Mellowing Out

The local rag expanded the number of advice columns it covers, so now I'm able to read about lots of other people's problems.

The album cover

Just the other day, I was reading about a woman who lamented the fact that her boyfriend went out one or two nights a week to spend time with the guys. Her reaction was to whine and complain to him (and the columnist). 

"Is she nuts?," was my first thought. Several hours of having the house to myself sounded like a little slice of heaven.

Now, don't look into this too deeply. Mr. and I are not having serious problems or anything. I just enjoy my own company. Maybe it's working from home and being around each other 24/7, but I relish time to myself.

Yesterday, for example, I dropped Mr. Ginley off at the Rapid station. He went downtown to do some research at the library. For most of that time, I was working, but when my day was done, I was able to squeeze out an hour or so of me-time.

So, what kind of hell does this alter cocker raise when left to her own devices?

I got out an album. An LP. The thing that spins around on a turntable and plays music. 

Well, y'all know I'm a relic from another time, and yes, I still have a turntable that works. Mr. and I share some music, but much of what I like is beyond his tolerance.

It was serendipity. I reached into my collection (yes, I still have a record collection, how 1970s) and pulled out an LP at random.

It was Donovan, a concert album, recorded in Anaheim, California, that I listened to frequently back in the day. There wasn't a copyright date on the cover or the record itself, but I discovered it was from 1968. Obviously, I bought it MUCH later than that. (Just to clarify.)

For any youngsters reading this, Donovan was a hippie-dippy artist who went through a lot of genres, and who continues to record music (as recently as 2022). The Scottish musician started off with folk (he was smitten by Bob Dylan's music), experimented with jazz and pop, and did the whole psychedelic scene for awhile.

The album I played had an interesting combination of each type. Some of you may remember "Mellow Yellow," but "Sunshine Superman," a 1966 chart topper, is conspicuously absent. As is "Hurdy Gurdy Man." 

Donovan turned 79 this year. Yikes, we're getting awfully old. (By "we" I mean "he," and come to think of it, 79 isn't all that aged. There are so many rockers in their 80s now.)

Winding my way back to my original theme...yes, I enjoyed listening to Donovan the way it was originally intended. My albums, by and large, are in very good condition. I've taken care of them over the years, and they've been played only on my original Philips turntable. (Thanks Gary and Tokyo Shapiro.) 

I imagine a lot of you have checked out by now. If you're still here, I invite you to pull out some old tunes from past (distant or recent), open the windows, and give it a blast.

You won't be sorry.

Backward Glance

Mr. Ginley has been spending a lot of time on YouTube lately, and one of the things he really enjoys is tripping down memory lane.

Having a snort with Jesus

There are several folks who've put together nostalgic images and made a slide show out of them. They have goofy captions like, "Lovin' the groovy summer 70s vibes with friends."

Some are clearly from a different era other than the 1970s, some are AI generated, and others are obviously ads from that era. But most seem to be authentic, featuring blurred photos and average-looking youngsters having the time of their lives.

"Would you go back to the 70s if you could?" Mr. Ginley has asked me.

What I remember of that decade was how poor my social skills were. I was awkward and silent, and sat in the back of the classroom whenever I could, avoiding eye contact with the teacher so I wouldn't be called on to participate in class. 

As for summers in high school, I remember plenty of boredom, hot afternoons, and walking up to the library or McDonald's or the shopping center just to pass the time. Sitting in my room, burning candles, listening to albums on my headphones, and being sad.

I had one friend in junior high school, Carolyn, who I spent a fair amount of time with. We walked to school together and played ping pong in her basement in the summer. In high school, I hung out with Linda, swimming in her pool, sitting on her front porch, and ogling any guys of the appropriate age and body build. (Oh, Richie Pohana, you were soooo hot.)

The summer before my senior year, I worked in the print shop in high school and hung out with Peggy, who was two years older than me. That was my wild child period. 

Considering Mr. Ginley's question, I answered, "No, I wouldn't want to go back. I mean, sure, I'd love to have my 1970s body back, but that's about it. I wasn't a fully formed person, I thought getting married was the big goal in life, and I was mostly lost."

He landed on another video, this one a Beatles concert from 1964 in Washington, DC. I don't know what made me tear up watching the Fab Four sing. Young lads in their 20s, taking the world by storm and having a ball. Shadows of the past. 

Admittedly, I would love to go back just for a bit, and experience them again the first time around. 

But the 70s? Not so much.

Living the Monochronic Life

Normally, I would not put much credence in a label that had been created by some random personality pundit. But perhaps I need to rethink my position.

Bunny!*

Permit me to clarify. 

I get the New York Times newsletter every day. On the weekends, they take a break from the psychotic mayhem in our nation's capital to focus on more personal topics. Today, the writer referenced an article by Emily Laber-Warren, who has conveniently divided our society into two groups and labeled them "monochronic" and "polychronic."

This is where the eyerolling would typically begin, but today I put on my magnanimous hat and decided to bully through the piece.

Those who are piss-poor at multi-tasking have earned the label of "monochronic." They (aka "me") prioritize obligations over relationships. In other words, "I'm working on this piece for work, and if you interrupt me, I'm going to botch it up." My deep-seated modus operandi is that I need to get my work done first, then I can carpe diem. I can't enjoy myself unless all the chores are done. 

In my defense, and with Mr. Ginley's prodding, I've been working to change this. While I still put tasks first, I take breaks during the day to listen to birdsong, admire the random bloom of wildflowers in my backyard (trying not to think about neglected yard work), and sip my coffee mindfully instead of gulping it down out of habit. The trick is to walk away from work for a few minutes and take notice of the big, wide world out there without thinking about work AT ALL.

Polychronic folks give priority to relationships and experiences that don't coincide with schedules. These people are good at multitasking and shifting things to accommodate others. While Mr. Ginley is very focused when he's working on something, he's also able to postpone chores in favor of pop-up outings. So when I come down from my office and suggest a walk to the library or lunch in the park, he's unlikely to say, "I can't, I have laundry to do." 

Not that it's an excuse for my being monochronic (well, okay, it is), but I believe my tendency to single-minded pursuits was ingrained in my childhood. My Mom was of the stay-at-home variety in my tender years, and she did not deviate from her schedule. There was a day for laundry, one for ironing, two for cleaning (with each day having specific tasks), one for grocery shopping, etc. Dinner was on the table the same time daily. 

Although his mother was the same way, Mr. did not come away with the same work ethic. Sure, when he was working in an office, he was there on time and worked like the dickens. But at home, if it came down to a choice between chores and fun stuff, there's no question which would win most of the time. 

This was beautifully illustrated early in our relationship, shortly after he moved to Virginia to be with me.

I vividly recall how I put on old clothes and gathered a mop, bucket, and other cleaning supplies one Saturday morning.

"What are you doing?" Mr. inquired.

"Cleaning the apartment," I replied, stating the obvious.

"Like hell you are. We're going to catch the Metro and do something fun."

And thus it was that housecleaning was effectively put on mute unless it was too hot/wet/snowy to leave the apartment or we were having someone over.

If and when I'm able to retire, perhaps my priorities will shift, and I'll be more flexible. In the meantime, I'll work on carving out time here and there to enjoy my days and not just slogging through them.

Oh look, there's a bunny in my yard! Gotta go!

*My photo didn't come out this nice, so I leaned on Wikipedia. Attribution: Dori at English Wikipedia, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

So Long, Tom

I guess you can't complain if you make it to the ripe old age of 97, but I gotta say, the world is a sadder place without Tom Lehrer in it.

public domain photo

Lehrer passed away July 26th. But oh, what a legacy he left behind. If you're not familiar with his work, permit me to enlighten you. 

Tom Lehrer was a brilliant satirist with a wicked sense of humor who wrote laser-sharp lyrics and catchy music to dozens of ditties. His largest body of work was penned in the 1950s. Many of his songs remain topical today.

Although his heritage was Jewish, according to Wikipedia, Lehrer and his family "loosely practiced Christianity," attending Sunday school and celebrating Christmas. This no doubt helped him compose the classic, "The Vatican Rag," which was also one that Harry knew all the words to. He and I would sometimes sing it together in his office: 

First you get down on your knees,

Fiddle with your rosaries, 

Bow your head with great respect 

And genuflect, genuflect genuflect.

(If there's a heaven, I hope Tom and Harry are singing it together.)

Lehrer did the table of elements to the tune of Gilbert & Sullivan's Major-General's Song from The Pirates of Penzance. (Could it have been a foreshadowing of his career as a professor after he moved on from his musical appearances?)

Then there's my personal favorite, National Brotherhood Week, which is as topical today as it was when he wrote it:

Oh the rich folks hate the poor folks

And the poor folks hate the rich folks

All of my folks hate all of your folks

It's American as apple pie

But during National Brotherhood Week

It's National Everyone-smile-at-one-another-hood Week. 

Be nice to people who

Are inferior to you.

Then there's the chilling, "Who's Next?" in which Lehrer sings about a popular cold war topic, the atomic bomb:

First we got the bomb and that was good, 

'Cause we love peace and motherhood. 

Then Russia got the bomb, but that's O.K., 

'Cause the balance of power's maintained that way. 

Who's next?

He then goes on to list an assortment of other possible countries with hopes of acquiring one.

How cool was Tom Lehrer? He claims to have invented the Jello shot during his stint in the army in the 1950s. He wrote songs for the PBS children's show, The Electric Company. And in 2020, he relinquished the rights to all his songs. They're currently in the public domain, where anyone can perform them without paying royalties. (He never married or had children, so no squabbles there.)

Many celebrities have credited Lehrer with inspiring their work. Among them are "Weird Al" Yankovic (no surprise there) and Steely Dan. Daniel Radcliffe is also a fan – he performed The Elements song on Graham Norton's show, and as a result, scored the title role in the "Weird Al" movie.

Sadly, there are not a lot of people who remember Tom Lehrer, and I'm not sure future generations will get his dark sarcastic wit.

More's the pity.

The Little Voice, Unheard (Again)

 In the beforetimes, when I worked at that-place-that-shall-not-be-named, David B. would always ask, "Is this a milestone birthday?"

Attribution below

Well, no, this past birthday was not any special number. But I did get plenty of well wishes, thank you one and all.

The day was pretty uneventful. I worked until dinnertime, when Mr. and I strolled up to one of the local bars for eats and drinks.

Now, it's no secret that I can't hold my liquor. I can usually handle one glass of beer or one mixed drink. Any more than that, and I quickly go from pleasantly buzzed to hellza-no-I'm-gonna-be-sick.

So I decided to order one margarita with my dinner. The surly waitress produced a tall glass with barely any ice in it. It was strong. Very strong. I should have had her take it away, but it's not in my nature to complain, so I took a few more sips and pushed it to the side.

"I'll eat dinner first," I said to myself. "Then I'll be able to drink it because the food will absorb the alcohol."

And so it went that I continued to sip the drink during my meal, but at the end, there was still a significant amount left in my glass.

As many of you know from experience, alcohol is the great deceiver. Once you get a buzz going, you think you can handle anything.

I finished the drink. I went to sign the check. So far so good. 

"Don't forget to take your credit card," Mr. Ginley said. Three times.

Getting up from the booth seating was problematic. Navigating to the front of the bar was also a bit of a challenge. Fortunately, Mr. Ginley did not imbibe during dinner. So I knew that if I collapsed, he could go home and get the car and fetch me.

It did not come to that. I giggled most of the way home, and Mr. and I had a pleasant jaunt. 

Everything was just dandy for the next hour or so. Then my stomach staged a revolt. Clearly, it was not happy with my lack of judgement. I didn't throw up, but I felt awful. I went to bed at the usual time, rolled over, and was out. 

Why is it we ignore the little voice in our head that tries to warn us that we're about to do something king stupid? 

"Nah, that can't be poison ivy, I'll be all right." 

"It's only supposed to snow a couple of inches, I'll be fine to drive home."

"Sure, let's go ziplining, sounds like fun."

You know, even Bugs Bunny knew that if you listened to the devil on your shoulder instead of the angel, there was going to be hell to pay.

As the comedian Larry Miller famously said in his bit, 5 Stages of Drinking, "I swear, I will never do this again, as long as I live – and some of us have this little addition – and this time, I mean it!"

William Andrews, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Meh at Work

"If you can't remember something, you should write it down," Mr. Ginley told me for the 4,000th time the other day.

But could Leonardo read his own handwriting?

But here's the rub. When I write a note to myself, I can't read my handwriting later. And when I type it into the Notes App on my phone, the autocorrect takes over, and days (weeks? months?) later, I have no idea what I was jibbering on about.

One of the things I try to do on the app is write down potential topics for my blog. Here are some of the entries. Maybe you can help me decipher them so I have something to write about next week:

Man From Primrose Lane, James Renner

Color emojis

Sledging

Dinner Warwick

Only Yesterday

Ida movie

Will Trent

It's a Gas

Just because someone us difficult doesn't mean you'll divorce them

Rush e

Write down, best mom

Hovering

Lucy cat song

Stone yard devotional

Garbage

The last showgirl

Ganesha

Freddie Bell and the Bellboys

Kinsale Ireland

There's plenty more, but you get the idea.

The trouble is, my notes app is a repository for everything, not just ideas for this rag. So I'm pretty sure there are things on this list that have nothing to do with brainstorming ideas.

Now that I take a gander at the above, the haze clears, and I do recall what some of these mean.

"Lucy cat song" is a tune my brother Gary told me about that I fell in love with. It's sung by Allison Young.

Ganesha is a Hindu deity. I have a small figurine in my workspace, and I wanted to know what to call him.

Kinsale Island was a destination on one of Rick Steves' shows. I want to go there. I'm pretty sure I won't make it, but a girl can dream.

"Dinner Warwick" is my cell phone's interpretation of "Dionne Warwick." Or it could be my clumsy typing. (I choose to blame my cell.)

Freddy Bell & the Bellboys did a song called First Train Out of Town. Did I like it? Did Mr. Ginley like it? 

As for the rest of the items on my list, I'm at a loss. They could be book or song titles. Maybe they're shopping list items gone bad.

Who knows? Life's too short, and I have better things to do.

Like checking out the YouTube playlist for Meh at Work.

This is a margin note written by Leonardo da Vinci that proves Lisa del Giocondo was the model for the Mona Lisa. Photo attribution: Louvre Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Permit Me to Prick Your Interest

It all started with a magazine Mr. Ginley got out from the library the other day about the history of fashion.

public domain photo

Maybe it's because the topic of fashion is not exactly in his wheelhouse, but I was intrigued. 

I'm not sure why one particular aspect of the theme popped into my head, but I've learned not to question these things, and just went with it.

"Do they talk about codpieces?" I inquired of him.

"They mention them in passing, but they don't go into detail," he replied. Thus ending my interest in the magazine. I mean, how can you leave out such a compelling topic?

Knowing my readers are well-informed, I'm sure you've come across the word, but you may not know much about codpieces.

Permit me to enlighten.

In the 15th and 16th Centuries, men wore tights. There was a left tight and a right tight, much like today's fishing waders. (I may not be getting the nomenclature just right, but you know what I mean.) This left a certain part of the male anatomy exposed. 

Enter the codpiece.

Originally, it was a triangular piece of material that covered the necessary area. But as men's tops (aka "doublets" or "tunics") began to shorten, fashionistas proclaimed that simply covering one's appendage was not enough. That's when codpieces became a thing (to cover one's thing).

Elaborate codpieces were the Renaissance equivalent of owning a big, jacked-up 4x4 today. The implication was that the owner was well-endowed. Unlike earlier discreet versions, later codpieces were often oversized and included padding. Some were decorated with jewels or bells, which, when they rang, were supposed to be complimentary to passing women. 

Ding-a-ling, indeed.

Sadly, history doesn't include many accounts of what women thought of this symbol of male virility. But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say there were a lot of yawns. Those who've got it don't need to go to elaborate lengths to show off. Am I right?

By the late 16th Century, codpieces were out of fashion, and aside from rock stars and such, they've never made a comeback. It's one trend that isn't likely to be reappearing anytime soon. 

Do you suppose it's because guys no longer feel the need to boast about their endowments? Or maybe it's because skinny jeans have filled that particular gap?

I would say there's no women's equivalent, but then I cast my mind back to the 1950s and the bullet bras. And stuffing one's bra with tissues.

Please tell me women don't do that anymore.

P.S. If you want to read more about codpieces, this is a fun one, and I adore the title: What Goes Up Must Come Down: A Brief History of the Codpiece.


Photo attribution: Formerly attributed to Steven van der Meulen, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons