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.

Heaven Only Nose

"Make it smell like Christmas, Daddy!"

attribution below

This has become the battle cry whenever Mr. grabs a can of Glade, post bathroom visit.

The trouble is, someone doesn't know when to stop spraying. Soon, the whole house is doused in the scent of pine.

Don't get me wrong. A whiff, a hint, a sniff of pine is all well and good. But too much of a good this is, well, too much of a good thing.

A little pine does invoke memories of the holidays. Just as Play Doh puts me back at the kitchen table, my Mom admonishing me not to get it on my clothes, in my hair, or in my mouth. (It only took one time eating Play Doh to realize that although it looks yummy, this is one instance when pretend-eating is clearly the way to go.)  

Unlike airplane glue, there's no rule about not huffing Play Doh. That scent lingers in my memory, along with other smells I've carried around in my brain over the years.

The musty smell of my grandma's attic. where she kept the games and paper dolls we played with on our visits.

The scent of Crayola crayons. (Also not a delicacy.) We sat at the table and colored for hours. I always colored outside the lines, in spite of my siblings' admonishments. A clear indication of my future subversive nature.

When lily of the valley blooms next to our house, I can't resist sticking my nose in them. Mom used to pick them for me to take to school. And lilac, too. 

And the unmistakable aroma of Wind Song that, inexplicably, wafted from the perfume bottle my grandmother gave me, long after the contents were gone.

So, what do we call this? Nasal memory, perhaps? I don't know. 

But I am happy to share that the scent of old books is beloved enough to have earned its own name: "vellichor."

That's a story for another time.

Harry Whittier Frees, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. This photo has nothing to do with the topic, I just came across it in my travels and thought it was stinkin' cute.