Shoop, Shoop

We were driving down the street last night when Mr. Ginley whooped.

Miss Swivel Hips*

"Hey, somebody back there was playing with a Hula Hoop!"

Boy, howdy, did that take me back.

It's hard to explain to someone not of our generation how cool the Hula Hoop was. My sisters and I each had one. I spent hours spinning it around my waist. Ah, those were the days. When I had a waist.

For the uninitiated, the Hula Hoop was a circular tube with some kind of magic inside that made a "shoop-shoop" sound as you wiggled your hips and tried to keep it aloft. You could do tricks with it, too. If you spun it on its side, you could get it to come back to you.

Seriously, this was cool stuff in the beforetimes.

Of course, these days, I'm sure the Hula Hoop would be looked upon with disdain, much like jump rope and Kick the Can and Red Light, Green Light and tag.

But once upon a time, it was a prized possession.

For years, I kept it in the basement here. I even tried to get my kid interested in it. No such luck. I don't remember who I gave it to, or if I threw it away. Once I had a baby and my waist went away, so did my ability to rock the Hoop.

Ah, well.

I'll just have to be content to hear the shoop-shoop sound in my dreams. 

 

*My Mom wrote the caption for this photo. 

Living in the Wild

It occurred to me recently that I'm the only one in my immediate family who doesn't garden.

I've been to everyone's home at some time, and my eyes have been treated to beautiful blooms and lush greens and, occasionally, vegetables to boot.

I, on the other hand, cringe to think what the former owners of our house would think if they could see how nature has run amok over just about every square inch of our property.

Yes, I cut the grass. But the original flowers that sprung up every year have sadly been choked out by overgrown shrubbery and weeds. 

The only good thing is that we have a pretty small yard, so the carnage goes only so far. But I can see the neighbors across the street, they of pristine lawns and impeccably trimmed hedges, shudder a little when they look this way.

Someday, you'll see me on the news: "Crazy old cat lady wields a chainsaw, goes postal on her shrubbery. Film at 11."

I suppose I should (and do) take some joy from seeing wildflowers in vivid colors poke their heads from the foliage. And you can just imagine my delight when I discovered something called "foraging." You go around your yard and pick a bunch of weeds and wildflowers and interesting greenery, then arrange them artfully in a vase. (Or place them in "forage foam," – yes it's a real thing). The only downside is you're supposed to identify the stuff you pick. I don't suppose "teeny yellow flowers" or "those big purple things" will cut it.

Oh, well.

On the plus side, my lilies of the valley have managed to survive nigh onto 30 years of neglect. They still come up next to the house every May. They're just so stinkin' cute, I have to take the time to pay them homage. Today, after mowing the lawn (it doesn't really qualify as "grass"), I paused to admire them and take a snapshot. 

It made me a little sad because they reminded me of my Mom. She of the original green  thumb who grew flowers and fresh produce with abandon. Tomorrow will be my 13th Mother's Day without her. And boy, howdy, is she missed.

I hope all you moms (including those of the 4-legged, furry or feathered variety), have a lovely Mother's Day. 

And if you're missing your Mom like I am, know that I'm sending you hugs. 

But alas, no flowers!

Happy Mother's Day, Momma

Puzzled

I swore I was never going to get sucked into the whole Wordle thing. 

Attribution below. Don't attempt unless you know Frisian.

Day after day, I'd see others posting their Wordle score on Facebook, and for years I resisted, certain it was a time-killer and I didn't have any of that to waste.

But, as usual, I was the latecomer to the feast, and here I am, digging hungrily into this new pastime. 

If it stopped there, it wouldn't be a big deal. But now I have the New York Times' puzzle app on my phone, and I'm a goner.

"How in the world did I get here?" you may wonder. 

I blame my subscription to the NYT newsletter. One day, at the bottom, it talked about a new game called "Strands." It's a word search but the words go every which way. Maybe I was bored that fateful day or whatever, but I decided to try it.

That was my undoing. I quickly got hooked, and decided to download the NYT puzzle app so I could do it every day.

Alas, the new word game isn't part of the app, as I discovered after downloading it to my phone. However, there are several other games, including Wordle, Connections, Letter Boxed, Tiles, Sudoko and a mini and maxi crosswords. To top it all off, there's the diabolical Spelling Bee, in which you try to make as many words as you can from a set of letters. 

While most of the games take only two or three minutes to do, the Spelling Bee is a real time suck. Mr. Ginley has growled at me over this repeatedly. 

"Are you playing that damn game again?" has become a refrain. Well, and sure, isn't he doing the crossword, Sudoko and anagram puzzles in the newspaper every day? (Okay, I do the Jumble and ScrabbleGram every day, too, but that's beside the point.)

I suppose all this puzzling is due to my being a word nerd, which can't be helped. We'll call it an occupational hazard.

And when I retire? 

I'll tell you it's keeping my brain going. As hobbies go, it's dirt cheap.

Just don't ask me to share my scores on Facebook!

Photo attribution: Kees Swart, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons. Fun fact: the name of this puzzle is Slangesiker puzel Wâldsang, or "Snaking Puzzle," as translated from Frisian, a nearly-defunct West Germanic language that's spoken spoken primarily in the northern Netherlands in the province of Friesland (Fryslân). Now, you know the rest of the story!

I Want a Lustron Home

When my Mom would say, "Your Uncle Jimmie and his family live in a metal house," I didn't realize the novelty at the time. In fact, I'd forgotten about it for years until my sister reminded me recently, and I had a sort of epiphany.

photo attribution below

Who lives in a metal house? And why? Was it just to put magnets on the walls or ceiling, like my Aunt Donna did? (Mr. Ginley would LOVE that, by the way. You'd understand if you saw our refrigerator.)

But I digress.

My curiosity sufficient piqued, I went to my friend, the Google and inquired. Here's the rest of the story.

Lustron was a Columbus, Ohio manufacturer in the late 1940s that came up with an ingenious idea for prefab homes. It was perfect timing, given the post-war building boom was in full swing and the demand for new homes was at an all-time high. 

Lustron homes were made of an enameled-steel design and could be assembled in 360 hours. (That's 15 days, I did the math for you). The houses had a solid steel frame and were built on a concrete foundation. Most didn't have a basement. Unlike their bricks-and-mortar counterparts, Lustron homes required almost no maintenance. The roof never needed to be replaced. No painting was necessary. All that was required was to hose the thing down every now and again to get the schmutz off the siding. 

Truly, the Lustron home was way ahead of its time. Like today's tiny houses, it was compact and functional. Everything was right there at your fingertips and there was built-in-storage for your stuff. 

About 2,500 Lustron homes were built before the company went kaput. They weren't able to pay back their start-up loans and were shut down.

Fortunately, there have been some folks who see the beauty and fabulous mid-Century vibe of these tidy little domiciles. 

The Ohio Historical Society has a video of a Lustron house that was moved from Virginia back to Columbus and is now a museum there. The YouTube video is definitely worth the 4+ minute watch.

Ohio Magazine did a more in-depth article about the Lustron house and the company that created it. 

And one ambitious soul made a Lustron home locator that shows where the remaining homes are situated. They cover a wide swath of the country, from the east coast to New Mexico. 

I'm thinking it's time for a road trip to the past! 

Photo attribution: BFDhD, CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Childhood Echoes

Sure, I'm a grown-ass woman, but the ethos of childhood are so deeply engrained, they continue to peck at me, like pigeons in the park.

Can you spot the First Holy Communicant in the bushes?

For instance, every time I throw away leftovers or fresh foods that have become inedible, I feel the tug of my mother's admonitions not to waste food. I hear the distant echoes of children starving in a foreign country calling out to me, shaming me. And although I realize my overeating and gaining another pound or two will surely not help those hungry youngsters, I still feel the twinge of guilt as I scrape aged foodstuffs into the garbage bin.

My parents weren't the only ones who shaped my childhood. There were also the flightless birds in their floor-length habits, their hair tucked neatly into wimples, with brows stern and rulers at the ready, waiting for the next transgression, which always came. 

I'm speaking, of course, of the the nuns. Masters of guilt instillation. God's warriors and every Catholic child's only hope of salvation. Always there to remind you that wearing a short skirt was a passport to hell. That God wouldn't cotton to boys with long hippie hair. And that playing keep-away on the playground was akin to dancing with the devil. 

My favorite was the nun who, when a boy was sitting on his hands one day, screamed at him to keep his hands on his desk. Clearly, nuns knew what was in the hearts and minds (and pants) of young boys.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, only as I near the brink of turning a milestone age, where the scales tip from "getting old" to "officially over the hill," I'm reflecting a lot on where I am, where I've been and what the foreseeable future holds. 

Will I become the alter cocker who begins every sentence with "when I was young..."? Will I try to keep up with the Gen XYZ'ers and pretend my body isn't slowly grinding to a halt like the Racing Horses ride at Cedar Point? Or will I simply stare the future in the eye and call out, "bring it on!"

And now I hear my Mom's favorite phrase, oft repeated and appropriate for any number of occasions.

"We'll see."

Dancing (or not) Under the Eclipse

Frankly, I was a little surprised by the response I got to one of my Facebook posts this past week.

photo credit below

It was on Monday, the day of the Solar Eclipse 2024, a day to be remembered forever – or at least until after everyone had posted their photos of the event. 

This is what I said in my post: Contrary to what "someone" said, I did NOT do a pagan dance during the eclipse.

I was being flip, of course, and the post was in response to Mr. Ginley (aka "someone") who sent a text to this effect to our son. I didn't think much about it, but then I started getting a response.

"Why not?" asked Dave, echoed by Sue and Dana.

Rachelle said she was very disappointed in me.

I started to think maybe I do need to loosen up a little. This idea was reinforced when I turned to my "Postcards From Spirit." Now I have to explain this concept. Fashioned like tarot cards, each has a message on it from your spirit guides. You shuffle the deck and pick one. 

Now you're thinking I'm a little wacky (or a lot wacky). Just bear with me.

This is the card I randomly chose: "Are you taking yourself and your problems too seriously?," it began. "Maybe fear of the future is weighing on you. We would like you to take a little break from all that and start having FUN." It suggested I get "loose, silly and goofy," go dancing or watch a comedy. Or touch base with someone who will remind me of "how ridiculous and delightfully giddy you can be."

Well, sure, and now you're saying, "Get over it, Barb, that could apply to anybody. And let's face it, how ridiculous and delightfully giddy have you ever been?"

It's all true, of course. I'm a worry wart from way back, and it's hard for me cut loose, and I certainly don't loosen in public. Which is why I wasn't dancing in my backyard with all the Seniors at the senior housing center watching the eclipse just across my back fence. Although that would certainly have given them something to talk about on their FB pages.

But I digress.

It got me to thinking, and so I made a point of taking a break from my work (in my home office, just me and the cat) and did a little chair dancing. I've been exploring different types of music, so I wasn't just boogying to the Beatles. There's a CD of French music and one with Calypso. And Michael Jackson's greatest hits. (Don't judge.)

It was a nice break, it made me happy and best of all, there were no witnesses.

Now it's your turn!

Photo credit: Paramount Pictures, CC BY 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

"I Want to Be Let Alone"

Greta Garbo is associated with the phrase, "I want to be alone" (or "vant" if you're saying it with the accent), but she told a close friend something a little different.

"I don't want to be 'left alone,' I want to be 'let alone.'"

That may seem like a pretty fine distinction, but oh, what difference a letter makes. 

I don't want to be left alone by friends and family, for example (not most of you, anyhow). But I do want to be let alone by those outside my circle.

I say this because I have a big birthday coming up later this year, and I've been flooded with reminders of same. In my mailbox, in my email and yes, even in my Facebook account, I keep getting ads for supplemental insurance. I've also received invitations for a free meal if I sit through an explanation of the screwed-up system that Medicare has become. Every insurance company on the planet, apparently, wants to be my carrier. 

And let's not forget the lovely brochures I've gotten from funeral parlors offering me affordable pre-payment plans.

Enough, all of you. 

The constant reminders of my age and impending decrepitude have begun to feel like a slab of cement pressing down on my chest, slowly crushing the life out of me. Which, if you think about it, is not in the insurance company's best interest. Their best interest being that I will live as long and healthily as possible so they don't have to pay up.

Just how persistent are these vultures, you may well wonder.

We're still getting ads addressed to my father-in-law. And he's been gone for well over 30 years. 

Maybe those smarty-pants don't know everything, after all. 

Photo attribution: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (work for hire), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

GOATS for Goats

In modern vernacular, GOAT stands for Greatest Of All Time. Recently, a small town in Utah called Stansbury Park,  got a shout-out for being GOATs for actual goats.

photo attribution below

The story, attributed to Cathy Free for the Washington Post, goes that Jose Garcia and his uncle Bartolo were hauling 50 bleaters from Minnesota to their dairy farm in California when they got caught in a massive snowstorm. The pair began to panic because the goats needed to be milked every 12 hours. If not, their udders would swell up and things would get mighty painful for them.  

After five hours of creep-and-beep, Jose was able to exit the freeway and head for a place where they could milk the goats. Fortune smiled on them when they pulled into the parking lot of Stansbury Park's Tractor Supply Company.

Assistant Manager Lisa Fernandez was closing up the store at 9 p.m. when she was approached by a frantic Jose, who asked if she'd ever milked a goat before.  

Startled, Lisa replied she hadn't, but she was up for it, and also enlisted the help of another store manager, who called employees to see if anyone else could assist. One of them did a post on the local Facebook page, and pretty soon 40 volunteers showed up in the 31-degree weather to milk the goats. When the sheriff pulled into the parking lot to find out what was going on, even he agreed to help. 

The game was on.

Ms. Fernandez gathered buckets and supplies from the store. Many of the volunteers brought their own containers so they could take the milk home. Unsurprisingly, most had never milked a goat before, but all were willing to learn. Jose quickly taught them the proper technique. 

By 11:15, all the goats had been relieved of their burden, and a very happy Jose and his uncle were able to complete the final leg of their journey to California.

So, why am I sharing a story about goat milking in Utah? Because I get so tired of the daily rag sharing stories of mischief and mayhem. It's refreshing to hear a story about real people helping real people. 

I'd like to think most of us are like those folks in Stansbury Park, Utah, not the trolls who pollute social media.

Maybe I'm delusion, but it's my delusion. 

And yes, if the opportunity presented itself, I like to think I'd pony up and milk a goat, too.

Photo attribution: Bernard Lens (II) (died 1725), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

For the Love of Splooting

"No, we're not getting a dog," Mr. Ginley said many moons ago. "I'm not a big fan of dogs. One cat. We can have ONE cat. That's it."

Galison puzzle, "The Corgi Museum" (1,000 pieces)

So it was written, so it shall be done. Which is why we've only ever had one furry four-legged creature wandering the vast Ginley estate. And it's always been of the feline variety.

While I'm okay with his decree, I still think about pooches from time to time, my pup of choice being the corgi. It's not because the Queen of England was partial to this particular breed, although that certainly does give them props. 

Corgis are just so stinkin' cute.

So when my friend, Ilona, got her corgi, I was thrilled to live vicariously through her adventures thanks to the sometimes-miracle that is Facebook. 

In the course of my stalking photos of corgis, I learned they're particularly good at splooting. Who knew that was a thing? It's when a dog lays on its stomach with its back legs splayed out. It's too adorable, although they do it because it's comfortable, not to amuse humans. Splooting is kind of like a person doing the child's pose in yoga. It's a good stretch. Apparently, it's also a canine move to find relief from heat in the summertime. So when you dog sploots, it's cool, no need for concern.

My love of corgis spilled over into puzzling territory this week, which is why they've been on my mind so much of late. When I saw the corgi puzzle at a local thrift store, I couldn't resist. Plus, the puzzle had never been done before and all the pieces were there, so huzzah!

It was such a joy to work on. Now I'll take it apart and share it at the library puzzle exchange so someone else can ooh and ahh over it.

Sure, and what's all the fuss about, you may wonder. I guess you could say it's a coping device. It keeps my spirits up as I avoid political ads, social media trolls and other depressing assaults on my sensibilities.

"Oh, look, he's so precious! Who's a good boy?"

Pondering Euphemisms

As a writer, I'm perhaps more sensitive to the words that were once commonplace but are now being replaced with euphemisms, presumably to lessen their impact.

aka a prostitute (attribution below)

For example, I hear the word "unhoused" a lot. Wait, do they mean "homeless"? Yes, they do. But "unhoused," doesn't sound so dire. Labeling someone as "homeless" taints them, apparently. In my opinion, however, saying someone is "unhoused" clouds the picture, doesn't it? Isn't it easier to ignore the plight of someone who's "unhoused" as opposed to "homeless"?

I've also read that "senior citizen" is becoming passé. It's now better to use the term "older adult" for someone who is 65 or over. (Mr. Ginley says he's not giving up his soon-to-be "senior citizen" status; he wants all the discounts.)

There are a gazillion other examples, too. Our friends in human resources, for example, have created a cottage industry inventing variations on "fired". I've heard the following. Note that in all cases, it's not "me" or "we" but "the company," a nameless, faceless entity:

• "You're being separated from the company."
• "The organization is downsizing."
• "The company is moving in a new direction."
• "The business is being restructured."
• "Your position is being eliminated."
• "You to step away from the organization."
• "You're being offboarded."

All of these are meant to soften the blow of being shit-canned, but they don't really. Even knowing you're not the only one getting the boot is cold comfort. And getting let go is something that stays with you, even as you move on to better things.

Bear in mind, I'm not condoning we use hurtful words or labels. Racial slurs and mean-spirited phrases are never acceptable. I was once schooled for unwittingly using the word "retarded" (referring to a process, not a person) because someone in the room had a sibling with mental challenges. You don't know what people's lives are like, and you don't get to decide what's going to send them to a bad place. In all things, be kind. If you're not sure, use a different word. There are plenty to choose from.

But I digress.

My point is, when we use jargon and flowery language to cover up topics we're uncomfortable with, we risk losing our humanity. The Vietnam War has been labeled a "conflict." Medical personnel refer to the deceased as "having a negative patient outcome." The poor are "economically disadvantaged." Those who lie are "truth-challenged." The people who stormed the Capitol were laughably labeled as "tourists." And, of course, the Nazis were masters of this technique, with phrases like "the final solution." 

Is it tricky to deliver hard truths? 

Sure. But shouldn't we always be transparent?

*Photo attribution: Turner, Snow Hill, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Coming of Age

I was never popular in school, but that's okay, because I never wanted to be.

If I could have gone through that part of my life invisible, I would have. My report card always said things like, "Barbara knows the answers but will not raiser her hand and participate." But I'd learned early on that the other kids didn't appreciate the smart ones. You were jeered at and picked on for volunteering the answers, so I kept my hand (and my head) down and became as invisible as I could possibly be.

Many of you will be surprised to hear this, given how outspoken I have become since those early days. While I'm still something of a lone wolf, I howl more now than I once did. Yet there's still a part of me who wishes others couldn't see me.

"Others," of course, being insurance companies. Thanks to the information age in which we live, marketers know that I'm approaching the age when Medicare becomes available to me. As that day nears, I've noticed there's a decided ramp-up in the amount of mail I get from insurance companies who want to help me navigate the tangled process.

"Come have coffee with us, and we'll explain how it works," one of their pitches goes. It's much like those timeshare offers we used to get. (Sit through the presentation, and you'll get a free TV. No strings attached.) Thanks, but I can get my coffee at home without feeling pressured to sign up for your Medicare Supplement plan.

At one point, I was getting dozens of calls from the same company. I made the mistake of answering the first one. Although I hung up and blocked that number, I continued to get calls from the same exchange, except the last four numbers were different. When I complained to Mr. Ginley, he suggested I answer one of the calls and tell them I'm not eligible for Medicare for 10 years. Which I did, and that ended the harrassment. (Why do I feel guilty about lying to telemarketers? That's dumb, I know.)

As far as the mail is concerned, I know it's only going to get worse. I just went through this with Mr. Ginley, and the insurance companies were relentless. 

Spoiler alert: This part is my PSA for anyone getting ready to sign up for Medicare.

While it's true that signing up for Medicare is a minefield, thanks to my sister, I used a website called Boomer Benefits, and they were wonderful. If you're entering the Medicare zone, go to their website and watch the two videos they've posted, then sign up to talk to one of their folks. They don't sell supplemental insurance, they're brokers. So they walk you through the process, explain your options and help you sign up. And they continue to work with you after you've enrolled, so if you have questions, they can get you answers. But they don't harass you every five minutes. Honestly, I don't know how the average citizen figures out what to do. It's shameful what certain politicians have done to screw up a system that used to be straightforward. (I won't mention any names, but you know who you are.)

Okay, off the soapbox now. 

Of all the mail we've received concerning health insurance, life insurance and burial insurance (let's make sure we cover ALL the bases), the most bizarre are the postcards and flyers addressed to my father-in-law. 

We're not exactly sure why he's getting mail at our address, given that he never lived here – and he's been gone for over 40 years. 

"Maybe we should forward this to Holy Cross," my wisecracking husband quipped. 

I guess those marketing folks don't know everything about us after all. 

On the Wings of a Wish

There are times when I feel as though I was born in the wrong era.

Union Pacific Railroad, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

I felt this acutely the other night when Mr. Ginley began reading to me from a book that featured travel ads from the 1900s.

"It's almost like traveling on the wings of a wish...this skimming thorough the air in our big, fast ships. You simply step aboard and before you can begin to believe, you're there..."

The book was chock full of carefully crafted copy that made me yearn to get on a plane or a train or a ship and zoom off to exotic locations, snuggled into a wide, comfortable seat or crossing the ocean in an Art Deco style cabin or dining in style in a beautifully appointed Pullman rail car.

Oh, to write copy like that. Copy that would make people dewy-eyed with possibilities.

These days, I supposed if you have the means, it's possible to travel and enjoy such amenities. But you won't find them described as eloquently as they were in the last century.

Nevertheless, I hold out hope of someday taking a train across the country. Maybe when I've retired. I picture Mr. and I tucked into our cabin, watching the world pass by our window. Reading a book and looking up every now and then. Taking in the scenery, basking in a sunset. Noshing in a well-appointed dining car. The destination won't matter. Time will be inconsequential. We'll just be along for the ride.

Someday...

Slow Reading

"Do you miss working at [that place which shall not be named]?" asked Mr. Ginley the other day.

"Only some of the people," I replied. 

And it's true, I miss coffee klatching with Chris and Harry and other contemporaries who understood where we'd been and where we were. Being of a similar age, we shared common experiences and understood obscure references. We'd had to navigate ever-changing technology, workforce shifts and growing older – a process that seemed to sneak up on us. 

As Harry might say, "One day you're a young pischer, the next you're an alter kocker."

That's what I miss.

Serendipity is a funny thing. For whatever reason, I recently picked up a copy of Anna Quindlen's book, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake. The subtitle is "A Memoir of a Woman's Life."

I haven't been reading a lot lately, mostly those cozy mysteries that are devoured and discarded. But clearly, Quindlen's memoir is in a whole other category. 

I've been savoring it.

There's nothing like picking up a book that's filled with page after page where you nod and smile and say, "yep." Quindlen is a few years older than I, but the book was written a decade ago, so she would have been right around my age when she penned it. She talks about everything from childhood memories to marriage and kids to getting older. So much of it resonates with me, that unlike other books I've blown through, I've been reading a chapter at night, right before bed, and taking my sweet time.

Isn't it grand when you find something so copacetic?

I'd love to hear what you've been reading that's touched you. Please pass it along. 

I only have a few chapters left, so I need another slow read soon!

Colorful Riches

As we were cleaning out the closet the other day, Mr. Ginley repeated one of his tired, old chestnuts.

It happened when we came across not one but TWO 64-count boxes of Crayola Crayons. The specter touched a nerve.

"I remember when I was a kid, I only got the 8-count box of Crayola Crayons. YOU people must have been rich, YOU had the 64-count box," he lamented.

Apparently, the Senior Mr. Ginley, who worked for Glidden Paints his entire career (and knew his ecru from his beige), told his son that all he needed were the primary colors. "Just mix yellow and blue, and you've got green. You don't need 64 crayons."

But I digress.

While my family was certainly not in a class with the Rockefellers, we did possess the coveted 64-count box of Crayolas. And yes, it came with the built-in sharpener. However, I was not the first child who got to use the crayons. Like a treasured heirloom, they were handed down from child to child until I, Child #5, was granted access. By that time, their wrappers had been torn away and the little darlings sharpened down (or broken down) into sad, sorry stubbins.

In a valiant effort to sustain the once-grand coloring sticks, my sister, Diane, insisted they be returned, in some sort of order, to the original box, which by then was becoming a sad relic.

Of course, there are always certain colors that maintain their youthful beauty – like the white crayon, which is essentially worthless unless you happen to be writing on black construction paper. We weren't permitted to use the construction paper, except for school projects, so the white crayon was largely spared.

All of this explains why we have TWO 64-count boxes of crayons sitting in our closet. 

As long as they are there, sitting upright in their mostly-pristine state, I can feel just a bit decadent. At any time, I can inhale their waxy fragrance, pluck out a yellow-orange, burnt sienna or one of 62 other beauties in the box and color a page to my heart's delight.

Best of all, no one will scold me for coloring outside the lines.

Lunch With Bob and Gary

Earlier in the week when I heard how warm the weather would be yesterday, I decided to text my big brother, Gary, and see if he was available for lunch. Thankfully, I received a resounding "yes" to my luncheon request, and plans were set into motion.

I was a runner, so Gary had to hold onto me.

I'd punked on a lunch we'd scheduled back in January because I had "the crud." Now that mess was in my rear view mirror, and I was ready to break bread with my most senior sibling.

Because Gary works in Wadsworth, it's customary for me to head to the office, work in the morning, and meet for lunch at Bob Evans. 

Thursday night, I toodled through my closet in search of suitable office wear. 

Hmmm. I assessed my weight gain and decided on one of two pairs of pants that still fit. (Clearly, sweat pants and my high school sweatshirt were not ready for prime time.)

Friday morning dawned dry and warm. I rose early and made up some pasta salad for Mr. Ginley's lunch. Before getting dressed, I took a quick peek at my FB page. I was amazed to discover that Gary and I were celebrating 14 years as Facebook friends. Wow, what were the odds? Well, 365:1, but still. I took it as a sign to play the lottery. Which I did.

But I digress. 

It was time to journey south. For nearly 30 years, I'd made the trek betwixt Cleveland and Akron, barely giving it a thought (unless the weather was really bad). Given the sunny skies and the Bangles CD I played en route, I was in good spirits when I arrived at work.

I was happy to see a large pot of freshly brewed coffee was hot and ready. I greeted two (of the four) coworkers who were in the office and poured myself a heapin' helpin' of the dark brew (along with the requisite additives).

The desk I occupy on the rare occasions when I go to the office faces the parking lot, but it's on a height of sorts, so I get a pretty nice view. I only exchanged brief pleasantries with my coworkers, so I was able to dig in and get my assigned work done.

Honestly, if the office weren't such a hike, I wouldn't mind going in more often. It's a nice change of pace. And the fact that I have to dress up and put on real clothes, shoes and makeup is a good discipline.

Still, I've gotten used to my routine of rising, exercising, breakfasting, reading the paper and commuting up the stairs to my home office. 

Also, there's no cat at work.

In the end, I had a lovely lunch with my big brother. And the drive home under blue skies and sunshine was a delight. 

Plus, it was fun to sing along with Walk Like an Egyptian. 

Although, admittedly, I was unable to do the moves while I was driving.

A Barbie World

There's always been a special place in my heart for Barbie. 

Is it because she shares my name? That she was born the same year as me? Or that my bubble-cut Barbie doll was one of my most cherished possessions as a child?

Perhaps it's all of the above. 

I spent countless hours changing Barbie's outfits. Every holiday I received clothes for her – either store bought or home made. I had the shoes, the hats, the purses and, of course, the bathing suit. My Dad made stands for our dolls – I still have mine. 

In the early days, there was one Barbie. Diane's was blonde, Denise's was brunette, and mine was a redhead, but otherwise they looked alike. Oh, and Denise also had the original Midge with the flippy hair and freckles. I was always so jealous.

Arms and legs didn't bend. There was no Doctor Barbie or Senator Barbie or Astronaut Barbie. Just Barbie.

I still have the plastic case she arrived in, and I pulled it out yesterday to stroll down memory lane. 

So, what prompted this bout of nostalgia? 

The Barbie movie.

I waited until I was able to rent the film from the library. Because yes, I'm a cheapskate. There was much anticipation, because the flick got such a big build-up.

I sat through the 114 minutes of the movie, and when it was over, I felt, well, not much. I've been trying to figure out what I missed. Should I go back and watch it again? I didn't hate it, but honestly, I've gotten more worked up emotionally over Hallmark movies. 

Could it be because for me, Barbie was simply a toy? I never aspired to be Barbie. I didn't see her as a role model. I just enjoyed changing her outfits, pretending she was going to the prom or hanging out with friends. (The only curve Barbie threw me was she didn't have nipples, and that confused me as a child. I suppose that's a conversation I should be having with a therapist.)

But I digress...

Sure, I got the point of the movie. I put myself squarely in the feminist camp. I put on my pussy hat and marched for women's rights in 2016. I recognize that women still aren't paid what men are. There remains a whole lot of inequality between the sexes. And yet...the movie, much like the doll, felt plastic to me. It oversimplified the problems men and women have in building and sustaining a society. While I agree with the points made in the movie, I couldn't help but squirm at all the stereotypes. 

I've had a handful of male bosses that were asshats, but the majority have been good to me (e.g. Harry, Axel, Eric). The same could be said of Judy, Pam, Bette and the women who've mentored me (while a few others, not so much).

If you've managed to wade through my ramblings and you've seen the Barbie movie, I'd be interested in your point of view. 

Maybe you can help me see why I get choked up over animal rescue reels but I can't work up much of anything for Enlightened Barbie.

Sad Little Donuts

 Every now and then, I lose sight of the fact that I'm not a domestic goddess.

Alas, the homemaker gene skipped over me, but sometimes I forget and attempt to bake something I've no experience with.

And so, here we are this morning, me and my brand spanking new air fryer and a recipe I copied from a book about "simple" things to make in an air fryer.

I'm no virgin when it comes to working with yeast dough. In spite of my spotty talents, I have been able to make a tea ring and bake bread. In fact, a few weeks ago, I resurrected a recipe for Sally Lunn bread. It's a sweet, soft creation Mr. and I fell in love with when we lived in Alexandria. They used to serve it at Gadsby's Tavern, one of George Washington's old haunts.

Perhaps it was because I was buoyed by my success with Sally that I felt I could tackle this donut recipe. After all, dough is dough, right?

Well, not so much as it turned out. 

I meticulously added the ingredients and followed instructions. At least until I got to the part where they wanted me to knead the dough. I looked at the sticky mess in the bowl and realized it isn't the sort of dough you can knock about with your knuckles – it will all end up glued in between your fingers and any other surface it touches. So, using the wooden spoon, I stirred and folded it vigorously, mimicking the movements I'd use if I was kneading it.

Then I set it out to rise in a warm place. I figured if I put it in front of a heating vent, that would do the trick. 

Alas, it didn't budge much. But I soldiered bravely on to the next step.

The recipe instructed me to roll out the dough on a floured surface and cut it into shapes using a 3" cutter and a 1" cutter for the holes.

Harkening back to my Mom's ingenuity (because I don't have specialized cutters), I found a glass that measured 3" and another kitchen tool that was 1". I placed the glass upside down and managed to form the donuts, then made the holes. In the interest of full disclosure, I cheated on the holes, because I just took the leftover dough and rolled them into balls.

The next step was to put the wannabe donuts on a floured baking sheet and let them rise for another 30 minutes. This time, I turned the oven on low (250°) and set the tray on top of the stove where the heat vents. They rose a little, but not much. Desperate times calling for desperate measures, I turned the oven off and stuck the tray inside for an extra 15 minutes. This helped a little, and I decided the poor things were as plump as they were ever going to get. 

Then it was time to put them in the air fryer to bake/fry. The instructions said to load two donuts and two holes at a time and let them go for four to five minutes.

This was the first time using my new fryer, but it's pretty easy to naviagate. Just load 'em up, set the temperature and time and off you go.

The little buggers came out nicely browned. I dumped them in the glaze and on the cooling rack to cure. 

They certainly were a sad looking little lot, I must say, as you can see from the photo.

On the other hand, they were pretty tasty. And my Mom always said it didn't matter how things looked, really, as long as they were good.

Plus, now I can say I've inaugurated my new air fryer.

So yay, me!

Vicarious Living

As we were pummeled with cold temps and then eight inches of snow, some might feel a certain resentment toward those who posted pics on FB of sunnier climes and adventurous vacations.

Not me. One of my oft-repeated sayings is, "I live vicariously through others." 

So I wasn't (too) jealous of Axel posting photos of his European trip. I enjoyed the photos and video footage of old Beatle haunts, Paris landmarks and such. My curiosity was piqued by Ryan and his nighttime adventures in Tucson with javalinas. (I didn't even know what a javalina was before.) And I could almost taste the birthday cake at my grandniece's 2nd birthday party. (Happy Birthday, Piper!) 

Meanwhile, we're housebound, but I don't mind much. The driveway has been shoveled (thanks to Lonnie's nephews for the assist) and we're hunkering down for another quiet day indoors. I'll Skype with my kid tomorrow. And we'll venture out afterward to do grocery shopping, hit a library and pick up some coffee from Troubadour, my favorite local roaster. 

Clearly, no one will be living vicariously through me, but I'm okay with that. Wanderlust is in my rearview mirror now. My world is shrinking, like it did for my parents. And while I sometimes dream about visiting exotic locales like those depicted in the Death in Paradise series Mr. and I watch, I know it's unlikely I'll visit the Caribbean again soon. (On the other hand, there's a lot of murder and mayhem on that show, so maybe it's just as well.)

The upshot here is, I enjoy hearing from all of you about what you're doing, where you're going and how you're celebrating. And if my adventures are of the secondhand kind, that's cool – bring it on!

I'll just be here living it up vicariously.

Toasting Tracey

Back in the day, we'd sit in Harry's office during brainstorming meetings and shoot the breeze in a lame attempt to avoid the topic at hand. This was in the beforetimes, when people worked in office buildings and you interacted with coworkers face-to-face.

But I digress.

Sometimes, someone would pose a question. Like, "Who would you want to play you in the movie about your life?"

Naturally, one needed to suspend disbelief because none of us was likely to see the story of our life depicted on the big screen. 

In any event, the answer to this question tells a lot about the person whose life is being reconstructed. There are those who want Julia Roberts or George Clooney to play them, because, well, why not? But those of us with more imagination dug a little deeper to find someone who was more like themself in personality. 

My answer, then and now, is Tracey Ullman. I'd be honored if she was me.

From my first exposure to Ullman in the 1980s and through the ensuing years, I've been bedazzled by her talents – an amazing sketch comedian who can play just about anyone, from a wise-cracking teen to a creaky old broad. She's been a dancer, singer, actress, producer, writer and director. In other words, she's got the whole magilla goin' on.

Tracey (I hope she doesn't mind my using her first name, we are the same age, after all) is one of those folks who's been just about everywhere and done a little of everything in the entertainment world but has nowhere near the social media presence of the far less talented Kardashians and other influencers. She has tons of awards for her work here and across the pond. Fun fact: The Simpsons was a spinoff from the original Tracey Ullman Show that ran in the late 1980s.

So, what made me think of Tracey this week? YouTube, which often gets my preferences  wrong in bizarre ways, surprisingly came up with this video that Tracey did in support of her album, You Broke My Heart in 17 Places. The song is called They Don't Know About Us, and the video is hilarious. It also has a surprise ending, which I will not spoil for you in case you haven't seen it. This song and the album's title song were written by Kirsty MacColl, a talented singer and songwriter who left us all too soon.

I'm not going to list all Tracey's accomplishments, because I haven't that much room here. Suffice to say, she's stinkin' impressive. For the record, she's also on my short list of people I'd love to have dinner with. (And not just because of the lovely British accent.) 

I know that'll never happen, but a girl can dream.

In the meantime, I'm going to put on her album and have myself a good smile.