Vacation for Shut-Ins

If I were a glass-half-full kind of gal, I would say taking the only full week of vacation of the year in January was perfect timing. No need to get up early every morning and schlep 33 miles through snow to get to work.

And, yes, that was the good part. It was actually fortunate that I had planned to not drive anywhere on Monday, for example, because the 15 inches of snow we got over the weekend remained on our street until 2pm that afternoon.

Also, it was nice sleeping in until the post-dawn time of 7:15, when Maggie began her alarm clock routine. (Kitties of the world ain't nothin' but trouble.)

So, while my itinerary was not exactly exciting, I decided to inflict it upon you anyway. So, here we go. Hold onto your eyelids!

Sunday
We were snowed in, only venturing out in the afternoon to Dunkin' Donuts to assess the carnage. One neighbor very kindly snow blew our driveway for us, another came by and cleaned out our apron. I baked cookies and shared.

Monday
Got up and watched Sleepless in Seattle. Not going anywhere, except back up to Dunkin' Donuts after the snow plow came down the street, to make sure it was passable.

Tuesday
"What do you want to do today, it's your vacation," inquired Mr. Ginley. "I don't know. The roads are still messy. What do you want to do?"
"Let's see if Joe can do lunch," suggests my better half. So we take our son to Deagan's for eats.

Also, and this might seem like a yawn to all of you, but I was excited about it: we took my vintage turntable (1977, purchased from Tokyo Shapiro -- not to be confused with Harry Shapiro) to Play it Again Sam. In less than 15 minutes, I had a new belt and was back in action. So happy to have my old friend back.

Wednesday
"What do you want to do today, it's your vacation," inquired Mr. Ginley. "I don't know. It's pouring rain and yucky. What do you want to do?"
I chose our local 1940s throwback diner, Gene's. Then we went to one of the four libraries for which we possess library cards. And stopped in at Half Price Books, where we picked up the next Perry Mason season for our collection.

Thursday
"What do you want to do today, it's your vacation," inquired Mr. Ginley. "I don't know. We got more snow last night, and the roads are iffy. What do you want to do?" 

We needed stuff from Target. So, we meandered up and down the aisles in search of treasures and toilet paper and underwear (Target really does have it all). We dined at Frankie's, where Mr. got his fill of lasagna. Then to the pet store and the second hand clothing store, where I bought a coat I didn't really need, but it was 50% off, so it was only $4.50, so how could I say no?

Friday
"What do you want to do today, it's your vacation," inquired Mr. Ginley. "I don't know. It's stinkin' cold, and I'm doing a conference call for work at 1:00. Maybe we can go out after that." 

Alas, neither one of us felt like braving the cold at 2:00, so I pulled out a jigsaw puzzle and started in on that, and we ate at home.

Okay, so I'm no Jim Doney, and this is ain't no Adventure Road.

But, on the glass-full side, I was away from work for a week and had an opportunity to recharge my batteries.

And there's still today and tomorrow left. I can just hear Mr. Ginley now: "What do you want to do today, it's the last two days of your vacation."

Bet you can't wait until next week to hear what shenanigans those darn Ginleys got up to!

Waiting for Harper

"Do we have enough food? Maybe we should go to the grocery store one more time."

"We're fine," I tell Mr. Ginley.

I run through the checklist of foodstuffs that stand between us and starvation, all of them stocked in our pantry or refrigerator.

"But what about chips and pop? Do we have snacks?"

I reassure him that we have something from each of the basic junk food groups, as well as fresh fruit and ingredients for several meals.

Also, I remind him that Dunkin' Donuts is right down the street. And that the advantage of living in the city is that a drug store and several restaurants are within walking distance.

"We'll be fine," I reassure him.

"This snowfall is of epic proportions," he asserts. "You know they always plow our street last, we could be snowed in for days."

"We'll be fine," I say.

"We're all going to die," he says, defeated.

And so it goes.

This is the problem with the age of technology. As I recall, we had little warning of the Armageddon that was the blizzard of 1977-78. That was the worst snowfall in my memory. It took three hours for us to drive home from work, Judy at the wheel. Cars were abandoned along I-77, so we slalomed our way home, getting stuck and unstuck all the way. I kissed the ground when I arrived home. The next morning, Judy said she was going to work, but I deferred. Even though she was going anyhow, and we lived across the street from one another, I did not want to sit in the car, white knuckled, for hours on end. And really, it's not like we had jobs that were critical to the survival of mankind.

These days, we have storm trackers. Early in the week, there were dire predictions of huge snowfall amounts, arctic temperatures and a "polar vortex." Thus, the most talked about-topic at the water fountain has been the weather. How much, how long, how cold.

And the news media and weather service, who have taken forecasting to the next level, have decided to name our snow events. This one is called "Harper." Such a benign sounding name for something that's predicted to wreak havoc. "Beelzebub" would be a much better moniker. That might get folks to stay home and off the roads.

As for me, I have books, jigsaw puzzles and some binge-watching lined up for this weekend. I'm looking forward to hunkering down and taking advantage of the better-off-at-home nature of this storm.

Here's wishing all of you a safe, peaceful, uneventful weekend.

And, if you must journey out, safe travels.

On the Dark Side

If you're a regular visitor to this space, you probably already know I have a dark sense of humor.

aka "Gallows Humor"

I'm pretty sure I got this from my dad. Lots of German ancestors.

In any case, I wanted to preface today's email with this call-out because not all of you may be in the mood for such shenanigans, so if that's the case, you can stop right here.

The dark humor thing seems to get stronger as I age. Maybe it's the all-pervasive realization that less of my life is before me than behind me. Perhaps it's the stunningly ridiculous world we live in. (I expect our nation's leader at any moment to pronounce that Gatorade is essential for growing crops.*) Or maybe I'm just in need of more therapy than my insurance allows.

Fortunately (for me), Mr. Ginley shares my gallows humor. And, alas, we have handed this down to our son. Who, a couple of Christmases ago, upon being provoked by his father, said he was going to gift him an urn that said, "Coming Soon."

I bring all this up because Mr. and I have been having an ongoing conversation about getting older and more infirm and what our end-of-life wishes are. Necessary but difficult discussions, to be sure. To make these conversations more palatable, we use humor.

For example, he says if his mental faculties go, he doesn't want to stick around, and suggests various ways to "make it look like an accident."

"You could put a pillow over my face when I'm sleeping," he says.

"But wouldn't an autopsy reveal that?" I ask.

"I'm not sure," he replies. "Not every cop is Columbo, maybe they wouldn't bother with an autopsy."

"But if they do, I'm heading for a life sentence. A little bologna is okay, but I don't want to make a diet of it. That's what they serve in prison, you know. And peanut butter and jelly. And I don't want a roommate who's going to be my life partner, if you know what I mean."

"Well," he says, ruminating. "Think of it this way. You'll never have to worry about where to sleep. You won't have to wander West 25th Street with a shopping cart full of blue bags. You get three squares a day. And, how much worse can it be than a nursing home?"

And so it goes.

Hopefully, we will win the lottery and our worries for the future will all go away. Or we will expire before our "best by" date.

In the meantime, we will count our blessings, hang on tight and laugh a lot.

It's just how we roll in the W.P.**

*If you haven't seen the move Idiocracy, you must.

**West Park, our part of town.

Excuses, Excuses

For all my faithful readers out there (all two of you), I hereby submit a humble apology for the delay in the publication of this week's pile of drivel.

Excuse #2

I would like to say that I have a good excuse. Alas, I do not.

Instead, I present the following lame excuses for my tardiness.

1. I overslept
Actually, Maggie woke me up by kneading her claws in my pillow. I got up and fed her, retrieved the newspaper and thought about writing my blog. But the warm cocoon of my bed won out, and I headed back to the rack to saw off a few more logs.

2. I had breakfast with my kid
Normally, we break bread on Sunday morning, but this week, Saturday was more convenient for my offspring. So we met at our usual place. I had the oatmeal. He, breaking with tradition, had an omelet. None of this had anything to do with cranking out a blog, it was just a pleasant distraction.

3. There was a long line at the post office
You'd think a post-holiday visit to the local P.O. would be quick. Who mails stuff after Christmas? I found at least six folks who did. They were all in line in front of me. Including one gentlemen who wanted to purchase 200 stamps. I didn't know the cost of a stamp is about to go up. Which is why the postal clerk was out of rolls. And why the purchaser of said 200 stamps had to review a dozen different designs of stamps on sheets and do the math to figure out how many of each design he was going to purchase. "Don't you have any with flowers?" Then the lady who needed money orders. The woman with two bored spawns sitting on the floor who had to be dragged off to make way for the next patron. Three inquiries. Then my turn to post my sister, Diane's, package and a bunch of other mail. (Diane, if you're reading this, the package is due to arrive Monday.)

4. Lunch at KFC
A girl's gotta eat. As does her partner in crime. Was it a healthy lunch? No. Don't judge. The Colonel wouldn't like it.

5. Returning library books
No one wants to get a threatening email from an indignant librarian who wants her stuff back.

6. The lost hat
Now found, thanks to a return trip to the library parking lot.

Excuse #7

7. A needy cat
"Pet me, Mom! Pet me, Mom! Pet me, Mom!" Could you resist? I don't think so.

8. Nap time
Sleep is good. Do you sense a recurring theme here? See excuse #1.

9. Dinner
Another recurring theme. See #4.

10. T&T
My plan was to use this as my last excuse. I was all set to mix up a Tanqueray and Tonic (and since it isn't prudent to drink and blog, I wouldn't have to write anything for the rest of the night). Mr. Ginley squelched this plan when he insisted I haul my ass in the office and get cracking.

I have to admit, this incentive to write before I could partake worked just fine, and I found myself flying through this at record time.

Slàinte!

Sealed with a Burp

Long before the home shopping networks and social media came along, women were hosting parties in their homes to sell everything from cleaners to food storage products to kitchen gadgets. And, yes, even "marital aids."

Enlisting the help of the Google, I discovered that a guy name Norman Squires, formerly of Aluminum Cooking Utensil of America, was hired by Stanley Home Products (SHP) in the late 1930s to develop and implement the model for these hostess parties.

The idea was that the dealer approached a woman she knew and ask her to host a party. Said friend would invite her friends, relatives and neighbors to her home, serve them snacks and drinks, and entice them to spend their money on whatever the wondrous/amazing/can't live without it product might be. There were hands-on demonstrations (this is the way we burp the Tupperware). Games. And gifts for the woman who hosted the party. And, if the hostess decided to sign on and become a dealer herself, the person who enlisted her would receive a commission, and she herself could start to earn cash.

And so on and so on.

Two women who worked for SHP went on to take Norman's concept to new heights. One was Mary Kay Ash, who went the route of cosmetics. The other was Brownie Wise.

Brownie, deserted by her husband and raising a son with health issues, was living with her mother. While she working at SHP, she and some other representatives decided to add Tupperware to their party offerings. Tupperware was a fledgling company with lackluster sales. The product was offered in stores, but the price tag was daunting and the concept unheard of. No one had plastics in their kitchen in those days.

Ms. Wise changed all that. In 1951, after her efforts came to the attention of Earl Tupper, Brownie was hired as Vice President of Sales to develop the model for the hostess party for his company. She helped to build the Tupperware empire. She'd fill the "Wonder Bowl" with water and toss it around, showing the guests how the Tupperware seal worked, how easy the stuff was to stack, and so on. There was a regular training program and a 4-day sales meeting that featured successful sales stories, entertainment and the introduction of new products. Her mantra was, "You build the people and they'll build the business."

In 1954, Brownie Wise became the first woman to grace the cover of Business Week magazine.

In 1958, she was sacked. Mr. Tupper wanted to sell the business and thought he'd have a better chance if an outspoken woman wasn't at the helm of the sales division. She sued and receive $30,000. She tried to parlay her experience by founding other companies, but never had the success she enjoyed at Tupperware. She died in 1992, at the age of 79.

Today, the Tupperware party lives on, although you can purchase some of the products online. I think part of what made these parties so popular back in the day was the social aspect. It was an excuse to get out, enjoy nibbles, and spend time with friends.

I still have the Tupperware I purchased from parties I hosted/attended in the 1980s. I love the stuff. It's good quality and gets the job done.

And, yes, I hosted other parties, too. Including the "marital aids" party I mentioned earlier.

But that's a story for another day.

A Winter Moment

There was no party in the park. No sunset vigil. No hoo-ha at all.

Poor Winter Solstice.

Unlike its warm counterpart, winter is not greeted joyfully, but with groans and sighs. Hunkering down for the winter, preparing for the onslaught of snow and cold.

I guess I'm just as bad as everyone else (except the skiers and Jayson). I hate driving in the snow. Shoveling snow. Having to warm up my car. Bundling up.

So when I looked out the window this morning and saw the ground was covered, I grimaced and grabbed a broom. I reminded myself that last week I told the Big Guy it would be okay if it snowed some other time, just please spare our family gathering in Columbus. He did. So now I needed to shut my pie hole, suck it up, and go clean off the porch steps and find my newspaper.

It was still dark-ish out. And quiet. So very quiet. I just stood on the porch for a few minutes. It must not be too cold, because I could hear the drip drip of the stuff melting off the roof. That, and a few cars on the main street whooshing by.

I paused and took stock.

All we get are moments. At least, that's what I believe. Happiness doesn't come to us, it's something that lives inside, something we tap into. So much we cannot control, it's just pointless to try.

On my porch this morning, looking out across my little lawn, I enjoyed a few moments of peace. A slice of happiness in just being.

Fine, roll your eyes if you must, tell me I'm going all woo-woo again. I don't care.

I was just giving my props to Winter. We may not always be on the friendliest of terms, but He does have something about him, and if I choose to, I can appreciate his style.

Until I have to scrape his leavings off my car.

P.S. Bonus points if you can spot my newspaper on the lawn in the photo above.

Fa La Blah Blah Blah

This is about the time of the holiday season when I reach my maximum capacity for holiday tunes.

I've heard countless renditions of the secular classics, including (but not limited to) Silver Bells, Jingle Bell Rock, Twelve Days of Christmas and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Plus the religious carols, a la Silent Night, The First Noel, Little Drummer Boy and Joy to the World. Not to mention all the latter-day classics: Lennon and McCartney with their respective holiday cheer; Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas, and, who can forget (no matter how hard they try), George Michael crooning Last Christmas.

I will admit to having a nostalgic soft spot for the music of my childhood. Alvin and the Chipmunks still rock my world. Mitch Miller and his sing-alongers are still welcome. And I enjoy a little Bing, a Little Rosemary Clooney, a little Mantovani.

And yes, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas still makes me teary.

Music has always been a memory trigger for me. Which is generally a good thing, particularly at this time of year. I envision my mom's handiwork on the holiday decorations. Dad wrangling the live Christmas tree into position, murmuring expletives under his breath so as not to corrupt young minds (ha ha), trying to position the tree so the best part was in the front. And six of us decorating the tree, arguing over the aesthetics, the older ones re-hanging ornaments that were too close together or unclumping tinsel clumped by us younger sibs.

My dad, sitting in his chair, sipping a hot toddy, the room lit only by the lights from the tree. The fake cardboard fireplace. The little trees on the "mantel" that spun when the lights inside them warmed, casting patterns onto the wall. These are the images that holiday music evokes.

Hmmm...I suppose I can put up with the holiday noise for another couple of weeks.

But please, no hippos for Christmas. Or dogs barking out Jingle Bells. Or grandmas being run down by reindeer.

Must be Santa. Santa Claus.