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?