costuming to others. (A nod here to Stephanie Petroff, who had some of the best homemade costumes ever.)

As far as Halloween parties go, they've never been a big thing for me. 

There are only two memorable soirées that come to mind.

The first was hosted by Mr. Ginley and me. This was our only foray into entertaining on All Hallow's Eve.  We were living in our apartment in Virginia, and it was a last-minute thing. We extended verbal invitations, bought some snacks and waited for folks to show up.

And waited. And waited some more.

The doorbell rang. Huzzah! It was my friend, Judie, a co-worker at Kay Jewelers. Being a designer, as well as a wacky funster, she was the Lucy to my Ethel. That night, she was a bee.

She was also the solo attendee. We had a lovely time in spite of the small gathering and it gave us something to laugh about in years to come.

Undeniably, the most memorable Halloween party took place in 1981 or 1982. 

I was dressed as an exotic dancer, complete with a red one-piece leotard, fishnet stockings, a black boa around my neck and tassels strategically placed. (And yes, by bouncing up and down on my toes and swinging my hips, I could make them twirl.)

The party took place at the home of Cheri, a JBR co-worker, and I was there with my then-husband. What made it memorable was the fact that my future boyfriend and future second husband (that would be Mr. Ginley) were also in attendance. Of course, I had no inkling of this at the time, but looking back, it was pretty spooky. 

Like all JBR parties, there was plenty of alcohol and playing footsie, etc.

Damir was there. Not sure if Sue S. was there. And Ellen threw up in the bushes. 

Good times, as they say.

These days, we're more likely to turn out the lights and spend a quiet night watching a little television. It's bath night for me. And the Buckeyes are on, so we know what Mr. will be doing.

Hopefully, everyone will have a safe and healthy Halloween in these days of COVID.

Save a Milky Way for me!

Good Grief

"In my neighborhood, if you gave a kid a rock for trick-or-treat, it would go through your window."

"If some girl pulled the football away from me, it would be the last thing she'd ever do."

"What's up with the dancing? The one stupid kid is just shrugging his shoulders, clicking his heels and moving his head from side to side."

"Why would you bring home a dead Christmas tree and expect your friends to tell you how brilliant you were?"

"Who names their kid 'Linus'?"

Yes, it was Mr. Ginley expressing these sentiments, in response to my comment that the Peanuts holiday specials aren't airing on local TV channels but only watchable on Apple TV. 

Personally, I enjoy the Peanuts Christmas special. It brings back happy memories of watching the holiday specials with my siblings each year. But I do believe the Peanuts gang jumped the shark when they expanded into other holidays like Thanksgiving and Easter. 

And the whole Great Pumpkin thing got weird fast. It made me wonder if Charles Schultz questioned his belief in the Almighty. (Did he ask the Big Guy for something and wait and wait for it, only to get no reply at all?)

Mr. Ginley did concede that Vince Guaraldi's soundtrack was a high point in the Christmas special.  We agreed on something, at least.

But I know again this year, A Charlie Brown Christmas will be a solo event for me. 

And I'm perfectly okay viewing it without the benefit of the resident critic's running commentary.

Toothsome Kitty

"Maggie is expecting to get a gold tooth when she has her dental work done," Mr. Ginley opined this week.

"Tell her not to hold her breath," I replied.  "Just having the three bad teeth taken out is going to cost an arm and a leg."

Mr. Ginley thought about this. "Aren't they going to put in a bridge or false teeth or anything?"

"Nope. She'll have to use her remaining teeth or gum her food from here on out," I stated.

As it turned out, our beloved Maggie, like a number of her feline compatriots, has bad teeth. We suspected as much from her ever-worsening breath, and most recently, the sensitivity around her mouth.

The vet confirmed this was the case when I took her in. We were encouraged to purchase the pet insurance, as we could then pay over time and would be covered in case any other defects in workmanship were to appear.

Fortunately, Maggie/Magwell/Maggie Lou(is) was only mildly traumatized by her visit to the vet. In this age of Covid, I had to wait in the parking lot while they escorted her inside, did the exam, then brought her back at the end.

It also meant I was able to sit in the comfort and convenience of my vehicle as they listed all of the charges for her impending treatment.

Yes, we both agreed, it's a good thing she's so darned cute. How can you look at that face and tell her to suck it up because things are tight right now?

And yes, of course she snuggles up under my chin, and my heart melts and, well, anyone with a furry (or feathered) family member knows exactly what I'm talking about.

So, no, there aren't any gold teeth in Maggie's future. No New York brim.

No matter how many times Mr. Ginley sings the ZZ Top song, alas, Maggie will be neither "bad" or "nationwide."

Electric Boots, a Mohair Suit

©2002 Mercury Music Limited

I was sailing down the freeway in my automobile last week, singing to Elton John's classic, Benny and the Jets.

Well, okay, maybe I didn't get all the words just right. Perhaps it's me, but I've never been able to make out all of Sir Elton's words. Or most of them. In fact, in the spirit of true confession, mostly I was singing the refrain and mumbling through the rest. 

For once, it wasn't because I was intentionally mangling the lyrics, like someone else I won't mention. Or will (Mr. Ginley). I do know it's "electric BOOTS."

Being of the sort who believes in advanced education, I went to my friend the Google to discover, after all these years, the actual lyrics to the song.

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," I said to the cat. "I was nowhere near."

Oh well. I consoled myself with the fact no one was stuck in the car with me and my off-key renderings of the timeless tune.

And it still felt good to do a duet with Sir Elton.

Even if I am no Kiki Dee.

Pioneer Spirit, TV Style

I'm sure it comes as no surprise to any frequent visitor to this page that I possess a fascination with women pioneers.

I'm not talking about those who hoisted up their skirts and headed west on wagons and horseback with children strapped to their hip, although these women are admirable, indeed.

But rather pioneers of new industries, those who saw an opportunity and jumped in with both feet.

I've gushed over Alice Guy-Blaché, for example, the premier French female pioneer filmmaker.  And Hedy Lamarr, who invented the technology that would be used in cell phones.

This week, our country lost another pioneer, at the impressive age of 106. 

Television was a fledgling industry in 1953 when Lillian Brown volunteered to produce an educational program in Arlington, Virginia. She also hosted a children's educational series, which was filmed in the same studio as Face the Nation. 

The producers of the popular political news program noticed that guests on Brown's show wore make-up -- even the men. They approached her to ask if she'd be willing to touch up the guests on their show. For which they would pay her $19. 

She agreed. Her first subject was Sam Rayburn, whose bald spot was a positive beacon under the stage lighting, as Brown saw by looking at the monitors. Lillian added a touch of powder that made all the difference. 

While she was not trained as a cosmetologist, Brown discovered she had a knack for make-up artistry, and continued to work for Face the Nation, even as, in 1956, she became the director of radio and television for George Washington University, where she created one of the first television courses for credit.  

Dwight Eisenhower was the first president to enjoy the benefits of Brown's make-up tools. John Kennedy sat in her chair, first as a senator. Kennedy was himself a pioneer in grasping the importance of how to present oneself on the small screen. He wanted to understand every detail of the process, from camera lenses to lighting to makeup.

Brown also assisted first ladies in their TV appearances, perhaps most famously for Jacqueline Kennedy for her White House tour in 1962.

Not limiting herself to make-up, Brown was also quick to jump in to correct wardrobe faux pas. A screamy tie, for example. Or an unsightly bit of leg when the gentleman crossed his legs. She kept such accessories as ties and knee-high black socks in her bag of tricks.

In all, Ms. Brown served nine presidents. Including Richard Nixon. One of her biggest challenges was preparing him for his resignation speech. She found Nixon a sobbing mess when she arrived. Nothing she said could console him. Any makeup she applied was washed away.

Then she had a brainstorm, recalling a story about a Christmas tree, the President's dog and getting locked in a bathroom by a secret service agent. That did the trick, Nixon laughed, and minutes before the broadcast, Brown was able to complete her task.

Brown once told The Times, “Unlike high-fashion makeup artists who want to make a person look as glamorous as possible, my goal is to make people look exactly like themselves.”

A native of Huntsville, Ohio, there was nothing to indicate where Lillian Brown's life would take her. She earned a two-year teaching degree and worked at a rural school for several years before moving to Cleveland, where she worked at a local department store. She also joined a women's orchestra, playing the violin.

In later life, she continued to teach in a variety of venues, and at the age of 75 published the first of many books. 

When she retired at age 95 from Georgetown University, where she taught a public-speaking course, the school begged her to stay.

A life well-lived by a woman who saw a need and filled it. 

And kept learning all her life.