Wish Books

 One of my guilty pleasures is browsing the hometown page of my Facebook account.

Props to Dawn Reed for photo

There I've found lots of nostalgic fare, and these days a trip back in time to my childhood is a nice touch of escapism.

This week the Parma Memories page featured the cover a Sears toy catalog from 1966. And boy, howdy, did that bring back a flood of memories.

In my mind, I can smell the printed pages of the catalog, each wafer-thin sheet filled with possibilities. How cool would it be to own this or that. Some of the toys had been featured in TV commercials. Others just looked like they would be fun to play with. 

Board games, dolls, race car sets, puzzles and all manner of joy, were tucked into a catalog jam packed with gift ideas for good (well, mostly good) children everywhere.

I knew in my heart of hearts that most of these treasures would never be mine. With five siblings and a limited budget, my mom would do her best. But what would show up under the tree would never live up to the dreams promised in the Sears catalog.

And yet, oh what fun it was to imagine the Christmas morning that existed only in my head. It was the anticipation, the reaching for the unreachable, that was the magic. Poised with a crayon to circle my favorites, I'd pore over the catalog for hours.

And in the end, I didn't really miss getting a Chrissy doll (with hair that grew and grew). Or the board game Mystery Date. Or Mouse Trap. Not too much, anyhow.

These are the days of instant gratification, where you can get anything you want online (rather than at Alice's Restaurant).

If you got that last reference, you know what I'm talking about.

Just for chuckles, I went on ebay and searched for the old Sears toy catalogs. Someone is selling them for $19 apiece. On a thumb drive.

I think I'll pass, thanks. There are some experiences electronics just can't replicate.

Shopping in the Time of Covid

I can't honestly say I've ever enjoyed grocery shopping. But it's a task that must be done, and since I'm the head chef at the Casa de Ginley, it only makes sense that I'm the official gatherer.

Public domain image

Of course, this task has been complicated by the raging pandemic. You know, the one we hear about daily but have grown numb to.

So, like my fellow shoppers, I don my mask and (mostly) follow the directional arrows at my local supermarket.

The social distancing thing is quite a dance though, isn't it? You're waiting for your turn at the banana bin, dodging the stockers and fellow shoppers. Turning your head away and mumbling "sorry" as you reach for the fruit you hope will be the right shade of yellow/green. Then bobbing away, moving along.

The deli counter is problematic. The workers are positioned far enough away they can't hear you place your order. So you will find yourself shouting, "A QUARTER POUND OF ROAST BEEF, SHAVED." And once again, "ROAST BEEF."  And "QUARTER." And "SHAVED."

Then you will reach across the abyss and snag your meat baggie and toss it into your cart.

The aisles are clearly marked so you know which way to go. But, yes, I admit I'm guilty of sneaking the wrong way down the aisle to grab something that's only a few steps in. (While still properly social distancing, naturally.)

Pre-Covid, one of the things I always marveled at was the voluminous variety of brands and types of food. During the pandemic, this has changed. One can no longer be fussy about brands. You get the beans or the cheese or the toilet paper they have in stock that week. 

Speaking of TP, I still haven't figured out why things like bathroom tissue and Lysol are flying off the shelves. Are people using their toilets more during the pandemic? Maybe it's because they are eating off-brand beans?

Who knows.

Someday, soon I hope, things will return to normal and all of this will just be an unpleasant memory.

And once again we will be able to shop in pairs, sans masks, and dart willy-nilly down the aisles of our local supermarket without fear of infection.

That'll be the day.

Go Lightly

Earlier this year as the crazytown train was gathering steam, I received an email from The New York Times. 

Ms. Littman (public domain photo)

They inquired if I'd be interested in receiving a regular newsletter from them that covered the biggest news stories from their paper. I'm not much of a news hound, but I thought I'd give it a try.

And so it was that I found myself devouring the newsletter six mornings a week (they don't publish on the seventh). 

One of the features I've enjoyed is a "lives well lived," section that touches on someone who has passed. Sometimes it's a famous person. But often it's someone I've never heard of. 

One such was socialite Marguerite Littman. 

She hobnobbed with the likes of David Hockney, Gore Vidal and Truman Capote. It was Capote who used Littman as the inspiration for Holly Golightly, Audrey Hepburn's character in Breakfast at Tiffany's. 

Littman was friends with a whole host of celebrities. Her own career as an actress originally stalled because of her thick Southern accent, a byproduct of her upbringing in Monroe, Louisiana as a member of one of the city's oldest families. The accent became an asset when she was overhead at a party by Elia Kazan and Tennessee Williams, who recruited her as a speech coach for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

She lived in New York City, wrote articles for national magazines and worked with Richard Avedon, a photographer who took on social issues in America in the 1960s.

In 1965, she married Mark Littman, a British barrister and Queen's Counsel. Marguerite took up residence in London, dividing her time between the US and Britain.

It was from her office across the pond that Littman would embark on her crusade, creating an enduring legacy.

In the 1980s, AIDS victims were being shunned and vilified by the public. Following the death of her close friend, Rock Hudson, from this terrible disease, Littman began her mission to raise awareness and support for AIDS patients.

In 1986, she sent letters to 300 influential friends and associates, asking them for £100 each. She only received one "no." Six months later, she hosted a gala to officially launch the AIDS Charitable Trust, and the donations began to roll in, and contiued to do so for another decade.

Princess Diana, herself an advocate of AIDS causes, gave Littman her wardrobe to auction off, raising millions for the cause just two months before her death in 1997.

Two years later, the Trust was rolled into the Elton John AIDS Foundation, where Littman served as a director.

She passed away October 16th at the age of 90. Alas, I couldn't find any indication that Littman wrote her memoirs. 

My guess is they would have been quite a read, indeed.

Random Thoughts from the Chair

Nine months between haircuts is too much. 

But with this whole Covid thing, I wasn't in a hurry to get my locks chopped. Everyone has a breaking point, I suppose. And by last Saturday, I'd reached mine. It was either get a haircut or shave my head.

So, off I went to my "hair artisan" to get the job done.

Since my last visit, the salon I frequented had closed. The owners bailed, but the hairdressers got together and opened a new place. Fortunately, my stylist was one of the participants in the new venture.

And thus it was that I found myself sitting in a salon chair, fully masked, waiting for my hair color to magically transform to a more youthful hue. 

Probably, I should have brought a book to occupy my time. I did check Facebook a few times, but honestly, it's been too exhausting lately. Scrolling and scrolling in search of my friends between all the ads and "suggested for me" posts is getting old.

So I opted instead for quiet contemplation. I was facing a large mirror that reflected the street. Traffic zoomed by, and I wondered where they were all going in such a hurry. That particular observation ran its course pretty quickly.

Closing my eyes, I listened to the buzz of conversation around me. I learned what my fellow salon mates were up to, their plans for the upcoming holiday season and all about their work woes.

Checking my watch, I saw that 15 minutes had elapsed. Halfway to the time before my hair guru would reappear.

Then I made eye contact with myself in the mirror. These days, I'm farsighted, so having my glasses off didn't hinder my view. My mask covered my face from below my eyes to below my chin. 

That's when it occurred to me. Given that my grey hair was adequately quashed and the mask took care of my neck wattle, my actual age was no longer discernible. 

Imagine that. Folks who didn't know me might think I was 50. Or even 40. 

Cool beans!

This belief was reinforced a few days later at Target when I purchased my Stella Artois. The cashier, a 30-something guy, was apologetic when he asked to see my ID to purchase the alcoholic beverage. He had no idea how old I was. 

Frankly, I was delighted.

So I guess there's some reason to be glad I'm wearing a face covering. 

But I'll still be ecstatic when we've eradicated the beast and masks are no longer necessary.

Are We There Yet?

Six kids in a 1966 Chevy Impala station wagon en route to grandma's house. 

"Are we there yet?" comes at my mother at frequent intervals during the 3 1/2 hour trip.

Over the years, my mom developed a strategy to mitigate the questions. 

We would count off the towns we went through as we drove toward our ultimate destination: Lima.

In time, we could all recite the sequence: Bellevue - Tiffin - Findlay - Lima.

Invariably, there was always one smart guy in the bunch who would question little townlets like "Republic."

"Isn't it a town, mom? Why doesn't it count?"

"We only count the bigger towns," my mother would reply. "Republic has one flashing traffic light and about five houses. We don't count it."

And it was true, it was a blink-and-you-miss-it experience.

Growing up, I often wondered what it would be like to live in a small town, separated from large cities by miles and miles of farmland. As teenagers and young adults, we were grateful for the anonymity and diverse experiences that cities offer.

As I get nearer to the Medicare years, I wonder again if it would be nice to live in a place where folks know and care about each other. Fresh air and wide open spaces and a slower pace.

Of course, these days, the internet helps connect small towns with the bigger world, so the disparity isn't so remarkable.

On the other hand, I'm not a big fan of shooting for sport, my politics are blue and I'm a big sissy -- I'd miss my city (or what was the city before COVID).

Today's goal is to survive 2020. That's enough of a challenge these days.

Which is probably why our refrain comes back to me today:

"Are we there yet?"

Tricky Memories

Aside from my childhood, Halloween has never been a big deal for me. 

You bet your life it's me

In high school, I did dress up as Groucho Marx. That was pretty fun. I had a Barbie theme going during my former employment. (Retired Malibu Barbie and Moroccan Barbie.) But mostly, I left the creative costuming to others. (A nod here to Stephanie Petroff, who had some of the best homemade costumes ever.)

As far as Halloween parties go, they've never been a big thing for me. 

There are only two memorable soirées that come to mind.

The first was hosted by Mr. Ginley and me. This was our only foray into entertaining on All Hallow's Eve.  We were living in our apartment in Virginia, and it was a last-minute thing. We extended verbal invitations, bought some snacks and waited for folks to show up.

And waited. And waited some more.

The doorbell rang. Huzzah! It was my friend, Judie, a co-worker at Kay Jewelers. Being a designer, as well as a wacky funster, she was the Lucy to my Ethel. That night, she was a bee.

She was also the solo attendee. We had a lovely time in spite of the small gathering and it gave us something to laugh about in years to come.

Undeniably, the most memorable Halloween party took place in 1981 or 1982. 

I was dressed as an exotic dancer, complete with a red one-piece leotard, fishnet stockings, a black boa around my neck and tassels strategically placed. (And yes, by bouncing up and down on my toes and swinging my hips, I could make them twirl.)

The party took place at the home of Cheri, a JBR co-worker, and I was there with my then-husband. What made it memorable was the fact that my future boyfriend and future second husband (that would be Mr. Ginley) were also in attendance. Of course, I had no inkling of this at the time, but looking back, it was pretty spooky. 

Like all JBR parties, there was plenty of alcohol and playing footsie, etc.

Damir was there. Not sure if Sue S. was there. And Ellen threw up in the bushes. 

Good times, as they say.

These days, we're more likely to turn out the lights and spend a quiet night watching a little television. It's bath night for me. And the Buckeyes are on, so we know what Mr. will be doing.

Hopefully, everyone will have a safe and healthy Halloween in these days of COVID.

Save a Milky Way for me!

Good Grief

"In my neighborhood, if you gave a kid a rock for trick-or-treat, it would go through your window."

"If some girl pulled the football away from me, it would be the last thing she'd ever do."

"What's up with the dancing? The one stupid kid is just shrugging his shoulders, clicking his heels and moving his head from side to side."

"Why would you bring home a dead Christmas tree and expect your friends to tell you how brilliant you were?"

"Who names their kid 'Linus'?"

Yes, it was Mr. Ginley expressing these sentiments, in response to my comment that the Peanuts holiday specials aren't airing on local TV channels but only watchable on Apple TV. 

Personally, I enjoy the Peanuts Christmas special. It brings back happy memories of watching the holiday specials with my siblings each year. But I do believe the Peanuts gang jumped the shark when they expanded into other holidays like Thanksgiving and Easter. 

And the whole Great Pumpkin thing got weird fast. It made me wonder if Charles Schultz questioned his belief in the Almighty. (Did he ask the Big Guy for something and wait and wait for it, only to get no reply at all?)

Mr. Ginley did concede that Vince Guaraldi's soundtrack was a high point in the Christmas special.  We agreed on something, at least.

But I know again this year, A Charlie Brown Christmas will be a solo event for me. 

And I'm perfectly okay viewing it without the benefit of the resident critic's running commentary.