A Penny for Your Thoughts

Back in the dark ages, before cable TV and its plentiful fare, Sunday mornings were a wasteland.

Public domain image

One of the options was watching old B movies of the family variety. Lots of Andy Hardy. Ma and Pa Kettle. And Blondie.

The title character in Blondie was played by Penny Singleton. Her portrayal was of the dizzy dame variety, making for screwball comedy that took place largely around the home.

I never thought much about Ms. Singleton, who would eventually appear in over two dozen Blondie movies opposite Arthur Lake's Dagwood. 

What brought her to mind recently was watching After the Thin Man, in which she appeared.

Penny was born Mariana Dorothy McNulty. She began her career as a child actor, completing her formal education only through the sixth grade. Performing in vaudeville, she sang and danced with the likes of Milton Berle and Jack Benny.

Dorothy married dentist Laurence Singleton in 1937, but after two years, the only thing she kept was his name. ("Penny" came from her habit of collecting pennies in a jar.) In 1941, she wed again, this time to Blondie producer Robert Sparks, a marriage that lasted until the groom's passing in 1964. She had two daughters with her second husband.

After the Blondie movies, Singleton cast about for her next act. Being typecast stymied her career, but she forged ahead, recreating herself in her own nightclub act. She also joined the USO tour in Korea. 

But what's really cool about Penny Singleton wasn't so much her career (although playing the voice of Jane Jetson in The Jetsons animated TV show was pretty awesome), but her extracurriculars.

Clearly, this Blondie was one smart cookie. 

Penny Singleton became an active member and occasional president of AGVA (American Guild of Variety Artists). She fought for women's rights and even testified before a United States Congress subcommittee in 1962 about the union's failings in representing its female workers. She fought for better pay, improved working conditions and benefits for the performers.

In 1967, Singleton led a strike by the Radio City Rockettes, one that proved successful in achieving better working conditions for the dancers. In 1970, she fought for a safer stage for the Disney on Parade Show. (Dancers had been suffering from injuries because a support floor had been deemed too expensive to ship with the traveling show.) This same year she took on Disneyland as well, fighting for better treatment for the college students they employed for summer jobs.

The practice of paying actors for repeat broadcasts of their appearances in movies or shows (known as "residuals") was purportedly an idea she came up with, along with the term "residuals." 

Other fun facts: Singleton was the first woman to be president of an AFL-CIO union. She has two stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, one for radio, the other for movies. And she was the lucky recipient of Humphrey Bogart's first screen kiss in Swing Your Lady. 

Penny Singleton had quite a life. It ended in 2003 at the age of 95.

But what a run it was.

Trivial Pursuits

I would say I'm beset by "ponderables," but that would imply my thoughts had some weight to them. Many of the bits of this and that which zig and zag through my brain are anything but weighty.

Gen-Y-Me?

Instead, they fall under the category of "trivial." 

For example, I'm of the Baby Boomer generation. My parents were part of the greatest generation. Then some genius, deciding that naming each generation was too onerous a task, opted instead to begin using letters. But instead of starting at the front end of the alphabet, they began with the letter "X." Were they thinking the world would end soon, thus relieving us of the need to decide where to go next? Perhaps we'll transition to emojis. Generation eyeroll might be a good choice.

Another of the random thoughts that came to me this week was about seasonal depression. Do people in Los Angeles, for example, get sick of winter? And if so, why? Maybe they just get tired of all that sunshine and warm temperatures. On the minus side, no leaves changing colors. On the plus side, no blizzards. Sure, a few mudslides and a bunch of forest fires. But mostly sunshine and warm breezes. Does that depress anyone? I guess it would be difficult to feel sorry for them if it did. Still, I guess too much of good thing could burn you out after awhile. But I wouldn't mind trying it myself, especially after the weather we've had here this week.

Speaking of weather, if scientists had called it "climate change" from the outset instead of "global warming," could we have avoided all the stupid jokes about "shoveling another six inches of global warming"? I'm asking for a friend.

The roads also become a popular topic this time of year because the salt trucks bring out the potholes. Some folks call them "chuck holes." So, who was the "Chuck" that so pissed someone off they named these bone-jarring pavement craters after him?

Why are Hallmark movies like crack cocaine for some of us? I mean, seriously, people, they have predictable plots, feature the same seven or eight actors (or lookalikes) and still, STILL, I've got my hanky at the ready for the ending. 

Do you cover up your milk chute or let it be, a bit of nostalgia that reminds you of your youth? We still have one at our house, although it's blocked from the inside. So we couldn't put our kid through it if we locked ourselves out (like our parents did with us). There was a lively discussion about milk chutes on my hometown Facebook page. I guess that's why I was pondering this one. Also, just to note, we have not one but TWO laundry chutes in our house as I write this. Ah, the labor saving devices of yore. We don't use them much. Things always seem to get stuck. I still remember my siblings coaxing the youngest patsy to stand in the basement at my grandmother's house right where the chute came out as they threw something down at us (like a shoe). Good times.

I'm sure there are lots more trivials I could be pursuing, but I'll let you get on with your day.

Think of me the next time you're sitting at a traffic light and some weird factoid comes bounding into your head.

You're welcome.

What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

A recent online discussion asked the question we all heard in our childhood.

Leaves your skin silky-smooth.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

The answers in my era were mostly predictable. If you were a boy, you wanted to be a fireman, doctor, cowboy, pilot or train engineer. Typical girl answers included teacher, nurse, airline stewardess, fashion model and secretary. 

Not surprisingly, more mundane professions like accountant, insurance salesman, auditor and bank teller rarely, if ever, made the list.

Girls were encouraged to choose homemaking as a career, hence the home economics classes we endured in junior high school. We learned how to be Donna Reed, with skills like baking a cake and sewing a skirt. Boys took shop classes to prepare them to be Mr. Handy Pants Fix-It, capable of managing such tasks as using tools and building things like birdhouses. 

In most schools, these classes no longer exist. I have always been a proponent of teaching life skills, although I believe the classes should be mandatory for both sexes. Also, every high school curriculum needs to include things like balancing a budget. And how things like insurance and taxes work. These skills are clutch, but most kids are clueless, leaving them open to difficult lessons in the real world.

For the life of me, I can't remember what my dream profession was as a child. I do remember playing teacher with my younger brother, but that may have merely been an excuse to boss him around...something I did with relish until he grew to the point where he was bigger than I and was therefore in a position to ignore me. 

There was a time when I thought I'd like to do TV commercials. I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and read from the back label of a jar of cold cream, using slogans I'd made up. 

In high school, we had to take aptitude tests. Creative writing seemed to come to the top of my list of skills, but at the time, I didn't know how to parlay that into a career. Instead, I fell back on the tried-and-true profession of secretary. In high school, I took business prep classes and found myself typing spreadsheets and memos in an accounting department. It wasn't until my mid-20s when I realized I wanted to be in advertising. 

Fortunately, I was able to make the transition, thanks to the influence of a mentor who saw I was unhappy and likely to leave to the company. I started out as a secretary in the advertising department, but I was so excited about the opportunity, I worked my ass off. I learned to write copy, to put together motivational newsletters and eventually, paste up ads for printing, manage special events and write radio spots. If it weren't for J.B. Robinson Jewelers and the amazing mentors I had there, I'm not sure how my career would have looked.

Alas, I never did get a stint in front of the camera, although someday I think I'd like to give audio book reading a shot. My voice, if not my face, is still in pretty solid shape. 

Retirement isn't in my immediate future. I feel the pull of something new coming, and I'm looking forward to it.

That rocking chair will just have to wait.

Beautiful Music

Snippets of memories often come unbidden to mind at odd times. Maybe it's just a function of becoming an alter cocker*. 

The other day, I remembered my mom listening to an FM station whose brand was self-described as "WDOK, Beautiful Music for the Lands of the Western Reserve." 

Their playlist was much like what we used to define as "elevator music," i.e., soft soap versions of light rock tunes, crooners like Perry Como and lots of stuff from popular melody makers like Ferrante & Teicher and 101 Strings Orchestra. 

All day, every day the radio was tuned in and provided the background of my childhood. I never thought much about it, and I wonder how much my mom actually listened to it. 

I would cringe a little as the Beatles were reduced to pablum, but mostly I just didn't give it a lot of thought. 

The radio went off when my Dad arrived home from work. 

For my Dad's part, he had a collection of LPs that included Al Hirt, Mitch Miller, Herb Alpert and Mantovani. Plus some old 78s of Glen Miller and Tommy Dorsey. He played records when we were small, but at some point, he lost interest, and the record player remained largely mute throughout my teens and ever after.

Try as I may, I can't recall if the two of them listened to music after my Dad retired. Of course, by then, WDOK had changed its format, and no one was really catering to folks of my parents' generation.

One year, I gave my mom a tape player and a few cassettes, but I don't think she listened to them very much. 

It may be telling that after he got Alzheimer's, Dad would spend hours watching VHS tapes, his favorites being musicals like My Fair Lady. So music did come around to him again.

I cannot imagine I will ever enjoy listening to lighter versions of my favorite rock tunes. 

My goal is to keep on Driving Down the Highway, singing I Can't Drive 55, Highway Star, Radar Love or Drive My Car, beating on the steering wheel in time, and not giving a good you-know-what if the other drivers think I'm a nutjob.

That's just how I roll.

*Old fart, Yiddish style. (Props to Harry.)

Not Missing You at All

Yes, I belong to a nostalgic Facebook page, and yes, it's to be expected there will be a lot of "good old days" blibber blabber...

Oh, those simpler times, before cell phones and computers. When we played outdoors until the street lights came on, soldiered bravely on when we cut open our knee and bled like a stuck pig, and walked uphill to school (both ways) through teeming rain and frigid snow.

While I believe there's a lot to be said for pulling one's own weight and not being a wuss every time life throws you a curve ball, I must admit there are many things I don't miss from times gone by.

Or, as Billy Joel put it, "The good old days weren't always good and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems." (COVID excepted.)

All this occurred to me as I typed a birthday letter to my nephew on my SCM portable typewriter. It was in recognition of the anniversary of his birth 40 years ago. As I clickety-clacked my way down the page, I had a vivid flashback of Wite Out and correction tape, neither of which I use these days. I made it clear in my letter that he'd have to put up with strikeouts, since I wasn't going to use these devices of yore.

Later, I began to cast about for other things I do not miss. Here's what I came up with:

Manual Channel Changing 
Largely because I suspect I would be the default remote control in our home, this one goes to the top of the list. In my husband's family, his sister was the designated channel-changer. They called her "Machine Gun Mary" because she gave the dial a real workout. In our home, turning the dial too quickly earned a lot of shouting and threats of severe reprisal from my Dad. 

Long Distance Charges

'Twas not so long ago that if I wanted to chat with one of my sisters, I'd try to call in the evening when it was cheaper. Now I can call or text or video chat at will without fear of incurring outrageous long distance fees. (Not counting cell phone and internet charges, of course.)

Instant Coffee

If you've ever tried instant, I don't need to explain this one to you. If you haven't had it, count your blessings. 

Burning River

Every time someone on national television talks about the history of Cleveland, the Cuyahoga River burning always comes up. This happened a couple of weeks ago on Jeopardy, when the category was Cleveland News History. Although this wasn't the first time the Cuyahoga was set ablaze, it became the catalyst for change. The EPA was born shortly thereafter, and we started to enjoy a cleaner river.

Pantyhose

In my youth, I would wriggle into pantyhose on a regular basis. As we weren't made of money, I had to mend plenty of stockings in my day. Clear nail polish stopped a run in its tracks, but the offending eyesore still had to be darned. The oh-so-lovely stitches made Frankensteins of my legs. There I was, hoping no one would notice (or say anything -- ya, right). Dresses are largely a thing of my past, and good riddance, I say. I'm not confident enough to go without stockings when I wear a dress, so pants it is.

Regular Cat Litter

I didn't realize what a pain this had been until I start using clumping cat littler. Initially, I poo-poo'd* the whole notion, but I quickly came around when I experienced the ease of scoopage.

I'm sure there are lots of other things I don't miss, but I'm going to give it a rest for now. It's time to make dinner.

Someday, I'm hoping to say I don't miss making dinner because the droid does such a nice job, she spoils me.

Those will be the days...

*Pun intended.

The Forecast is for Grey

Rainy days and Mondays got Karen Carpenter down, but grey winter days do it for me.

I'm just not a big fan of winter in general. Add a pandemic, political upheaval and economic anxiety, and, well, yikes.

I try to focus on other things. It was lovely to usher in a new administration this week. Fingers crossed.

The Bernie Sanders meme was a nice distraction for awhile. Like a few hours. Although, admittedly, I'm done at this point. 

I miss walks in the park, but I really hate the cold. I'd love to read, but my dry eyes have made even that difficult.

It's just all this grey. A little sunshine would be nice. 

Maybe it's just not a good day to be writing for this space. Too much whine. Not enough cheesecake.

Oh well. I hope you are all staying safe and warm. And maybe binge watching something fun.

I just looked out and saw a piece of blue sky. So maybe there's hope.

Sorry for the lame post this week. I'll try to be more entertaining next week.

Artsy Fartsy

At some point, Mr. Ginley, in a fit of ennui or whatever, took down most of the decorative stuff hanging on our walls.

Artist: Michael Bedard, 1982

"It's time for a change," he declared.

And so we began to go through our collection of posters, artwork and such to freshen up the look of the place. (Yes, painting the walls would do a better job, but that's not happening anytime soon, so...)

"How about the Bedards?" suggested Mr. Ginley. 

My grandfather's pictures moved upstairs to the sewing room, accompanied by another Bedard, Sitting Duck, an appropriate commentary in light of the the debacle that was 2020. (Spoiler alert: the bullets missed.)

Other items that went up included a portrait of my grandmother as a girl, a poster from Bowie's Serious Moonlight Tour of 1983 and a photo of Bill's great-great-grandfather, a captain in the Civil War.

In our room, Bowie made more appearances, his eyes following us around the room. (I don't get dressed in our bedroom, so it's not weird or anything.)

The kitchen was pretty much off limits as far as changes go. Thiebaud's cakes are safe, the Three Little Kittens remain and the cut-out Chinese gentlemen continue to hold their places of honor. 

And, oh yes, the spice rack that precipitated the Great Spice Bottle Wars of 1993. I was prepared to ditch the old spice rack, but Mr. Ginley came up with the idea of filling the bottles with colored sand, thus creating works of art. The trouble began when I insisted the sand should be layered, while Mr. contended shaking the sand was the way to go. A compromise was reached, and to this day, bottles reflecting both methods sit peacefully, side-by-side.

But I digress...

We still have a blank wall or two that could use a little something. Maybe a Doisneau. Fortunately, our closet is chock full of artwork acquired from this museum shop or that garage sale.

I'm confident that one day soon, we'll go through all of it, sort it and decide what stays and what goes. (Mr. Ginley opined, "It all stays.")

Ha Ha.

More than likely, someday Joe will be going through all this stuff, thinking over and over, "What possessed those two to buy this POS?