Not-Real-Life Adventures

It's funny how easy it is to become attached to fictional characters.

I've been reading the Inspector Gemache series by Louise Penny. It takes place in a fictional town called Three Pines, located in Canada between Quebec and the U.S. border.

A few months ago, I began listening to the series on audio books. That helped with the French pronunciations. Now I can hear the names and phrases in my head, so I can read without tripping over them.

The stories take me to a place I would love to visit -- a community I wish I could be a part of. Not perfect people, but people who feel real enough to cause a longing.

Good fiction does that, I guess. It transports us from our lives so we can take a walk along the road of "what if."

Nancy Drew used to do that. One of the things I want to do is go back and read the early part of the series to see if I still relate to the girl detective with chutzpah. She and her friend, Bess, would climb into the Roadster, and off they'd go to solve a mystery. Good times.

I admire writers who can create these imaginary places and larger-than-life characters. To be able to infuse them with so much personality, you wonder if they are based on real people. Or maybe they are bits of different real people. I don't know.

I'm just happy to travel with them for a little while and share their world.

Post-Holiday Roundup

I always have mixed feelings after Christmas.

There is so much build-up to the big day that on the night of December 25th, I feel a little sad. The presents have been opened, the stockings have been emptied and in a matter of days our little Christmas tree will be heading back down to the basement for another year in the dark.

Christmas 1966 with my brother, Paul

On the other hand, I won't have to listen to yet another rendition of Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas is You. So there is an upside to the departing holiday.

When we were growing up, I always thought New Year's Day was the saddest of all holidays. That's when we took down all of the Christmas decorations. My mom was big into the big day, so there was a lot of undecorating to do. In addition to removing ornaments and icicles from the tree, my job was to pick pine needles out of the carpet. When I was older, I had to use a razor blade to scrape the fake snow from the windows, then Windex them. I would grumble all the way, knowing all I had to look forward to was the start-up of winter term at school.

I think that's why I don't go crazy decorating the house. It's just too sad taking it all down at the end.

It would be a lot easier to take if we didn't have three more months of winter weather looming ahead. Mr. Ginley deals with this by crossing off the days between January 1st and St. Patrick's Day (which is the first day of spring as far as he's concerned).

I hunker down and make plans to curl up in the easy chair to read and do puzzles.  And dream a little dream of warm spring days and fragrant flowers.

In the meantime, I'll check to make sure we have plenty of rock salt. And hot chocolate.

And I'll count my blessings that I was able to spend the holidays with my family. They can count their blessings that January 1st will be spent watching football (and the Capitals play in the Winter Classic), not taking stuff down.

Happy New Year!

A Merry Little Christmas Wish

Every year, Mr. Ginley and I seem to struggle more and more with what to get each for Christmas.

What usually happens is...I get him a couple of books and I buy myself a few things and put them under the tree. In reality, there's not much either of us wants at this point in time. And, after all, the funds are coming out of the same pot. So buying stuff just to buy stuff seems silly.

In the past, we've focused on our son, showering him with games and clothes and stuff. But now, being in college, his needs are mostly the monetary kind. (Gift cards are a godsend.)

So, I buy little somethings for my copy team at work, and that's about as much shopping as I do. And I sewed a little this year. But no big stuff under the tree.

We talked about it this morning, Mr. G. and I, and we came to the conclusion that what we really want this year is to spend Christmas Day together, just the three of us. We're not going to sit around holding hands and singing Kumbaya or anything. But maybe I'll drag out some version of Charles Dickens' Christmas Carol. Or I'll watch some football with the boys. We'll sit around in our sweats and chow chocolate Santas and yack about not much at all.

I hope all of you enjoy the Day in your favorite fashion with those you hold dear.

And that, my friends, will be the real gift.

Happy Christmas!

Everybody Wants to Be My Baby

I opened my Yahoo mailbox this morning and saw that it was chock full of people who want to be my new best friend forever. Or at least until Christmas.

One-time purchases have put me on these mailing lists until the end of time. In many cases, unsubscribing is useless. Now that I'm in their clutches, they will stalk my email account forever. Bwahaha!

Stephanie's Shawl

Fortunately, I have the power of the delete key. That giant red "X" is my real friend.

Oddly enough, in spite of the glut of emails this holiday season (or maybe because of), I've been making a few of my holiday gifts. For some unknown reason, I've actually taken a liking to sewing and have been stitching up a storm.

I'm not the first in my circle to do so. Stephanie has been my inspiration. She's done it for years. At the master level in the art of crochet, she once made me a shawl that is flawless and beautiful. (See photo, right.) She's also given me hot chocolate mix and bath salts featuring some of my favorite scents. These have been some of the coolest gifts I've received, the ones made by hand in a labor of love. Also reigning supreme in my heart have been the cards I get from my husband and son, hand-written and illustrated with love and great humor.

As for me and my sewing projects, not to worry. I will confine my less-than-masterful efforts mostly to family. They come from the heart but will never be mistaken for store-bought. I'm also doing more local shopping this year than I have in the past. It feels good to support local artists and merchants.

In spite of my ramblings here, yes, I have bought goods on the internets. There's no getting around BarnesAndNoble.com. There's no substitute for a great book. And there's just some stuff you can't find in a store.

So, yes, I'll be getting those emails forever. 

And waiting for the discount. And the free shipping. Before I make my move.

Bwahaha!

Moving Right Along

My cubicle was like a reverse clown car yesterday.

I thought I had just about everything packed, but stuff kept spilling out of it. Old art boards with layouts from the website we launched eight years ago. Photographs from holiday parties long past. A 2005 calendar with cool pictures.  A dozen old magnets stuck on the side of a cabinet and forgotten.  A smattering of paper clips and push pins. Bobblehead dolls that were giveaways from some long-forgotten sporting event. Pictures of my son going back to babyhood. Matchbox cars (including, I am proud to say, the Monkee-mobile and the Partridge Family bus). And so much more.

It was moving day. And a moving day. I bade a fond farewell to the space I'd occupied for many years.

Over the course of the last week or so, I'd been sorting through my files. Some I shredded, others just pitched. And kept the ones I absolutely had to.

Then there were the catalogs and direct mail samples I've been collecting since 1990. Fortunately, I was able to store those temporarily in a file drawer in my old neighborhood until big file cabinets can be moved over.

Our new area has a lot less room for storage. This is actually a good thing, at least for me, because I tend to fill the space where I work. The more room I have, the more crap I accumulate.

Thinking back on this past week makes me wonder about our house and what's going to happen when we move. My original idea sounds better and better all the time: Tell the new owners that everything in the house is theirs, take only the personal items that can't be replaced, and start over again in the new abode.

In some ways, I will miss the old digs. But our new offices are awesome. I have a window seat (something I've coveted ever since those long car rides to Lima with my two sisters -- I had to sit in the middle seat with the hump at my feet). 

The ability to look up and see the outside world is great for maintaining perspective.

And my plants will be happy, too. 

Now all I have to do is unpack on Monday morning.

Time to start up the clown car!

Life Among the Dust Bunnies

I can still vividly recall, during the holiday festivities at my house, when my mother ran her finger across the top of my furniture, turned to me and gave me "the look."

Sheepish, I shrugged and said, "Oh well."

Yes, I've always been the master of comebacks.

Once upon a time, I emulated my mother. I arose every Saturday morning, did my grocery shopping, and proceeded to give the place a thorough going-over. I spent several hours vacuuming, scrubbing and dusting. I kept up this ritual for years.

Enter husband #2, a beautiful Saturday in Virginia, and his insistence that the dust would be there long after we had left this earth. And if we didn't get out there and enjoy the day, we'd regret it.

Admittedly, it didn't take much convincing on his part.

Over the years, I've cared less and less. The kitchen is a priority. And the bathroom. But the dust bunnies I don't worry so much about.

In a world far, far away I also used to care about the clutter. It didn't accumulate the way it seems to these days. That's what I thought, anyhow, until I pulled out an old photo of my desk from J.B. Robinson days circa 1986 and saw the papers piled all over it. I guess I'll never be labeled a neatnik. Oh well.

Fortunately, from time to time, Mr. Ginley tires of the clutter and ruthlessly plows through piles of stuff, tossing and filing and organizing.

"Do you really need all these receipts? Look at this one! It's for lunch at Piada six months ago. Are you planning on returning that meal?"

But then, He is the master of pamphlets. Whenever we go on a trip, he returns with a pile of pamphlets about places we will probably never visit. He often endures the stares of the Visitor Center Nazis as he clears out their stock. 

But I digress. If digression were an Olympic sport, I'd win the gold every time.

I'm sure there is a balance between being a slob and being obsessively clean and tidy. That state of grace is unlikely to find me in this lifetime.

Sometimes I imagine how my mom would react to all of the chachkas that have appeared around our home in the last few years.

I only wish she could be here now to give me "that look."

Mr. Sandman

Last night, Mr. Ginley woke me up to tell me about his dream. I'd hit him in the head with a flashlight. The details weren't clear. Why would I do such a thing? Was it metaphorical? Was I trying to enlighten him.

I didn't spend too much time pondering. I made my trip to the bathroom and trooped back to slumber some more.

This morning, as I debated whether to leave the confines of my warm, cozy, bed to write my blog, he woke up and announced I'd just shot him. Why? Apparently, my response was, "Because I wanted to." He expressed distress and pointed out that it hurt. He said I was nonchalant about the whole thing. "Did I shoot you just once?" I inquired. Yes. Well, then I guess he didn't do anything terribly heinous to provoke me. Was I just in a cranky mood? Did I shoot him just for snoring? Who knows.

Maybe it's just a cautionary tale not to keep guns around. Or flashlights.

There have been many books written about the meaning of dreams. They help to explain some of the more common ones. Like flying. Or arriving at school/work, looking down and realizing I've forgotten to put on my pants. But the books aren't a lot of help with many of the weird images my brain conjures up in a night.

Much of the time I dream about work. I've spent hours proofreading or agonizing over a missed error. The odd thing is, while the people are the same, the setting varies. In many cases, I'm in a huge building with several floors and banks of elevators, and I never seem to get off at the right floor.

Then there is the dream that I'm at my high school, but I don't recognize the layout, and I wander like Moses through the desert to find my Earth Science class. There is a test that day, and by the time I find the right room, the test is over and I've flunked.

Very occasionally, I will have a really cool dream. When I was little, I saw my grandfather in one of these, walking up and down steps in a heavenly setting. (I sure hope this doesn't mean the afterlife is like being stuck on a Stairmaster for all eternity.)

There was also the time when I had the white light dream. All around me was amazingly peaceful and calm. At the breakfast table, I spoke about it, and my dad very nonchalantly told me he'd had the same dream. That's one I wouldn't mind having again. I like waking up calm and relaxed, instead of stressed and worn out.

If my subconscious wanted to be really helpful, it would dream up the winning numbers for the next lottery.

It's not going to happen, of course. But sometimes it's nice to dream!