Off Topic

I get my inspiration from many sources. Books, music, newspapers, happenings in my life and national something-or-other day.

The light bulb is not on today.

Today, I'm thinking about the events of the past week and crossing off the topics one by one. Too serious. Too work-related. Too awful.

So I decided to go to Facebook and see if I could become inspired there. I guess there are folks who could be sparked by a video of a happy dog getting a bath. This just didn't work for me. (Although I do want to go back and read the article about why cats feel the need to accompany you to the bathroom.)

I was glad about the marriage equality vote passing in Ireland. The final episode of Mad Men was entertaining and bittersweet. Enjoyed some pics from my favorite photographer from Japan, Takahiro Yamamoto. Made a mental note to go back and re-read John Steinbeck's Winter of Our Discontent, listen to Girl from Ipanema and watch some old George Carlin routines. 

Still, there were no stand-out topics I wanted to broach today. So, rather than forcing things, I'm giving my loyal readers a day off. I hope you enjoy your three days away from the office/school/daily grind and do something that makes you feel great.

As for me, it's my turn to scoop the poop and hang with my buddies at the cat shelter. So therapeutic. And a special announcement for all of you who also live and breathe the printed word: Half Price Books is having a 20% off sale.

So you know where Mr. and I will be!
 

Judy, Judy, Judy

There are people who drift into your life, have a major impact, then drift out again.

One such person in my life left this world May 11th. I hadn't seen Judy in many years. But when I read the death notice in the newspaper, I began to revisit those years when she was so important to me.

Judy lived across the street from my childhood home. In my teens, I babysat her daughter while Judy attended night classes at the local university and when she dated. She was a divorced mom at a time when it was more acceptable to stay in an unhappy marriage. I always admired that she took the right road, not the easy one.

After I graduated from high school, Judy got me a job at the general contracting firm where she worked in the accounting department. Watching Mad Men, I've often thought about Judy. She experienced a lot of the crap women had to endure in an office dominated by men. One in particular insisted on calling her "doll." One of my favorite lines of hers was, "Please don't call me a doll. A doll is a stuffed dummy. I am not a stuffed dummy." The women in the office were secretaries or bookkeepers, but never account managers. In another day and age, Judy could easily have done the work the men did. She was a smart cookie. Eventually, she earned her degree, became a CPA and moved on.

There were so many lessons I learned from Judy, about life and the working world, during our late night chats and in the car as we drove to work together.

Judy was at my first wedding, and I was at her second. After I got divorced, we drifted apart, and I didn't see her again. But I never forgot her. She was my mentor, my life line and my friend at a time when all were in short supply.

I hope Judy is at peace. She knew how to live and love well. I have no doubt that she is a welcome addition to the next world, too.

 "Bye-bye, buy bonds, save chicken fat and join the WACs."

The Eyes Have It

This is the time of year when routine doctor appointments pop up like whack-a-moles.

Maybe it's because I try to schedule them when there's not 10 inches of snow outside. Also, the appointments take me away from work, and it's nice to be out and about in the warm weather. And yes, it's a little sad when you'd rather have someone poking around your innards than be at work.

In any case, this week's winner was the eye doctor. Well, not him specifically. Once a year I have to go to his office for two procedures. In the first, the technician takes a picture of my optic nerve. (I've been tempted to ask her if I can have one to post on Facebook.) For the other test, I sit in front of  screen with a patch over one eye (arrrrr) and a clicker in my right hand, force myself to stare straight ahead, and click every time time I see a spot of light. (Come to think of it, a photo in this get-up might be the better Facebook play.)

While enduring these procedures is annoying, it's a good sight better than no sight at all. So, I stare straight ahead, refrain from blinking and click when necessary.

If I'm lucky, I'll never get glaucoma. Cataracts, on the other hand, are unavoidable. The cool thing is, I live in an age where the doctor can make pictures of my optic nerve and know exactly what's going on inside my head. Scary for him, maybe. But a blessing for me.

As I type this, I look up through the glasses that keep the world in sharp focus. And, although I'm a Luddite at heart, I take a moment to appreciate the modern world and all of its wonders.

Well, maybe not ALL of its wonders. (Do we really need an Apple Watch?) But the medical variety can be pretty amazing.

Java Jive

I love coffee, I love tea, I love the java jive and it loves me...

So croon the Ink Spots, in their come-hither way, making the nectar of the gods sound even more delectable.

If that's possible.

I love my coffee. Cream and sugar, please. They have a mini-Starbucks at work, which I sometimes frequented. But once they got the Keurig machine in our area, that was all she wrote. That's when I discovered Gevalia's Mocha Latte. It has become my go-to drink post-lunch. I open the little packet of mystery stuff, dump it in my mug, load the K-cup, and press the button. Then the magic happens. It sizzles and crackles and makes a cup of pure heaven. So many people have asked me what I'm drinking, I should get a commission.

Of course, like most folks, I wasn't born loving coffee. Many moons ago at my first office job, drinking coffee was de rigueur, and I wanted to fit in, and so it began. There was actually a time when I gave up coffee altogether. I don't remember why I started drinking it again. But here I am. And here my coffee is. It wakes me up. It keeps me going. And when I get the jitters, I know it's time to stop. (Two cups is my limit.)

There's a certain irony in the fact that my son works at Dunkin' Donuts. And that it has paid for a good chunk of his college. So, you see, coffee really is good.

Waiter, waiter, percolator...

Black and White and Red All Over

Every once in awhile, someone posts something on Facebook that really gets me going.

Last night, Connie Schultz shared a story entitled "Christina in Red," about a British electrical engineer who took photos of his daughter in 1913. Color photos. I was so taken with the story, I had to re-share on my own Facebook page.

With big sister, Denise

It's funny how the addition of color takes photos out of the past. Looking at them, you can imagine this young girl turning away from the camera to text her friend. In one shot, she's standing by a lilac bush in bloom with an expression all parents of young people have witnessed when you have ordered them to do something tedious. (Or maybe it's just her "pensive" face. It's hard to tell.)

I came of age in an era when family photographs (and television, for that matter) transitioned from mostly black and white to all color. Sometimes I have to stop and think about the various colors our house was over the years. I remember the pink checked romper I wore as a toddler, only because my mom saved it for me. But many of the other colors of my early childhood are lost in the black and white world that dominated the period.

From an artistic standpoint, I appreciate the rich texture of black and white photography. And I hate when they go back and colorize old movies. I'm glad this practice has waned. (I imagine an offshore technician in a little room somewhere deciding Bette Davis' ball gown should be green because that's the technician's favorite color.)

But I admit, I enjoy the rich color photographs that bring the world to my door. The cherry blossoms, the Aurora Borealis, the lights of distant cities.

And the old pictures from 1913, that transport me to another time and place. And make me wonder whatever happened to the Christina who lived there in a flash of red.

Hello Dolly!

Sometimes I like to sit back and let life take me where it may. Last weekend, during my trip to Columbus, that's exactly what I did.

I pointed the car toward the part of town that had boutiques and eateries and a Graeter's Ice Cream shop (yum!), and wondered where to park. Turning down a side street, I saw there was two-hour parking and pulled up in front of the Worthington Historical Society and Doll Museum.

During my childhood, I had a couple of dolls. Betsy was my go-to babe, with eyes that opened and closed. Her limbs swung back and forth but didn't bend. Her hair was styled in an auburn bubble cut. I spent many hours playing with her, changing her clothes (many of them hand-made by my mom), and engaging her in riveting conversation.

My Betsy

I've never been a really big doll person. I don't collect them or anything, but since I had agreed to follow where serendipity led, I went into the museum and had a look-see. The dolls were housed in two rooms, not in any particular order. Except for the dolls enacting the Japanese tea ceremony. (They were part of a doll exchange program with a city in Japan whose name escapes me.)

So, there I was, wondering why the muse led me there, when my eyes fell on a doll that totally stole my heart. She was dressed in a peach satin number complete with feathery trim and was wearing lace up booties. She had this amazing face. I wanted to break the glass and run off with her, but I figured they would frown on that sort of thing. Instead, I bent down to read the card: "Madame Alexander, Babs, 1948-1956"Aha.

At the end of my tour, I asked one of the volunteers if they had any literature on the dolls. Nope. Postcards? Nope. They had a gift shop but nothing about the dolls. A lost opportunity. The marketer in me despaired and decided to find out more on my own.

It turns out that Beatrice Alexander was the daughter of Russian immigrants, born in Brooklyn, New York in 1895. Her father had a doll hospital, purportedly the first of its kind in America. In 1923, she started making dolls at her kitchen table, and grew the business that is still in existence today, still in New York.

Ms. Alexander was a pioneer in American dolls. In the 1930's, she created them from movie characters, later making dolls with likenesses to other famous folks, such as Queen Elizabeth and the Dionne Quintuplets. And in 1976, she created first ladies dolls for the Smithsonian. Another fun fact: in the 1940's, she was the first to make dolls with eyes that opened and closed.

Madame A. passed away in 1990 at the age of 95. In 1997, she got her own postage stamp. Her motto, "Dolls are made to be played with and loved," is still espoused by her company, which can now be found on the internet. 

Who knew?

I went on Ebay and started looking for my Babs doll. I didn't find the exact one I fell in love with, but others from the same time period were somewhere in the $250 range. So I guess I won't own one anytime soon.

Maybe I'll email the company and ask if they have any plans to reissue some of the classic Madame Alexander dolls. Specifically, the Babs series.

That would be awesome.

In the meantime, I still have Betsy. Think I'll pull her out of mothballs and have a chat. For old times' sake.

Cutting Remarks

After much procrastinating, I finally got my hair shorn this week. Fortunately, I’m pleased with the results. But that's not always been the case.

My reluctance to get my hair cut dates back to my early years, when my mom would force my sister and me to walk up to the corner and get what they used to call a pixie cut. Translated, it means a very short bob with bangs.

 

The dreaded pixie cut.

I hated my pixie cuts.

These days, I frequent a Great Clips franchise located near my place of employment. It’s a crap shoot. The stylists change so often, it’s difficult to get the same one twice.

I have a photo of myself that shows the way I like my hair to be styled. I point and say, “Cut it like this.” I have not found this to be a guarantee of success. It is my belief that some beauticians have an idea of how to cut your hair, and they just go with that. For $13.99, you expect, what, to look like a runway model?

So I keep my expectations tiny, but sometimes I’m still whiny. I lucked out this week because my stylist listened and cut my hair exactly the way I asked her to. As a bonus, we had a discussion about hair coloring that was helpful.

Odd as it sounds, I have never colored my hair. Nope, never. But the day is nigh. The grey hairs, once an anomaly, are beginning to take over. So I know that one day soon, I will have to find someone who will do the deed and make the grey go away. For awhile. The trouble is, I know once I begin, there’s no going back, and I will be making regular appointments with a beautician.

Yes, a lot of women dye their hair at home. But I know my limitations. I don’t want to show up at work looking like Lucy.

When my mother-in-law lived with us, I used to take her to get her hair done. Now, when I think about going to a beauty parlor to get my locks colored, all I can see is a gaggle of octogenarians, paper-bibbed and ranting about their lumbagos and unruly grandchildren, while their stylists murmur, “really” and “oh my” and “what a shame.”

On the other hand, what’s so bad about grey hair? I look experienced. Mature.

Okay, okay, I get it. Move over, Agnes, I’m next.