Learning the Joy of Learning

School always felt like a punishment to me, and that's a shame. Because learning should be an adventure, not a grind.

What a tangled web we weave...

To this day, I'm slow to learn new things. I'd like to go about my day, do my thing, and move along to the next thing. But that's really no way to live.

I want to be one of those people who wake up in the morning, greet the dawn with open arms and feel blessed to be given another new day. I really do.

But I'm just. so. tired.

In this era of living "intentionally," I've been attempting to notice the little things. I was washing my hands the other day, for example, and I marveled at the silky feel of the soap, the bubbles that glistened in a rainbow of colors, and the sensation of being clean.

I noticed a spider had woven a web into the window screen in the kitchen. Bees buzzing in these little teeny daisy-like wildflowers growing in the backyard. And wisps of steam coming off my coffee in the morning. All little things.

And yet, yesterday I was doing what I image my cat would identify as "the zoomies," cutting the grass on a break from work, making our lunches, and cramming in a few chores before heading back to my desk. None of this was conducive to being "intentional."

Have I learned nothing?

Well, I guess I'm a work in progress, but that progress is awfully slow.

Was there anything I learned in school that's helping me today?  Well, sure, I got a good Catholic education (grade school, anyhow). I learned my maths and my English pretty good. A little science. (Which I didn't enjoy at all until middle school and lab. Hands-on science is great, I discovered.) And a little geography (emphasis on "little"). Our schoolbooks made foreign countries sound about as exciting as a day in a cornfield. 

Of course, I was fortunate that in high school, I was able to take vocational classes, where I learned how to type, do basic accounting, and overall business skills. Home Ec taught me rudimentary cooking and sewing. And the co-op class my senior year had me working half days in a print shop, an experience that went a long way in providing depth to my education in a valuable way.

Looking back over my career, I've learned more than I realized. While others were reluctant about the internet when it became a thing at work, I embraced it. I've kept up with technology, although I still think that watching a DVD or reading a book I can hold in my hands is better than the digital alternatives, which live in a cloud and can go POOF at the whim of their host.

I'm learning to manipulate AI for work, although I find it worrisome. Am I contributing to the downfall of intelligent thought by using this tool? 

Perhaps I'm delusional (more likely than perhaps). But I believe that someday, people will want to shop in malls again, that we'll return to interacting in person, that cell phones will become passé, and we'll finally turn them off to get away from the exhaustion that is social media. 

Which is why learning new things is all well and good, but retaining basic skills from the beforetimes is important, too. Using our imagination, being in touch with the world around us, looking out for each other. The good citizens we were taught to be growing up.

So many important things we learned early on that seem to have been pushed aside. 

Although I can confidently say, memorizing the Jabberwocky poem by Lewis Carroll in 5th grade is not something that will ever prove useful in daily life.

But I digress. I've learned how to do that pretty well.

Naming Wrongs

In my dotage, I've discovered this fun new game. You hear hear a name, and you try to place it. 

attribution below

I call my game, "Schoolmate, Coworker, or Celebrity?"

In the beforetimes when I hadn't yet met many people, it was easy to remember who was who. Given the limited nature of my social circle, it was simply a matter of deciding which class a given person was in. That may be why I remember the names of so many early classmates.

This skill went by the wayside by the time I got to high school. There were 700+ kids in my graduating class. 

Things only got trickier through the years, as I worked for bigger and bigger companies. People were hired, fired, or retired, and pretty soon the pool of names to remember was simply too large to be navigable. Somewhere along the line, I began approaching folks I thought I recognized (but could not name) by simply saying, "Hey, man, how are you doing? Good to see you!"

It's reassuring when you look into the eyes of the person you've recognized and see the momentary panic as they try to place you. Clearly, I'm not the only one who has trouble matching names with faces.

At least with LinkedIn, you don't have to face the person.

"Tom Beetermen shared an article from Linda Cuthbert." Clearly, I admitted Tom into my LinkedIn group, but there I am, trying to remember if I worked with him at my last job, the job before that, or if it was someone I admitted simply because they asked me. (Which is something I don't do anymore. If I don't know you, I'm not letting you network with my peeps.)

But what really tweaks the grey matter is hearing a name that's familiar but you don't know why. That's where the game comes into play. 

You hear a name, let's say, Patty Lane. You're certain you've heard the name before, so you start running through the paces.

Schoolmate? No. Coworker? Don't think so. Celebrity? Not sure. At this point, you run it by the Google. (Oh, the wonders of modern technology!). And there she is, Patty Lane, Patty Duke's character on the Patty Duke Show. Is this cheating? Nope! My game, my rules.

Feel free to play right along with me the next time a name comes up that you can't place.

And when I see you in person, if I don't call you by name, you'll understand that I may be well-intentioned, but it takes awhile for my Univac-for-brain to crank into motion.

Thanks for reading this, man!

Photo attribution: Elizabeth Shippen Green, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Just the Vaxx, Ma'am

"I just read in the Washington Post that they're debating raising the eligible age for COVID vaccinations to 75," said Mr. Ginley yesterday. "Let's go and get ours while we can." 

Ernesh has a mohawk.

So I made an appointment for today to do the deed. I always try to get my shot before the weekend, because I don't feel great for a day or two afterward, and I can't afford to be loopy at work. (Bosses frown on that sort of thing.)

It turned out to be my lucky day, because I won lunch from Spin the Wheel at work today. So I was able to get my shot and a free burrito bowl. Winner, winner, chicken dinner! 

As for Mr. Ginley, for his bravery getting vaxxed, he got several treats. (Who's a good boy?) But alas, no sticker, so disappointing. I did point out that although a sticker lasts longer, you can't eat it. You could smell it if it was a scratch-and-sniff, like the email Robyn designed (but wasn't allowed to send) for April Fools Day. 

Did I mention a puzzle clue I stumbled on the other day, "A famous jewelry advertising jingle, 'Every kiss begins with ---.'" Funny/not funny that. 

You are probably wondering at this point if I'm capable of writing anything that's coherent. 

I'm thinking no. But then, if you've been a regular visitor to this page, you will likely say it's just business as usual.

So, I'm going to cut this short, share a picture of me and Ernesh, and call it a day. I think a little mindless TV is in order, don't you? Would you believe I rented Season 2 of The Love Boat? I thought you would. 

Maybe by next week, I'll have some nugget of wisdom to share.

If I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath. 

Purple Rain

"Are those blueberries?" inquired Mr. Ginley, peering out the kitchen window.

attribution below

"I'm not sure what they are," I replied. "But they are not blueberries. Just another weed in the jungle."

But, of course, it didn't end there. The questions kept coming, and I was compelled to contact my expert on the topic (aka, my sister, Diane). I went out and took a few snaps and texted her the best one (which, sadly, wasn't good enough to use here.)

Her reply was quick. Of course, she knew what it was. 

"Pokeweed," she replied. "Critters like it. Definitely an acquired taste. Will spread if happy. Yours looks mighty happy. Could end up with purple poop."

I was momentarily puzzled by the ending, until she continued a minute later.

"Droppings, that is...the critters, not you."

And so I was not surprised when I observed purple splotches on the ground outside the back door. 

As I've said before, I'm trying to be kind to birds, bees, and bunnies. (Thankfully, "woodchuck" doesn't start with a "b".) In return, I'm getting thanked with colorful driveway markers.

Of course, there are other perks. I get to watch squirrel antics in the tree over the fence. I've seen a few monarch butterflies. And fireflies. I've heard mourning doves and cardinals. Cicadas and crickets. 

The only downside this year has been the invasion of lantern flies. I've killed hundreds of the ghastly beasts. Thankfully, with the cooler weather, they are dying out or laying low. Either way, I'm glad their numbers seem to be receding. 

Soon, I'll have to go out and start chopping away at the now-denuded blackberry bushes, the dried up weeds, and yes, the pokeweed (once the berries are finished). 

For now, I'm going to enjoy the last remnants of summer, the cooler weather, and the crickets, which are still creating a lovely evening soundtrack.

Heaven knows, I won't be ready to shovel snow anytime soon.

Photo attribution: Cbaile19, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

School Faze

In my youth, Labor Day was a time of mourning. Because the next day, we had to return to school.

Mom cut my bangs.

Who will my teacher be? Will I get lost searching for a classroom (high school). Or, once uniforms were out of the picture, will my wardrobe pass muster or will I be humiliated by my peers? Who will I sit next to on the school bus? Will that cute guy I've had a crush on since last year be in any of my classes?

To this day, I occasionally have nightmares about roaming the halls of my high school trying to find my locker, then forgetting the combination and missing class. Sometimes I find myself half-dressed, running to catch the bus. Other times, I'm trying to take a test but I can't suss out any of the answers.

These things come to mind when people talk about the carefree school days of their youth. Surely I wasn't the only child who was anxiety-ridden, worried about whether I would be able to make friends, if my teachers would be nice, or if I'd get good grades. 

Nope, "school days" and "carefree" are two phrases that definitely do not go together.

I suppose if I weren't such a misfit toy, I'd have had an easier time in school, and maybe I would have carried a few good memories into adulthood.

Mr. and I were talking about the milestone class reunion coming up in two years and whether we'd attend.

I am honestly interested in what happened to some of the kids in my class. But I really don't need to talk to them in person. A "Who's Who From the Class of 1977" would be nice.

All the info, none of the social interaction. 

What I call a win-win.

Sailing on the Ruby Yacht of Omar Khayyam

Long before there was South Park, Rocky and Bullwinkle ruled the airwaves with their unique blend of bad puns, satire, and general hilarity. 

Kids loved the show for the goofy gags and silly but engaging plots. Adults enjoyed the sly references to current and past events and the clever wordplay that went over the heads of most children.

The cool thing is, Rocky and Bullwinkle never get old. Watching them today, I still giggle when the faux college football team Wossamotta U takes on Watchmakers Technical Institute (aka "Tick Tock Tech"). 

If you want to give yourself a chuckle, google "Ruby Yacht of Omar Khayyam." The AI assistant says, "The phrase 'ruby yacht of Omar Khayyam' is a reference to the Rubaiyat, a collection of Persian quatrains (four-line poems) translated by Edward FitzGerald in 1859. The phrase originates from a famous line in the Rubaiyat that reads, 'With old Khayyam the ruby vintage drink' and became widely known for its pun in the animated television show Rocky and Bullwinkle." 

Somewhere there's an ancient Persian either spinning in their grave or enjoying the word play.

But I digress.

Part of what makes Rocky and Bullwinkle topical is that they got into hot water with governments near and far with their political satire. It may have been wrapped up in a kids' cartoon, but there was no mistaking the digs at Russian leaders, the U.S. government, and other prominent figures of the time. Although it often targeted the Cold War, I'm sure I'm not the only one who can see the resemblance between Fearless Leader and our current dictator-in-chief.

And, lest we forget, the ensemble cast wasn't too shabby, either. Peabody & Sherman, Fractured Fairy Tales, Aesop and Son, and Dudley Do-Right, to name a few. 

Hokey smokes! I think it's a good time to re-watch the show that created so much silliness and static on the airwaves. 

"Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat." 

"Again?"

Fun Facts: The middle initial "J." for both characters is a sneaky homage to their creator, "Jay" Ward. And Bullwinkle was named for a Ford dealership in Oakland, California. (The writers thought the name sounded funny.)

Mellowing Out

The local rag expanded the number of advice columns it covers, so now I'm able to read about lots of other people's problems.

The album cover

Just the other day, I was reading about a woman who lamented the fact that her boyfriend went out one or two nights a week to spend time with the guys. Her reaction was to whine and complain to him (and the columnist). 

"Is she nuts?," was my first thought. Several hours of having the house to myself sounded like a little slice of heaven.

Now, don't look into this too deeply. Mr. and I are not having serious problems or anything. I just enjoy my own company. Maybe it's working from home and being around each other 24/7, but I relish time to myself.

Yesterday, for example, I dropped Mr. Ginley off at the Rapid station. He went downtown to do some research at the library. For most of that time, I was working, but when my day was done, I was able to squeeze out an hour or so of me-time.

So, what kind of hell does this alter cocker raise when left to her own devices?

I got out an album. An LP. The thing that spins around on a turntable and plays music. 

Well, y'all know I'm a relic from another time, and yes, I still have a turntable that works. Mr. and I share some music, but much of what I like is beyond his tolerance.

It was serendipity. I reached into my collection (yes, I still have a record collection, how 1970s) and pulled out an LP at random.

It was Donovan, a concert album, recorded in Anaheim, California, that I listened to frequently back in the day. There wasn't a copyright date on the cover or the record itself, but I discovered it was from 1968. Obviously, I bought it MUCH later than that. (Just to clarify.)

For any youngsters reading this, Donovan was a hippie-dippy artist who went through a lot of genres, and who continues to record music (as recently as 2022). The Scottish musician started off with folk (he was smitten by Bob Dylan's music), experimented with jazz and pop, and did the whole psychedelic scene for awhile.

The album I played had an interesting combination of each type. Some of you may remember "Mellow Yellow," but "Sunshine Superman," a 1966 chart topper, is conspicuously absent. As is "Hurdy Gurdy Man." 

Donovan turned 79 this year. Yikes, we're getting awfully old. (By "we" I mean "he," and come to think of it, 79 isn't all that aged. There are so many rockers in their 80s now.)

Winding my way back to my original theme...yes, I enjoyed listening to Donovan the way it was originally intended. My albums, by and large, are in very good condition. I've taken care of them over the years, and they've been played only on my original Philips turntable. (Thanks Gary and Tokyo Shapiro.) 

I imagine a lot of you have checked out by now. If you're still here, I invite you to pull out some old tunes from past (distant or recent), open the windows, and give it a blast.

You won't be sorry.

Backward Glance

Mr. Ginley has been spending a lot of time on YouTube lately, and one of the things he really enjoys is tripping down memory lane.

Having a snort with Jesus

There are several folks who've put together nostalgic images and made a slide show out of them. They have goofy captions like, "Lovin' the groovy summer 70s vibes with friends."

Some are clearly from a different era other than the 1970s, some are AI generated, and others are obviously ads from that era. But most seem to be authentic, featuring blurred photos and average-looking youngsters having the time of their lives.

"Would you go back to the 70s if you could?" Mr. Ginley has asked me.

What I remember of that decade was how poor my social skills were. I was awkward and silent, and sat in the back of the classroom whenever I could, avoiding eye contact with the teacher so I wouldn't be called on to participate in class. 

As for summers in high school, I remember plenty of boredom, hot afternoons, and walking up to the library or McDonald's or the shopping center just to pass the time. Sitting in my room, burning candles, listening to albums on my headphones, and being sad.

I had one friend in junior high school, Carolyn, who I spent a fair amount of time with. We walked to school together and played ping pong in her basement in the summer. In high school, I hung out with Linda, swimming in her pool, sitting on her front porch, and ogling any guys of the appropriate age and body build. (Oh, Richie Pohana, you were soooo hot.)

The summer before my senior year, I worked in the print shop in high school and hung out with Peggy, who was two years older than me. That was my wild child period. 

Considering Mr. Ginley's question, I answered, "No, I wouldn't want to go back. I mean, sure, I'd love to have my 1970s body back, but that's about it. I wasn't a fully formed person, I thought getting married was the big goal in life, and I was mostly lost."

He landed on another video, this one a Beatles concert from 1964 in Washington, DC. I don't know what made me tear up watching the Fab Four sing. Young lads in their 20s, taking the world by storm and having a ball. Shadows of the past. 

Admittedly, I would love to go back just for a bit, and experience them again the first time around. 

But the 70s? Not so much.

Living the Monochronic Life

Normally, I would not put much credence in a label that had been created by some random personality pundit. But perhaps I need to rethink my position.

Bunny!*

Permit me to clarify. 

I get the New York Times newsletter every day. On the weekends, they take a break from the psychotic mayhem in our nation's capital to focus on more personal topics. Today, the writer referenced an article by Emily Laber-Warren, who has conveniently divided our society into two groups and labeled them "monochronic" and "polychronic."

This is where the eyerolling would typically begin, but today I put on my magnanimous hat and decided to bully through the piece.

Those who are piss-poor at multi-tasking have earned the label of "monochronic." They (aka "me") prioritize obligations over relationships. In other words, "I'm working on this piece for work, and if you interrupt me, I'm going to botch it up." My deep-seated modus operandi is that I need to get my work done first, then I can carpe diem. I can't enjoy myself unless all the chores are done. 

In my defense, and with Mr. Ginley's prodding, I've been working to change this. While I still put tasks first, I take breaks during the day to listen to birdsong, admire the random bloom of wildflowers in my backyard (trying not to think about neglected yard work), and sip my coffee mindfully instead of gulping it down out of habit. The trick is to walk away from work for a few minutes and take notice of the big, wide world out there without thinking about work AT ALL.

Polychronic folks give priority to relationships and experiences that don't coincide with schedules. These people are good at multitasking and shifting things to accommodate others. While Mr. Ginley is very focused when he's working on something, he's also able to postpone chores in favor of pop-up outings. So when I come down from my office and suggest a walk to the library or lunch in the park, he's unlikely to say, "I can't, I have laundry to do." 

Not that it's an excuse for my being monochronic (well, okay, it is), but I believe my tendency to single-minded pursuits was ingrained in my childhood. My Mom was of the stay-at-home variety in my tender years, and she did not deviate from her schedule. There was a day for laundry, one for ironing, two for cleaning (with each day having specific tasks), one for grocery shopping, etc. Dinner was on the table the same time daily. 

Although his mother was the same way, Mr. did not come away with the same work ethic. Sure, when he was working in an office, he was there on time and worked like the dickens. But at home, if it came down to a choice between chores and fun stuff, there's no question which would win most of the time. 

This was beautifully illustrated early in our relationship, shortly after he moved to Virginia to be with me.

I vividly recall how I put on old clothes and gathered a mop, bucket, and other cleaning supplies one Saturday morning.

"What are you doing?" Mr. inquired.

"Cleaning the apartment," I replied, stating the obvious.

"Like hell you are. We're going to catch the Metro and do something fun."

And thus it was that housecleaning was effectively put on mute unless it was too hot/wet/snowy to leave the apartment or we were having someone over.

If and when I'm able to retire, perhaps my priorities will shift, and I'll be more flexible. In the meantime, I'll work on carving out time here and there to enjoy my days and not just slogging through them.

Oh look, there's a bunny in my yard! Gotta go!

*My photo didn't come out this nice, so I leaned on Wikipedia. Attribution: Dori at English Wikipedia, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

So Long, Tom

I guess you can't complain if you make it to the ripe old age of 97, but I gotta say, the world is a sadder place without Tom Lehrer in it.

public domain photo

Lehrer passed away July 26th. But oh, what a legacy he left behind. If you're not familiar with his work, permit me to enlighten you. 

Tom Lehrer was a brilliant satirist with a wicked sense of humor who wrote laser-sharp lyrics and catchy music to dozens of ditties. His largest body of work was penned in the 1950s. Many of his songs remain topical today.

Although his heritage was Jewish, according to Wikipedia, Lehrer and his family "loosely practiced Christianity," attending Sunday school and celebrating Christmas. This no doubt helped him compose the classic, "The Vatican Rag," which was also one that Harry knew all the words to. He and I would sometimes sing it together in his office: 

First you get down on your knees,

Fiddle with your rosaries, 

Bow your head with great respect 

And genuflect, genuflect genuflect.

(If there's a heaven, I hope Tom and Harry are singing it together.)

Lehrer did the table of elements to the tune of Gilbert & Sullivan's Major-General's Song from The Pirates of Penzance. (Could it have been a foreshadowing of his career as a professor after he moved on from his musical appearances?)

Then there's my personal favorite, National Brotherhood Week, which is as topical today as it was when he wrote it:

Oh the rich folks hate the poor folks

And the poor folks hate the rich folks

All of my folks hate all of your folks

It's American as apple pie

But during National Brotherhood Week

It's National Everyone-smile-at-one-another-hood Week. 

Be nice to people who

Are inferior to you.

Then there's the chilling, "Who's Next?" in which Lehrer sings about a popular cold war topic, the atomic bomb:

First we got the bomb and that was good, 

'Cause we love peace and motherhood. 

Then Russia got the bomb, but that's O.K., 

'Cause the balance of power's maintained that way. 

Who's next?

He then goes on to list an assortment of other possible countries with hopes of acquiring one.

How cool was Tom Lehrer? He claims to have invented the Jello shot during his stint in the army in the 1950s. He wrote songs for the PBS children's show, The Electric Company. And in 2020, he relinquished the rights to all his songs. They're currently in the public domain, where anyone can perform them without paying royalties. (He never married or had children, so no squabbles there.)

Many celebrities have credited Lehrer with inspiring their work. Among them are "Weird Al" Yankovic (no surprise there) and Steely Dan. Daniel Radcliffe is also a fan – he performed The Elements song on Graham Norton's show, and as a result, scored the title role in the "Weird Al" movie.

Sadly, there are not a lot of people who remember Tom Lehrer, and I'm not sure future generations will get his dark sarcastic wit.

More's the pity.

The Little Voice, Unheard (Again)

 In the beforetimes, when I worked at that-place-that-shall-not-be-named, David B. would always ask, "Is this a milestone birthday?"

Attribution below

Well, no, this past birthday was not any special number. But I did get plenty of well wishes, thank you one and all.

The day was pretty uneventful. I worked until dinnertime, when Mr. and I strolled up to one of the local bars for eats and drinks.

Now, it's no secret that I can't hold my liquor. I can usually handle one glass of beer or one mixed drink. Any more than that, and I quickly go from pleasantly buzzed to hellza-no-I'm-gonna-be-sick.

So I decided to order one margarita with my dinner. The surly waitress produced a tall glass with barely any ice in it. It was strong. Very strong. I should have had her take it away, but it's not in my nature to complain, so I took a few more sips and pushed it to the side.

"I'll eat dinner first," I said to myself. "Then I'll be able to drink it because the food will absorb the alcohol."

And so it went that I continued to sip the drink during my meal, but at the end, there was still a significant amount left in my glass.

As many of you know from experience, alcohol is the great deceiver. Once you get a buzz going, you think you can handle anything.

I finished the drink. I went to sign the check. So far so good. 

"Don't forget to take your credit card," Mr. Ginley said. Three times.

Getting up from the booth seating was problematic. Navigating to the front of the bar was also a bit of a challenge. Fortunately, Mr. Ginley did not imbibe during dinner. So I knew that if I collapsed, he could go home and get the car and fetch me.

It did not come to that. I giggled most of the way home, and Mr. and I had a pleasant jaunt. 

Everything was just dandy for the next hour or so. Then my stomach staged a revolt. Clearly, it was not happy with my lack of judgement. I didn't throw up, but I felt awful. I went to bed at the usual time, rolled over, and was out. 

Why is it we ignore the little voice in our head that tries to warn us that we're about to do something king stupid? 

"Nah, that can't be poison ivy, I'll be all right." 

"It's only supposed to snow a couple of inches, I'll be fine to drive home."

"Sure, let's go ziplining, sounds like fun."

You know, even Bugs Bunny knew that if you listened to the devil on your shoulder instead of the angel, there was going to be hell to pay.

As the comedian Larry Miller famously said in his bit, 5 Stages of Drinking, "I swear, I will never do this again, as long as I live – and some of us have this little addition – and this time, I mean it!"

William Andrews, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Meh at Work

"If you can't remember something, you should write it down," Mr. Ginley told me for the 4,000th time the other day.

But could Leonardo read his own handwriting?

But here's the rub. When I write a note to myself, I can't read my handwriting later. And when I type it into the Notes App on my phone, the autocorrect takes over, and days (weeks? months?) later, I have no idea what I was jibbering on about.

One of the things I try to do on the app is write down potential topics for my blog. Here are some of the entries. Maybe you can help me decipher them so I have something to write about next week:

Man From Primrose Lane, James Renner

Color emojis

Sledging

Dinner Warwick

Only Yesterday

Ida movie

Will Trent

It's a Gas

Just because someone us difficult doesn't mean you'll divorce them

Rush e

Write down, best mom

Hovering

Lucy cat song

Stone yard devotional

Garbage

The last showgirl

Ganesha

Freddie Bell and the Bellboys

Kinsale Ireland

There's plenty more, but you get the idea.

The trouble is, my notes app is a repository for everything, not just ideas for this rag. So I'm pretty sure there are things on this list that have nothing to do with brainstorming ideas.

Now that I take a gander at the above, the haze clears, and I do recall what some of these mean.

"Lucy cat song" is a tune my brother Gary told me about that I fell in love with. It's sung by Allison Young.

Ganesha is a Hindu deity. I have a small figurine in my workspace, and I wanted to know what to call him.

Kinsale Island was a destination on one of Rick Steves' shows. I want to go there. I'm pretty sure I won't make it, but a girl can dream.

"Dinner Warwick" is my cell phone's interpretation of "Dionne Warwick." Or it could be my clumsy typing. (I choose to blame my cell.)

Freddy Bell & the Bellboys did a song called First Train Out of Town. Did I like it? Did Mr. Ginley like it? 

As for the rest of the items on my list, I'm at a loss. They could be book or song titles. Maybe they're shopping list items gone bad.

Who knows? Life's too short, and I have better things to do.

Like checking out the YouTube playlist for Meh at Work.

This is a margin note written by Leonardo da Vinci that proves Lisa del Giocondo was the model for the Mona Lisa. Photo attribution: Louvre Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Permit Me to Prick Your Interest

It all started with a magazine Mr. Ginley got out from the library the other day about the history of fashion.

public domain photo

Maybe it's because the topic of fashion is not exactly in his wheelhouse, but I was intrigued. 

I'm not sure why one particular aspect of the theme popped into my head, but I've learned not to question these things, and just went with it.

"Do they talk about codpieces?" I inquired of him.

"They mention them in passing, but they don't go into detail," he replied. Thus ending my interest in the magazine. I mean, how can you leave out such a compelling topic?

Knowing my readers are well-informed, I'm sure you've come across the word, but you may not know much about codpieces.

Permit me to enlighten.

In the 15th and 16th Centuries, men wore tights. There was a left tight and a right tight, much like today's fishing waders. (I may not be getting the nomenclature just right, but you know what I mean.) This left a certain part of the male anatomy exposed. 

Enter the codpiece.

Originally, it was a triangular piece of material that covered the necessary area. But as men's tops (aka "doublets" or "tunics") began to shorten, fashionistas proclaimed that simply covering one's appendage was not enough. That's when codpieces became a thing (to cover one's thing).

Elaborate codpieces were the Renaissance equivalent of owning a big, jacked-up 4x4 today. The implication was that the owner was well-endowed. Unlike earlier discreet versions, later codpieces were often oversized and included padding. Some were decorated with jewels or bells, which, when they rang, were supposed to be complimentary to passing women. 

Ding-a-ling, indeed.

Sadly, history doesn't include many accounts of what women thought of this symbol of male virility. But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say there were a lot of yawns. Those who've got it don't need to go to elaborate lengths to show off. Am I right?

By the late 16th Century, codpieces were out of fashion, and aside from rock stars and such, they've never made a comeback. It's one trend that isn't likely to be reappearing anytime soon. 

Do you suppose it's because guys no longer feel the need to boast about their endowments? Or maybe it's because skinny jeans have filled that particular gap?

I would say there's no women's equivalent, but then I cast my mind back to the 1950s and the bullet bras. And stuffing one's bra with tissues.

Please tell me women don't do that anymore.

P.S. If you want to read more about codpieces, this is a fun one, and I adore the title: What Goes Up Must Come Down: A Brief History of the Codpiece.


Photo attribution: Formerly attributed to Steven van der Meulen, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

True Confessions

 "What could the average third or fourth grader possibly have to confess?" I mused the other day over a Big Boy® Burger and fries. 

Obviously, the priest's side of the confessional.*

Mr. Ginley and I were discussing our childhood as Catholics in training. Specifically, the Sacrament of Confession.

"My go-to confession was taking money out of my mom's purse," said Mr. Ginley. "It was always a quarter or dime or some small change. But I couldn't always think of something to confess, so sometimes I said I did something I didn't do because I felt pressured. I always wondered if the penance I was given covered me for lying to the priest. I mean, at the end, you do say, 'for these and all of my sins, I am heartily sorry.' On the other hand, it does give you something to talk about at your next confession."

"Yeah," I concurred, "But that could get awkward if the priest started grilling you about why you lied, and you'd probably get a lecture. Seems like more trouble than it's worth. Better to make it a sin of omission."

Mr. nodded his agreement. It was my turn to spill.

"I always told the priest that I was mean to my little brother, which was pretty much always true. I could be a shitty big sister," I confessed to Mr. Ginley. "And I'd say that I lied to my parents. I don't recall the priest asking me for specifics, but if he did, I probably made something up. We weren't allow to take the Fifth."

Looking back, confessional duty for youngsters had to be a pretty crappy job for the parish priests. Did they draw straws to see who was going to get stuck listening to a litany of childhood transgressions? 

"Sorry, Francis, you're on the hook this week," I can hear the other priests snickering.

When we complained about going to confession, my mother would always say, "I know it's hard to go, but don't you feel better coming out of the confessional?"

Well, sure, because the ordeal is over for another month or however long it might be till your next confession.

And if your mind wandered as you said your assigned 3 Our Fathers and 4 Hail Marys for penance, who was to know?

Nowadays, priests are encouraged to better align penance to fit the crime. You have to tell your Mom you took that money from her purse and pay it back and promise never to do it again.

But then, geez, what the heck do you confess next time? 

*Attribution: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f3/Wikiolo_in_Liechtenstein_%2883%29.jpg

Senseless Fashion

I think we can all agree that I'm not a girly-girl. 

In an earlier time in a universe that existed long, long ago (aka high school), I dabbled in makeup, eye shadow, lip balm, and nail polish. I even wore the occasional dress because I had nice gams back in the day. 

These days, I seldom put on makeup, my fingernails are a wreck, and I have a closet full of clothes gathering dust. Recently, I went through and gathered two garbage bags full of items to donate, but I'm going to have to do another pass. I just have too much stuff, and I don't have plans on wearing it anytime soon.

Now that I work from home and spend almost all of my time here, I tend to wear the same clothing over and over. In a thrift shop a few months ago, I found a very colorful top made of fleecy material. It was love at first sight. Up until the last week or so when temps soared up into the 80s, I was wearing said top quite frequently. 

At one point, Mr. Ginley felt compelled to step in.

"I draw the line at the fleecy top with the Cat Taco pants," he proclaimed. "It's not a good look."

I cast my eyes downward to the other beloved article of clothing I'd acquired recently. It could be argued that the two aren't a combination you'd describe as pleasing to the eye. 

Still, they each in their own way make me happy.

I simply shrugged. "No one's going to see me but you."

"But I have to look at it," he said. 

I'm willing to concede this point. And so, I'll have to find a different companion for each of my favorites. Something more neutral. 

For the foreseeable future, it'll be too warm to wear the colorful top, so I'll have a few months before I need to find a companion for it that doesn't offend. 

As for the Cat Taco pants, well, I'm wearing them now. With a paisley top. 

I may need to work on this combination.

So Fast

 Mr. Ginley is forever telling me to slow down.

Look, Teeny Strawberries!

"Where is the finish line?" he queries. "Why are you in such a rush to get there?"

I know he's right of course. There's plenty of evidence right in front of me. Every day on the news, some famous figure that I grew up with has passed on. This week it was Brian Wilson and Sly Stone. Sure, they were in their 80s, but that's not that old. 

Is it?

Don't answer that.

It's such a cliché that time flies, but it really does. I may grumble and wheeze and roll my eyes when the exercise queen Leslie Sansone talks about how fast a workout has gone by. But then, before I know it, I'm playing the DVD again and doing the workout again, and ya, so fast.

It's hard to slow down, though, when you've had the zoomies all your life. Getting up, having breakfast, going to work, coming home, making dinner, spending family time, going to bed. Getting up on the weekends and running all the errands I didn't have time to complete during the week. 

Slow down. Breathe. 

I'm trying, I really am. Maggie just showed up, purring. Reminding me what's important. I gaze into the backyard. It stormed earlier, and now raindrops are kissing the leaves of the bush outside my kitchen window. There's a cool, welcome breeze blowing in. And church bells. The coo of a mourning dove. A snapshot of something lovely.

If only that bush weren't blocking my view, I really am going to have to get out there and cut it back. And just look at all those weeds taking over. I wonder if the blackberries are ripening yet? 

Maggie turns around and whacks me with her tail.

I know, I know. There aren't that many miles to go before I sleep. If I don't slow down, I'll miss all that lovely scenery.

And wouldn't that be a shame.

Here's to the Dads

 "How do you get him to take his dishes out to the kitchen," someone once asked my husband at a family function.

Mr. Ginley replied, "He knows what's expected of him, and he just does it." But I could tell Mr. was pleased. 

That was many moons ago, when our son was very young. Now he has a child of his own. We were blessed to meet our granddaughter last Sunday. It's obvious that our child is smitten with her. He didn't turn up his nose at changing her diaper. He sends me photos of the two of them, snuggling, drowsing, or crying open-mouthed (a pose reminiscent of his own childhood). Dadhood suits him well.

As this Father's Day approaches, I've been thinking a lot about our son and his father. Mr. Ginley was a stay-at-home Dad, a more radical role than it is these days. "Well-meaning" people made fun of him, berated him, and told him he would regret it. 

He never did.

Six weeks after Joe was born, I went back to work. It was heart wrenching to hear of their adventures. They'd do the planet walk in the MetroParks. Get pizza slices and have a picnic. Or play games. Mr. was aware of my sadness, and frequently drove the 35 miles to my office so the two of them could have lunch with me. It always made my day.

Of course, parenthood isn't all moonbeams and unicorns. It took two coats to paint over the "bad boy corner," where many tears were shed during a time out. There was the epic destruction of the Playstation after many warnings about abusing time limits. And there was a lot of gnashing of teeth when someone proclaimed he wanted to be a writer when he grew up, and his Dad made him pen one page every day on a small yellow legal pad for an entire summer. (We still have those pages, and yes, his writing got progressively better.)

Mr.'s goal was always to be a father, not a friend. "You'll have lots of friends in your life, but only one Dad," he always said.

I may have felt conflicted about not staying home to raise our son, but I never believed it was the wrong decision.

I feel very lucky for all the Dads in my life. My own father was a hard guy, but he did his best. He got through the Depression, fought in World War II, and raised six kids on a meager salary. His father was absent from his life much of the time and died too young to help his son out much. 

But we're all doing what we can.

Mr. heard a quote recently that kind of sums it all up.

"Anyone can be a father. Not everyone can be a Dad."

Happy Father's Day to all the Dads, whether your offspring is biological, chosen, or four-legged and furry. Hug 'em if you've got 'em!

Photo Attribution: Dorothy Hope Smith, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

P.S. I'm not posting pics of my granddaughter out of respect for my son and daughter-in-law's wishes. They're concerned about sharing photos on social media.