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.