Ai, Ai, Ai

 "What Beatles' album is that?," puzzled Mr. Ginley. 

Actual AI rendering

He was watching a YouTube video that was flashing "nostalgic" images from bygone days. This particular one was allegedly of a girl shopping for albums in a record store in the 1970s.

"He was trying to read out the random letters (or sorta-looked-like-letters) on the album cover.

After carefully examining, the photo, I said, "Oh that's just AI's version of a record. AI can't spell."

He raged a bit and went on to the next photo. 

I knew it was likely that if one of the photos was a fake, there were probably others. The girls in these photos are often "hot," as he observed, which is a clue that they're not real. It's easy to see this is someone's fantasy of how girls looked. And sure, in real life, some of them were hot, but most were average looking. They weren't all thin, long-haired blonds. But I didn't want to burst Mr. Ginley's bubble. (Although I probably have now, oops.)

I'm close to walking away from Facebook. I've been bombarded with fake images. There are blank-eyed pets, cats positioned in improbable poses, and scenery that's clearly come out of someone's AI imaginings. 

Then there are the neighborhood groups. They can be helpful when something big is going down, but they can also be gossip mills of murky misinformation. 

In other words, you can't believe anything you see on FB unless you confirm with with a reliable source. And we all know how few reliable sources there are on the internet.

Meanwhile, I'm not seeing posts from the people whose posts I want to see. Which was the original intent of FB. 

So, while I did enjoy some of the "from my window" shots and funny pet stuff, I'm going to cut way back on many of the groups I belong to. I'll still follow my puzzle group. And I'll stay connected to my high school alumni page. Out of necessity, I'll hang onto my neighborhood group for now. But I'm going to drop out of a bunch of the others. And I'm going to be careful not to "like" anything outside of my circle.

And thus, my world will shrink, just a bit. And maybe I can retain a little of my sanity. And free up my time for more enjoyable pursuits.

Like puzzling and sewing. 

And Hallmark movies. Not quite ready to give up on this guilty pleasure yet.

Off the Clock

It's been a rough couple of weeks work-wise, and I've been writing my big fat you-know-what off.

In the interest of saving what little of my sanity remains, I'm taking the day off to attend the once-a-year holiday party with my family.

I'll be doing a special-edition Christmas letter on my next off day, which is Christmas Eve.

See youse then!

Photo attribution: Bart Everson, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Christmas Is for the Birds

"Did you know the 12 Days of Christmas are actually the days after Christmas?," my encyclopedic husband asked me just the other day. 

I suppose I'd heard that, but I didn't think much about it. I murmured something as we drove along. He took this as encouragement to continue.

"I think it's supposed to be the days between Christmas and the Epiphany." 

"Yes, that would make sense," I replied. I thought the topic was closed, but some time later, he took it up again.

 "Just what are you supposed to do with a partridge in a pear tree?," queried Mr. Ginley.

"Well, we have a little room in the backyard," says me. "I suppose we could plant the pear tree there."

"Not the tree, the partridge. Do they fly? Wouldn't the neighbors report us?," he continued.

(As it turns out, some partridges fly, but they'd rather run or walk.)

"I imagine we'd roast it for dinner." Problem solved. 

"And what are calling birds," my inquisitive spouse persisted. What's with all the the birds, anyway?" 

All good questions, I suppose. What makes a French hen special? Does it cluck "ooh la la?" Turns out, it's just a fancy egg-layer. A chicken by any other name. A turtle dove is a British pigeon, which was tasty fare in the Middle Ages. 

"Calling birds" was a poorly translated version of "colly birds" – colly meaning black. So blackbirds. Which do sing, I suppose, but they aren't canaries or anything. 

Blackbirds weren't generally dinner fare, but, like the nursery rhyme "Sing a Song of Six Pence" chronicled, they were shoved into a pie crust which was cut open at the dinner table. The live birds would create mayhem, and the guests were allegedly amused. It's all fun and games unless you're the maid, who got her nose pecked off.

But I digress. 

Geese-a-laying and swans-a-swimming are pretty straightforward. As to the practicality of these gifts, again, I'm pretty sure the neighbors would call the local constabulary on us. Geese are pooping machines, as we all know, causing a mess wherever they go. And there's no place to go a-swimming for swans, so that's one gift that would be going back.

In an odd twist, the song transitions from birds to humans, pausing only to croon "five gold(en) rings." 

Inexplicably, the order changes from version to version. In my head, I hear:

12 Lords-a-Leaping

11 Ladies Dancing

10 Pipers Piping

9 Drummers Drumming

8 Maids-a-Milking

...whilst others have given the order as: 

12 Drummers Drumming

11 Pipers Piping

10 Lords a-Leaping

9 Ladies Dancing

8 Maids a-Milking

In any case, one wonders how these gifts would be delivered. Do they arrive in a bus? Do the performers get paid scale? Do the maids bring their own cows?

Oh well. I'm unlikely to ever receive any of these gifts, anyhow. 

And for that, I count my blessings.

Photo attribution: Title page from the first known publication of "The 12 days of Christmas" in 1780

Imagine That

As I was skimming through my Facebook page this week, reviewing posts from friends and people trying to sell me stuff, I began to wonder what my Mom would have thought of social media.

Taking it a step further, if this technology had been available in her day, what sort of things would she have posted? Not that she had the time for such nonsense, given that she had six offspring and a household to manage. 

But just supposing she was able to, what would her posts have been about?

I was intrigued, so I decided to come up with some for her:

Made dinner as usual tonight. We had pork chops, mashed potatoes and green beans. Had to watch to make sure no one took more than one pork chop or one scoop of potatoes. Don't have to worry about them overdoing it on the green beans, LOL. 

Took Barbie to the grocery store with me today. She was a good helper. Pretty soon she'll be starting kindergarten. I wonder how she'll take it when the new baby comes along. I'm sure she'll love him (or her). 

OMG, Gary and his band decided to practice at our house. In the smallest bedroom. Poor Tony was gritting his teeth the whole time. They finally called it quits. I think this is going to be a one-off.

Went to Lima this past weekend, and SOMEONE left the top off the cage and one of the gerbils got out. We couldn't find him (her?) for a day or so. Then Barbie sat down on the bed and felt something moving around. The little bugger got in between the sheet and the mattress and chewed a hole in the mattress. I warned the kids not to tell their Dad. He never reads my FB page, so I think I'm safe.

Had a nice visit with Mother. Tony helped her put up the storm windows and do some work around the place. I know she drives him crazy sometimes, but thankfully, he's a good sport about it. We played the usual card games, and she had her country music shows playing in the background. Her Saturday night routine. Not a big fan of Pop Goes the Country. 

We decided to put up paneling between the kitchen and living room. Told the kids to clear out for the day. Barbie came home a little too soon and went right back out again. We all know how home improvement projects go in this house. 

Took the older kids to mass this morning. Barbie and Paul stayed home with Tony. (He gets up and goes to early mass by himself.) They love it when he plays Mitch Miller for them.

Put up the Christmas decorations today while the kids were at school. I filled the glass bowl with ribbon candy (the kind the kids won't eat unless they're desperate, yes, that's on purpose). It looks so festive in the house. Tony went and got a tree, and the kids will decorate it this weekend after he gets it in the holder and puts the lights on it. I love this time of year!

Getting Crafty

I grew up in an era when girls were trained from birth to do girly things.

Here Comes the Pitch

In junior high school, we were required to take home economics classes, which included cooking and sewing. No wood shop classes for the ladies. While my brothers learned to be handy with tools, I was being taught how to make a mean wrap-around skirt, a skill, I might add, which I've never used again.

Yes, it's good to know how to sew and bake cookies, and I've made use of these talents over the years. But I would have been a whole lot happier if I'd learned how to wield a saw as well as a sewing machine or Mixmaster. 

I generally take my homemaker skills for granted, but every now and again, I realize that I know more than I thought I knew.

Case in point...Mr. Ginley and I were strolling through our local craft store the other day, and I was constantly fielding questions like "What is this?" and "How does this work?"

But, it was a fun romp through the craft aisles, nonetheless. And these days, we get our entertainment however we can.

"Mebs"

Lost and Found on Thanksgiving

With just the two of us on Thanksgiving, things are pretty laid back. 

This holiday, like most others, is about the food. 

We don't follow any sort of traditions here. Turkey is a non-starter. And we just didn't feel like ham this year. So after discussing the options with Mr. Ginley, we landed on beef stew.

So, first thing this morning, I trotted downstairs and got things started. Which is to say, I threw the beef, water, and some seasonings in the crock pot. The potatoes, carrots, and mushrooms will join the party a little later.

Then I moved on to the cranberry sauce, and checked that off my list. On to the pumpkin pie. But first, my second cup of coffee. While I sipped, I began going through my recipe file to find my mom's recipe. It's not radical or anything, but I like the combination of spices she uses, as opposed to what the recipe on the back of the can calls for.

Out came my recipe file. No pumpkin pie recipe.

Maybe it's in the old file? Nope.

Defeated, I picked up the can of pumpkin and looked at the ingredients list. Not optimal, but I'd have to make do. 

I looked up and implored my Mom. I know she can hear me, I feel it in my heart. 

"Mama, what in heaven's name did I do with the pumpkin pie recipe?"

There was no immediate reply, but something prompted me to look on top of the microwave. Which made absolutely no sense, because I hadn't made a pumpkin pie in over a year. Why would the recipe be there? Why wouldn't I have put it away months ago.

Well, guess what? There it was. 

I stood there in the stillness of of the kitchen, silent but for the ticking of the old electric clock that hangs over the archway to the nook. I looked up and gave a nod to Mom. A tear was forming in the corner of my eye. 

"Thanks," I said. "But you couldn't have told me half an hour ago before I tore my recipe file apart looking for this?"

Fortunately, she gets me. I could feel her roll her eyes.

Love you, Mama. So thankful for my wonderful parents and the memories of Thanksgivings past.

Hope y'all have a great day, too!

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.

ISO Good News

I'm exhausted from all the awful stories that have surfaced in the news. 

False allegations in Springfield, Ohio, about a neighbor eating Anna Kilgore's cat. (No, it didn't happen, "Miss Sassy" was hiding in the basement the entire time.)

Political ads spouting lie after lie – like the ones about Sherrod Brown, which have been proven false but still flood the airwaves. They're insidious because not only are they patently untrue, they prey on people's fears that those who are different from themselves are a threat. (And yet, the two attempts on Trump's life have been by white, male, Republicans. Go figure.)

Well, there goes my blood pressure.

I'm going to climb out of the rabbit hole of mayhem and instead share a story I read in The Plain Dealer this morning – originally published in The Washington Post – because, don't we all need to be reminded there are good folks out there?

The story is about Raheem Cooper, a UPS driver in Valdosta, Georgia, who was on his route when he saw an older woman sprawled on the ground in front of her house, groceries strewn every which way. He grabbed a bottle of water to cool her down (it was stinkin' hot in Georgia in August), called 911, and waited with her until help arrived. 

The woman, Marie Coble, 78, suffered bleeding in the brain, and would likely have died in her driveway if Mr. Cooper hadn't spotted her.

He left a note with her that had his contact information in case she needed it. Her granddaughter found the note and got in touch with Raheem, who asked if he could visit her. When he came into her hospital room, Mrs. Coble recognized her rescuer, sat up, and gave him a hug.

Since then, he's visited her several times, and the two have become fast friends. When he heard that Marie had to have a second surgery, Raheem set up a GoFundMe account, and captured the attention of a local news station. He's raised $9,730 so far. 

I must say, this story gave me a lift this morning, and I hope it does for you, too. 

Enjoy your Saturday, and hug 'em if you've got 'em.

P.S. In case you're not hip to this one, ISO = In Search Of. You may associate it with Leonard Nimoy. Or not. 

Photo attribution: Vijay Verma, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Setting a Record Straight

If there's one thing writers hate, it's when their work is attributed to someone else.

"Beauty, Thinking About Getting Older"*

Coming from an advertising background where none of your words are your own, I understand the frustration of others taking credit for your work. However, that's to be expected in the corporate world.

But it should not happen to personal writing. Unfortunately, in the age of the internet, we all know how easy it is to spread falsehoods and for them to be gobbled up and regurgitated over and over again.

Sometimes this happens innocently, as when a celebrity quotes a favorite poem, and it's attributed to them rather than to the person who penned it.

While I can't write every wrong (see what I did there), I can set the record straight on a quote I came across recently. It's a poem attributed to Judi Dench that was actually written by Donna Ashworth. I love the poem, it strikes a chord with me, particularly at this point in my life. 

So, without further ado, here's the Donna Ashworth poem (British spelling left intact):

Don't Prioritise Your Looks

Don’t prioritise your looks my friend, as they won’t last the journey.

Your sense of humour though, will only get better with age.

Your intuition will grow and expand like a majestic cloak of wisdom.

Your ability to choose your battles, will be fine-tuned to perfection.

Your capacity for stillness, for living in the moment, will blossom.

Your desire to live each and every moment will transcend all other wants.

Your instinct for knowing what (and who) is worth your time, will grow and flourish like ivy on a castle wall.

Don’t prioritise your looks my friend,

they will change forevermore, that pursuit is one of much sadness and disappointment.

Prioritise the uniqueness that makes you you, and the invisible magnet that draws in other like-minded souls to dance in your orbit.

These are the things which will only get better.

*Photo Attribution: Till Krech from Berlin, Germany, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons. The fountain was designed by Hugo Hagen, 1871 

The Chair of Shame

Don't get me wrong, working from home is wonderful.

There are plenty of advantages. I don't have to drive 30 miles to the office, make nice with coworkers, or pack a lunch. And, perhaps best of all, I can work in my pajama bottoms.

The downside is that occasionally, I need to go to the office for one reason or another. This coming Monday is one of those times. 

"I'd better try on my dress pants," I said to Mr. Ginley. "I've put on a little weight, so I need to make sure something fits."

Add one more downside to working from home. 

All of which means we'll be heading to Kohl's to find a pair of work pants that won't make me look like a stuffed sausage. And because I'm dragging Mr. with me, he will need to prepare for his stint in The Chair of Shame.

I recently alluded to this when talking to my brother-in-law, John, a few weeks ago. 

"What is The Chair of Shame?" he wanted to know.

It's the chair outside the women's dressing room, where Mr. waits patiently, holding my purse, while I try on several items. I model them for him, and he provides a thumbs up/thumbs down to each article of clothing.

He's pretty good at this, commenting things like, "That works" or "Makes your butt look big" or simply "Nope, not gonna happen."

Truly, he does not mind doing this, but he does draw disapproving looks from other shoppers, who eye the old guy in the chair holding a purse as being henpecked, having cognitive issues, or being a pervert. 

Since it's been quite some time since I shopped for nice clothes, I suggested Mr. Ginley prepare for our shopping trip. As part of the warm-up, he:

• Assumed the Position: We recreated the scene in our dining room (see photo).
• Chose the Look: Arranged his facial expression to elicit sympathy rather than fear/disgust from other shoppers.
• Practiced Quipping: Chose some snappy comebacks to raised eyebrows such as, "I'm waiting for my wife" or "Good day to you, madam," or simply calling out, "How are you doing in there, honey?"

Things are going quite well, and we discovered that, like riding a bike, sitting in The Chair of Shame is a talent that comes right back to you.

No need to tell him I'm shopping for underwear today, too. 

P.S. Alas, no chair of shame. Only a wall of mortification:

 

Playing With Words

When Wordle hit the puzzle scene several years ago, I swore I was never going to engage. 

Kees Swart, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Well, so much for that declaration.

While I won't go so far as to post my results on Facebook (because they're pretty dismal, honestly), I now attempt to solve it every morning. I don't know why. There's not a lot of strategy involved. Mostly, you're trying to guess what word is in someone's head. The word is selected from a list of about 2,500 common 5-letter words.

Here's how it works. You begin with five empty boxes, one for each letter. You get six tries to guess the word. So you type in the first five letters. (There's some strategy on this, like typing a word with three vowels – vowels are key.) If you have the right letter in the correct spot, it will turn green. If you have a letter that's in the word but you've slotted it in the wrong place, it will turn yellow. If the letter ain't there at all, the space turns black. Below the puzzle, it shows an alphabetic listing of all the letters so you can see your progress.

Most of the time, I can guess correctly before I run out tries. There's a screen that shows your statistics. I've only guessed the word right on the first try one time. Mostly, it takes me four or five tries. The stats don't give you a failure rate, which is nice, I guess. It keeps me coming back.

Just to note, I didn't just start Wordle one day out of the blue. It was included in a handy-dandy app the New York Times has for all their puzzles. A sort of one-stop-shopping for word nerds with nine interactive games:

1. I got hooked on Spelling Bee, where you make words out of a set of seven letters.
2. Connections is a diabolical word association game where you have to figure out what's going on the game-maker's mind. (I'm really bad at it). 
3. There's the crossword (which I won't do in the app, it's a bit much)
4. I do partake of the mini crossword. 
5. Strands is a word search of sorts. 
6. Letter Boxed connects letters to make words. 
7. Sudoku is there, but it's not my thing. 
8. Tiles describes itself as a game where you "match motifs." I think it was created by someone on acid.

I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time playing these silly games. It's really cutting into my Facebook time.

Which, come to think of it, may not be a bad thing, after all.

In Tune With the Past

Given the current state of the world, there are mornings when I simply delete my New York Times Newsletter. I can't always face the insanity and mayhem that have come to define the cultural climate in this country.

However, weekend topics tend toward the more frivolous, so I opened today's newsletter and read on.

The lead story was about music as the playlist of your life. I was intrigued.

The gist is that you create a playlist for a particular time period, a season, perhaps, like Summer of 2024. It isn't necessarily current tunes. It can be music you've rediscovered, for example. Songs that you'd long forgotten about and played over and over as you were working or hobbying or driving around town.

I can certainly relate to this idea. There are songs that define certain times in my life. The Beatles carried me through my early years. Carole King's Tapestry has popped up again and again as I've struggled with life. Graham Parker, Dave Edmunds, and David Bowie are some of Mr. Ginley's favorites artists, and their music set a "when we started dating" watermark in my life. There's music from old loves and painful partings. Tunes that even now can have me tearing up or laughing aloud. 

It's funny how music can evoke so many emotions. 

So, maybe that's a good project for me to think about. Sorting and categorizing the music that helped me get through. 

More likely, I'll just do what I've always done – pull out random musical selections, and let them carry me back to a lost time and place.

Obscure References

One of the many things I hate about aging is that youngsters don't understand my references.

Brother Paul, all set to see the USA

Of course, they can always google it, but I suspect most will just shrug off my odd phrases and chalk it up to my being an old quirky wingnut.

Which is not entirely off-base. 

But I digress.

Here's an example. The other day, I was writing about Chevrolets for work. I decided to try and incorporate the phrase, "See the USA in a Chevrolet," but I didn't want to take credit for this snappy slogan, which was penned in the 1950s and was used for decades. I left it in with an aside, but I have a feeling it won't make it through the editing process. Sometimes, I just can't resist.

I know that getting odd references isn't just an aging thing. Musicians, for example, have been misunderstood again and again (as illustrated in my blog last week – yes, this is a shameless attempt to get you to go back and read it if you haven't already).

Mr. Ginley was reading a book about rock songs, and he stumbled across AC/DC's Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap. There has been a fair amount of speculations as to the impetus for this tune, but the truth is much better than anyone could have imagined. However, it's only really funny if you're familiar with Beany and Cecil. The three main characters were a boy named Beany, a "seasick sea serpent" named Cecil, and Dishonest John (DJ), the antagonist, fashioned after classic black hatted villains. The show ran for a few years in the early 1960s and, much like Rocky and Bullwinkle, was rife with puns. 

DJ had a business card. It read, "Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap. Holidays, Sundays, and Special Rates." Which is where AC/DC got the idea for the song. Feel free to share this bit to impress family and friends.

And I can still recall the hoo-hah caused by Don McLean's American Pie. I was one of those who listened to the song over and over to discern what it meant. The tune is really long – I had the 45 single, and it was on two sides. My mom, who quickly grew sick of the whole matter, saw Don McLean on a talk show saying the song didn't mean anything, and she told me I should give it a rest. Critics and fans analyzed the lyrics ad nauseam until they'd broken it down. Eventually, Don McLean relented, and fifty years later, the song was the subject of a documentary, The Day the Music Died. McLean explained the song is biographical and chronicles the music social scene of the 1960s, starting with the 1959 plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J.P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson. 

Another amusing rock music reference which is less obscure is the origin of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker's band name. Steely Dan is a steam-powered dildo featured in William S. Burroughs' book, Naked Lunch. In all likelihood, it was before the battery-operated kind and was likely a plug-in. (Sorry, I could not resist.)

Of course, there are many other such examples of sly asides, inside jokes, and hidden meanings, rock musicians being the cheeky sort they are. You probably know of several yourself. Please share.

In the meantime, I'll keep on working Eight Days a Week – by the way, did you know Ringo got the title from his chauffeur? 

I just can't help myself.