Colorful Riches

As we were cleaning out the closet the other day, Mr. Ginley repeated one of his tired, old chestnuts.

It happened when we came across not one but TWO 64-count boxes of Crayola Crayons. The specter touched a nerve.

"I remember when I was a kid, I only got the 8-count box of Crayola Crayons. YOU people must have been rich, YOU had the 64-count box," he lamented.

Apparently, the Senior Mr. Ginley, who worked for Glidden Paints his entire career (and knew his ecru from his beige), told his son that all he needed were the primary colors. "Just mix yellow and blue, and you've got green. You don't need 64 crayons."

But I digress.

While my family was certainly not in a class with the Rockefellers, we did possess the coveted 64-count box of Crayolas. And yes, it came with the built-in sharpener. However, I was not the first child who got to use the crayons. Like a treasured heirloom, they were handed down from child to child until I, Child #5, was granted access. By that time, their wrappers had been torn away and the little darlings sharpened down (or broken down) into sad, sorry stubbins.

In a valiant effort to sustain the once-grand coloring sticks, my sister, Diane, insisted they be returned, in some sort of order, to the original box, which by then was becoming a sad relic.

Of course, there are always certain colors that maintain their youthful beauty – like the white crayon, which is essentially worthless unless you happen to be writing on black construction paper. We weren't permitted to use the construction paper, except for school projects, so the white crayon was largely spared.

All of this explains why we have TWO 64-count boxes of crayons sitting in our closet. 

As long as they are there, sitting upright in their mostly-pristine state, I can feel just a bit decadent. At any time, I can inhale their waxy fragrance, pluck out a yellow-orange, burnt sienna or one of 62 other beauties in the box and color a page to my heart's delight.

Best of all, no one will scold me for coloring outside the lines.

Lunch With Bob and Gary

Earlier in the week when I heard how warm the weather would be yesterday, I decided to text my big brother, Gary, and see if he was available for lunch. Thankfully, I received a resounding "yes" to my luncheon request, and plans were set into motion.

I was a runner, so Gary had to hold onto me.

I'd punked on a lunch we'd scheduled back in January because I had "the crud." Now that mess was in my rear view mirror, and I was ready to break bread with my most senior sibling.

Because Gary works in Wadsworth, it's customary for me to head to the office, work in the morning, and meet for lunch at Bob Evans. 

Thursday night, I toodled through my closet in search of suitable office wear. 

Hmmm. I assessed my weight gain and decided on one of two pairs of pants that still fit. (Clearly, sweat pants and my high school sweatshirt were not ready for prime time.)

Friday morning dawned dry and warm. I rose early and made up some pasta salad for Mr. Ginley's lunch. Before getting dressed, I took a quick peek at my FB page. I was amazed to discover that Gary and I were celebrating 14 years as Facebook friends. Wow, what were the odds? Well, 365:1, but still. I took it as a sign to play the lottery. Which I did.

But I digress. 

It was time to journey south. For nearly 30 years, I'd made the trek betwixt Cleveland and Akron, barely giving it a thought (unless the weather was really bad). Given the sunny skies and the Bangles CD I played en route, I was in good spirits when I arrived at work.

I was happy to see a large pot of freshly brewed coffee was hot and ready. I greeted two (of the four) coworkers who were in the office and poured myself a heapin' helpin' of the dark brew (along with the requisite additives).

The desk I occupy on the rare occasions when I go to the office faces the parking lot, but it's on a height of sorts, so I get a pretty nice view. I only exchanged brief pleasantries with my coworkers, so I was able to dig in and get my assigned work done.

Honestly, if the office weren't such a hike, I wouldn't mind going in more often. It's a nice change of pace. And the fact that I have to dress up and put on real clothes, shoes and makeup is a good discipline.

Still, I've gotten used to my routine of rising, exercising, breakfasting, reading the paper and commuting up the stairs to my home office. 

Also, there's no cat at work.

In the end, I had a lovely lunch with my big brother. And the drive home under blue skies and sunshine was a delight. 

Plus, it was fun to sing along with Walk Like an Egyptian. 

Although, admittedly, I was unable to do the moves while I was driving.

A Barbie World

There's always been a special place in my heart for Barbie. 

Is it because she shares my name? That she was born the same year as me? Or that my bubble-cut Barbie doll was one of my most cherished possessions as a child?

Perhaps it's all of the above. 

I spent countless hours changing Barbie's outfits. Every holiday I received clothes for her – either store bought or home made. I had the shoes, the hats, the purses and, of course, the bathing suit. My Dad made stands for our dolls – I still have mine. 

In the early days, there was one Barbie. Diane's was blonde, Denise's was brunette, and mine was a redhead, but otherwise they looked alike. Oh, and Denise also had the original Midge with the flippy hair and freckles. I was always so jealous.

Arms and legs didn't bend. There was no Doctor Barbie or Senator Barbie or Astronaut Barbie. Just Barbie.

I still have the plastic case she arrived in, and I pulled it out yesterday to stroll down memory lane. 

So, what prompted this bout of nostalgia? 

The Barbie movie.

I waited until I was able to rent the film from the library. Because yes, I'm a cheapskate. There was much anticipation, because the flick got such a big build-up.

I sat through the 114 minutes of the movie, and when it was over, I felt, well, not much. I've been trying to figure out what I missed. Should I go back and watch it again? I didn't hate it, but honestly, I've gotten more worked up emotionally over Hallmark movies. 

Could it be because for me, Barbie was simply a toy? I never aspired to be Barbie. I didn't see her as a role model. I just enjoyed changing her outfits, pretending she was going to the prom or hanging out with friends. (The only curve Barbie threw me was she didn't have nipples, and that confused me as a child. I suppose that's a conversation I should be having with a therapist.)

But I digress...

Sure, I got the point of the movie. I put myself squarely in the feminist camp. I put on my pussy hat and marched for women's rights in 2016. I recognize that women still aren't paid what men are. There remains a whole lot of inequality between the sexes. And yet...the movie, much like the doll, felt plastic to me. It oversimplified the problems men and women have in building and sustaining a society. While I agree with the points made in the movie, I couldn't help but squirm at all the stereotypes. 

I've had a handful of male bosses that were asshats, but the majority have been good to me (e.g. Harry, Axel, Eric). The same could be said of Judy, Pam, Bette and the women who've mentored me (while a few others, not so much).

If you've managed to wade through my ramblings and you've seen the Barbie movie, I'd be interested in your point of view. 

Maybe you can help me see why I get choked up over animal rescue reels but I can't work up much of anything for Enlightened Barbie.

Sad Little Donuts

 Every now and then, I lose sight of the fact that I'm not a domestic goddess.

Alas, the homemaker gene skipped over me, but sometimes I forget and attempt to bake something I've no experience with.

And so, here we are this morning, me and my brand spanking new air fryer and a recipe I copied from a book about "simple" things to make in an air fryer.

I'm no virgin when it comes to working with yeast dough. In spite of my spotty talents, I have been able to make a tea ring and bake bread. In fact, a few weeks ago, I resurrected a recipe for Sally Lunn bread. It's a sweet, soft creation Mr. and I fell in love with when we lived in Alexandria. They used to serve it at Gadsby's Tavern, one of George Washington's old haunts.

Perhaps it was because I was buoyed by my success with Sally that I felt I could tackle this donut recipe. After all, dough is dough, right?

Well, not so much as it turned out. 

I meticulously added the ingredients and followed instructions. At least until I got to the part where they wanted me to knead the dough. I looked at the sticky mess in the bowl and realized it isn't the sort of dough you can knock about with your knuckles – it will all end up glued in between your fingers and any other surface it touches. So, using the wooden spoon, I stirred and folded it vigorously, mimicking the movements I'd use if I was kneading it.

Then I set it out to rise in a warm place. I figured if I put it in front of a heating vent, that would do the trick. 

Alas, it didn't budge much. But I soldiered bravely on to the next step.

The recipe instructed me to roll out the dough on a floured surface and cut it into shapes using a 3" cutter and a 1" cutter for the holes.

Harkening back to my Mom's ingenuity (because I don't have specialized cutters), I found a glass that measured 3" and another kitchen tool that was 1". I placed the glass upside down and managed to form the donuts, then made the holes. In the interest of full disclosure, I cheated on the holes, because I just took the leftover dough and rolled them into balls.

The next step was to put the wannabe donuts on a floured baking sheet and let them rise for another 30 minutes. This time, I turned the oven on low (250°) and set the tray on top of the stove where the heat vents. They rose a little, but not much. Desperate times calling for desperate measures, I turned the oven off and stuck the tray inside for an extra 15 minutes. This helped a little, and I decided the poor things were as plump as they were ever going to get. 

Then it was time to put them in the air fryer to bake/fry. The instructions said to load two donuts and two holes at a time and let them go for four to five minutes.

This was the first time using my new fryer, but it's pretty easy to naviagate. Just load 'em up, set the temperature and time and off you go.

The little buggers came out nicely browned. I dumped them in the glaze and on the cooling rack to cure. 

They certainly were a sad looking little lot, I must say, as you can see from the photo.

On the other hand, they were pretty tasty. And my Mom always said it didn't matter how things looked, really, as long as they were good.

Plus, now I can say I've inaugurated my new air fryer.

So yay, me!

Vicarious Living

As we were pummeled with cold temps and then eight inches of snow, some might feel a certain resentment toward those who posted pics on FB of sunnier climes and adventurous vacations.

Not me. One of my oft-repeated sayings is, "I live vicariously through others." 

So I wasn't (too) jealous of Axel posting photos of his European trip. I enjoyed the photos and video footage of old Beatle haunts, Paris landmarks and such. My curiosity was piqued by Ryan and his nighttime adventures in Tucson with javalinas. (I didn't even know what a javalina was before.) And I could almost taste the birthday cake at my grandniece's 2nd birthday party. (Happy Birthday, Piper!) 

Meanwhile, we're housebound, but I don't mind much. The driveway has been shoveled (thanks to Lonnie's nephews for the assist) and we're hunkering down for another quiet day indoors. I'll Skype with my kid tomorrow. And we'll venture out afterward to do grocery shopping, hit a library and pick up some coffee from Troubadour, my favorite local roaster. 

Clearly, no one will be living vicariously through me, but I'm okay with that. Wanderlust is in my rearview mirror now. My world is shrinking, like it did for my parents. And while I sometimes dream about visiting exotic locales like those depicted in the Death in Paradise series Mr. and I watch, I know it's unlikely I'll visit the Caribbean again soon. (On the other hand, there's a lot of murder and mayhem on that show, so maybe it's just as well.)

The upshot here is, I enjoy hearing from all of you about what you're doing, where you're going and how you're celebrating. And if my adventures are of the secondhand kind, that's cool – bring it on!

I'll just be here living it up vicariously.

Toasting Tracey

Back in the day, we'd sit in Harry's office during brainstorming meetings and shoot the breeze in a lame attempt to avoid the topic at hand. This was in the beforetimes, when people worked in office buildings and you interacted with coworkers face-to-face.

But I digress.

Sometimes, someone would pose a question. Like, "Who would you want to play you in the movie about your life?"

Naturally, one needed to suspend disbelief because none of us was likely to see the story of our life depicted on the big screen. 

In any event, the answer to this question tells a lot about the person whose life is being reconstructed. There are those who want Julia Roberts or George Clooney to play them, because, well, why not? But those of us with more imagination dug a little deeper to find someone who was more like themself in personality. 

My answer, then and now, is Tracey Ullman. I'd be honored if she was me.

From my first exposure to Ullman in the 1980s and through the ensuing years, I've been bedazzled by her talents – an amazing sketch comedian who can play just about anyone, from a wise-cracking teen to a creaky old broad. She's been a dancer, singer, actress, producer, writer and director. In other words, she's got the whole magilla goin' on.

Tracey (I hope she doesn't mind my using her first name, we are the same age, after all) is one of those folks who's been just about everywhere and done a little of everything in the entertainment world but has nowhere near the social media presence of the far less talented Kardashians and other influencers. She has tons of awards for her work here and across the pond. Fun fact: The Simpsons was a spinoff from the original Tracey Ullman Show that ran in the late 1980s.

So, what made me think of Tracey this week? YouTube, which often gets my preferences  wrong in bizarre ways, surprisingly came up with this video that Tracey did in support of her album, You Broke My Heart in 17 Places. The song is called They Don't Know About Us, and the video is hilarious. It also has a surprise ending, which I will not spoil for you in case you haven't seen it. This song and the album's title song were written by Kirsty MacColl, a talented singer and songwriter who left us all too soon.

I'm not going to list all Tracey's accomplishments, because I haven't that much room here. Suffice to say, she's stinkin' impressive. For the record, she's also on my short list of people I'd love to have dinner with. (And not just because of the lovely British accent.) 

I know that'll never happen, but a girl can dream.

In the meantime, I'm going to put on her album and have myself a good smile. 

No Whistling Hiawatha

There's only one time in my life where I made a New Year's resolution and stuck with it. 

photo attribution below*

That was the year I resolved to exercise and lose weight. I kept to this resolution for a few years, and it actually worked. I dropped the weight and felt great.

Then, in spite of my protestations that I'd never backslide, I began doing just that, putting a bunch of the weight back on. 

So, here we are, another year dawning, and the specter of resolutions has risen its ugly head again. Time to compile yet another list of mostly-things-I-won't-do. Here goes:

1. Engage in less social media. This resolution has become quite popular it seems, especially given the intrusive nature of ads and the proliferation of trolls in social media. However, I'm already mostly what some would call a "shut-in," so cutting off this form of contact with the outside world seems a bit extreme.
2. Buy fewer jigsaw puzzles. Ya, that's not gonna happen. Instead, I'm going to be more selective about the ones I acquire, take full advantage of the puzzle exchange at the library and complete and give away any puzzles in the stash.
3. Get rid of some of my books. This is an ongoing battle. There are doubtless some books I can easily part with. But I suspect this item will be on my list of resolutions into infinity.
4. Return to my exercise routine. This one is actually doable. My workouts were put on pause during whatever-this-lingering-virus-is, but I plan to begin anew next week. 
5. Cut down on portions. Notice I didn't say "lose weight." That's the ultimate goal, of course, but if I start by putting less food in my pie hole, the result will be the same.
6. Learn how to use my new air fryer. This holiday gift from my employer is currently sitting in my kitchen, staring at me accusingly day after day. It seemed like a good idea when I chose it from the catalog of gifts, but now I have to actually use the bugger. (Anyone have any good recipes they can recommend?)
7. Complete one of my sewing projects. I have several to do. Surely I can finish at least one of them this year. (Alas, history has proved otherwise.)
8. Organize my photos. This one is pure pie-in-the-sky, of course. One look at the pile of pictures is enough to put me into procrastination mode. And sorting through my digital pics (most of them of the cats we've had) will take decades. (Is that Marge, Mabel or Maggie?)
9. Improve meal planning. Several years ago, I went through the huge stack of recipes I'd copied and organized them. But I still make the same couple dozen or so meals. It would be nice to expand my repertoire. 
10. Reduce intake of caffeine and chocolate. You all needed a good laugh today, right? Here you go.

After considering all of the above, I realized they all had to do with external forces. But what I really need is something that satisfies from within. So, tapping into my spiritual side (which has gotten lost somewhere in day-to-day survival mode), I came up with a plan to start meditating again. If I can carve out a half hour after dinner every night, I think this will help my transition from work mode to relax mode. It's the one thing I can do that will help me feel better about myself. 

So, y'all are my witnesses. I've stated it publicly, so now I feel like I have to fulfill this resolution. The other stuff can wait.

Except for the air fryer. I really need to start cooking on that one!

*Bob Satterfield, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. I didn't understand the reference to "Whistling Hiawatha." Tumbling down the rabbit hole, as I am wont to do, I found this on YouTube.