A Sickening End to 2023

Well, the good new is, I didn't have to work last week. The bad news is, I was sick throughout my time off. 

public domain photo

My symptoms have been many and varied and included pretty much all the classic cold/flu nasties except gastrointestinal distress (Yes, I'm knocking wood right now). I do know it's not COVID, and I had a flu shot.

Whatever did we do to diagnose ourselves before the Google came along? I'm not sure if I'm headed for a life-threatening case of pneumonia, if I simply have a persistent cold that refuses to relinquish its hold on me or I've acquired RSV. Fun fact: most insurance plans don't pay for the RSV vaccine, even though those TV commercials tell you that getting one is a smart idea (at $200 a pop).

Fortunately, Mr. Ginley seems to be getting better, and I think he's a couple days ahead of me, so there is hope.

In the meantime, I'm going to continue to hunker down, eat chicken soup, drink tea with honey in it and cross my fingers that I'm well enough to work by the time the New Year rolls around.

I hope all of you are doing okay. Feel free to chime in with any home remedies that have worked for you. 

As for me, I'm going to go watch another Hallmark movie. Talk at you next year!

When Christmas Goes Viral

Being sick over the holidays is nothing new. Everything old is old again, as I struggle with the creeping crud, aka a sinus infection.

The Christmas dress, post-mumps

It seems that every year at this time, I catch something or other. One of the most memorable Christmas illnesses struck when I was in fifth grade. 

Mom made me a dark green dress for the holiday, and I couldn't wait to wear it. I jumped out of bed to go to church that morning and donned the dress, ignoring the discomfort that was beginning to radiate from my throat. If I ignored it, everything would be grand.

Of course, Mom took one look at my peaky (not to mention bloated) face and informed me I wasn't going anywhere but back to bed. 

"You've got the mumps," she proclaimed. Sure enough, when I looked in the mirror, I saw a blowfish. Or, to be more precise, a blowfish that was crying copiously. 

Now, I know what some of you are thinking. Oh, the vanity. Ya, well, I was 10 years old, so give me a break here, okay? I was never terribly pious, even at the best of times. I'd squirm through Christmas mass, counting down the minutes until I could go home and unwrap my pile of gifts. I loved Baby Jesus as much as the next kid, but He had some pretty stiff competition. Nonetheless, my Mom insisted we do the right thing and pay homage before turning into greedy little monsters. Ah, well.

Meanwhile, here in 2023, we're fortunate that my family got together last weekend, and we were okay for that. Unfortunately, we had to postpone the holiday celebration with the kids. The last thing we want to do is share our jimmy germs with them. So that's disappointing, but it will give us all something to look forward to when this gunk goes away.

I hope you all find peace this holiday season. And that your health is one thing you don't have to worry about.

Sending hugs to everyone. I'll be home watching Christmas movies.

I'm sure we have a few around here somewhere... 

Pea Picking Moments

I was making vegetable soup the other night. I've come up with a very simple recipe. The base is V-8, I throw in some beef bullion and cabbage. And a 12 ounce bag of frozen vegetables.

photo attribution below

But here's the rub: Mr. Ginley won't eat peas.

So there I was, trolling through a bag of frozen veggies, removing all the peas. As I was doing so, it occurred to me that this activity was much like sorting puzzle pieces. It's a bit tedious overall, but also possibly therapeutic. Or, at least it would be if I weren't in a bit of hurry to get dinner going. Fortunately, I enjoy peas, so the little greenies won't go to waste or anything. No harm done. 

As I pea-picked, I ruminated. I've noticed that some brands of frozen vegetables have more peas than others. For example, the last bag I excavated was Green Giant (or maybe Birds Eye?). There were far fewer peas than in my Giant Eagle bag. I began to wonder if maybe peas were more (or less?) costly than other vegetables.

I decided to go on the internet and check it out. But alas, the Google failed me. You may find this difficult to believe, but no one (that came up in the first few Google SERPs) mentioned anything about the combination of vegetables in national brands vs. local brands. Hard to believe, right?

In the meantime, I did learn that private label frozen veggies account for the largest share of the market, followed not-so-closely by Birds Eye. Coming in much further down was Pictsweet Farms, then Green Giant, then everyone else.

I know what you're thinking...absolutely fascinating, right?

Still, there was no answer as to which brand had the fewest peas, so I was right back where I started. 

Mulling it over later, the obvious solution presented itself. If I purchased one bag of green beans, one bag of corn and one bag of carrots, I could assemble my own mixed vegetables and save myself the pea picking. 

Well, as my old buddy Homer would say, DOH!

All that was left was to figure out how much of each vegetable would comprise 12 ounces. Here, the Google was actually helpful. There are 1 1/2 cups of veggies in a 12 ounce bag. Therefore, I would need 1/2 cup each of the carrots, beans and corn. 

And y'all thought taking maths in school was a waste of time. All those stinkin' word problems I hated in fifth grade finally came in handy.

Here's one for you to try. If Mrs. Ginley buys two Mounds chocolate bars and gives one to Mr. Ginley, how many does Mrs. Ginley have left? 

The answer? Two...Mr. Ginley hates coconut, so he gave his back. 

And that wily Mrs. Ginley didn't have to share.

Photo attribution: David Adam Kess, CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Greeting-Less Seasons

I suppose it's inevitable that in our zoom-zoom society, holiday cards would go the way of the Dodo bird.

Lavishly-designed cards sprinkled with glitter used to be an integral part of the holiday season. My Mom had a crafty card holder for awhile. It was made from a Pringles potato chip can with strands of yarn strung from top to bottom. We'd sit and flip through the cards to discover greetings from relatives and friends near and far. Some included letters summarizing their year. Most were simply signed. 

I imagine these days it's just ONE MORE THING that folks just can't cope with. I get that. For several years, Mr. Ginley sent out the cards because I just couldn't manage it. But this year, I took on the task. 

The danger in sending out cards, of course, is that you risk irritating people who feel compelled to send you a card simply because you sent them one. Just to be clear, I don't mail my greetings in a pathetic attempt to guilt people into returning the favor. Although I do enjoy getting them.

Somewhere in my pile of stuff I have stacks of old greeting cards of yesteryear. I'm thinking of pulling them out and looking at them again. It'd be nice to see our folks' signatures and imagine them being with us in spirit this holiday. The world is just such a frightful place these days, I could use a little comfort, even if it comes from a distant past.

The holiday season really is a mixed bag, eh? So much merry and melancholy in one messy bundle. Oh well. 

Whatever holidays you may be celebrating (Christmas? Hanukkah? Festivus?) I hope you find some peace and joy in the season.

And if I haven't sent you a holiday card and you'd like one, let me know. 

I still have a bunch left.

And All That Jazz

Many people float in and out of our lives. Some are there for life, others barely make a ripple in our existence.

Then there are the ones who come into your life when you need them most, save you, and disappear. One such person in my life was Jan.

I have no idea why she's been on my mind so much lately, let alone why I feel so compelled to write about her. But I've learned to follow my instincts, so here we are. 

Jan and I met when we worked in the accounting department at J.B. Robinson Jewelers. I was nearing the end of my first marriage. Aside from work, Jan and I found common ground in books, the Beatles and a love of England. 

At some point that I can't exactly recall, the dream of traveling abroad was bandied about, and the two of us began to make plans. Jan took care of the travel arrangements, I convinced my husband I needed the time away to think and put up my share of the cost. This was happening!

We joked about being so excited about beginning our adventure that surely our side of the plane was bobbing about with us jumping up and down on our seats. (It was figurative, of course, neither of us being outwardly demonstrative.)

There were many adventures to be had, and we had as many as we could in that delightful week. We spend most of the time in London, but also took a day trip to Dover and Canterbury. It's the one of the few times in my life that I was a full-fledged tourist, taking in as much as I could stand. I declared my favorite place to be Westminster Abbey. Jan was partial to St. Paul. The trip turned out to be a once-in-a-lifetime extravaganza, and I am still awed that we did it together. 

After our return, life went back to normal for a very short while, before it became apparent that my marriage was not mendable. But what was I to do? Jan floated the idea of moving in with her. It was eventually arranged, and we moved in together. I could never have moved out on my own – my finances at that point were in sorry shape. Jan was my lifeline at a time when I needed one most. I've never forgotten that. 

Over the years, we lost touch. She switched jobs and moved in with another friend. I moved to Virginia, got married, moved back and had a kid. I didn't see her much, and then not at all. At one point, I sent her a picture of my son and I think I told her about my blog. But I never heard back. 

I don't know why she's been so much on my mind lately, but I hope somehow she sees this and knows how thankful I am to have had her in my life. And how much she's meant to me.

Love you, Jazz!

P.S. I have a wonderful photo of the two of us in London that sits on my dresser, but I decided not to show it here, in the interest of preserving her privacy.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

Working from home means I spend every day with Mr. Ginley. While this is mostly a good thing, it is nice to have "me" time. 

So when our son whisked Mr. off to help work a sporting event, I was tickled. A day to myself. Whatever would I do?

As it turned out, work, mostly. I took on all the tasks that I'd been putting off because I was persuaded they could wait.

First off, I put the storm window in the basement. Next, I tackled yard work. Three bags of yard waste and a sore back later, I called it a day. (After I put the grill in the basement. No more cookouts this year, alas.)

To reward myself for my labors, I watched a Hallmark holiday movie. My sister, Diane, observed there are a few different types. One is the travelogue, as we experienced last week, watching A Heidelberg Holiday. The title character was Heidi Heidelberg. (I shit you not.) The scenery was breathtaking, and it was surprisingly well done. The one I watched yesterday was based in Colorado, called, appropriately enough, Christmas in Colorado. The acting was pretty bad, but I like horses, so there was that. 

Moving along...the next thing to tackle was the budget. I balanced the checkbook (yes, I still do that religiously) and paid some bills. That's when I remembered I was supposed to bake a pumpkin pie. The one I failed to make on Thanksgiving because, honestly, it was a bridge too far that day. I started with a frozen crust (my sister, Denise, is the crustmaster in our family), so it was in the oven pretty quickly. 

Then I took on the dishes. Thanksgiving dishes. To make the task palatable, I pulled out some vinyl – specifically, the Beatles' White Album – and listened to it from start to finish. (Skipping over Revolution No. 9, which I will never listen to when home alone because it just creeps me out.) The double album serenaded me through Christmas tree decorating. I cranked up the volume and sang right along, thankful no one had to suffer through my caterwauling. (I mean, it doesn't bother me, I'm used to it.) I figure I'll know when I'm losing it when I forget Beatles' lyrics – and we're talking about ALL the lyrics, not just those to Wild Honey Pie and Why Don't We Do it in the Road. 

It all worked out quiet nicely, as the boys pulled up in the driveway just as the strains of 
Good Night were weaving their way through the airwaves. (It's the last song on the White Album.)

Sure, and you're probably thinking it doesn't sound like a great day spent alone, but I was content. I got a lot accomplished and fed my spirit to boot.

Special thanks to John, Paul, George & Ringo.  I hope we passed the audition.

Photo attribution: Marjory Collins, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Tiring Solutions

At some point before I began dating Mr. Ginley, he faced an odd conundrum. It seems every time he took his car to the local Burger King drive-thru, it would stall out, and he'd have trouble starting it again.

He put the problem to his Dad to see what his take on the situation was. Perhaps his father would attribute it to the fates, to an evil spirit inhabiting his car or a sinister Russian plot.

After considering the problem, my future father-in-law gave his verdict.

"Don't go to Burger King."

I was reminded of this a few Sundays ago when I was heading across town to meet our son for breakfast. About halfway there, my tire malfunction light came on. This has happened in the past when the weather changes, but it still kind of freaks me out. When I arrived at First Watch for our breakfast rendezvous, Joe assured me everything was fine, reminding me that I was the one who told him about this snafu with the tire light. Nevertheless, he checked all four tires to ensure they were inflated properly. They were.

Fast forward three weeks, and once again I'm making the trek across town to the east side. Once again, the light comes on. This time, it remains on until I'm heading home, just about the point in time when I cross the border from the east to the west side.

When I arrived home, I shared the phenomenon with Mr. Ginley. 

He pondered my situation carefully and made his determination.

"From now on, have Joe come to the west side to have breakfast," he declared.

In the immortal words of Elvis (along with a hefty helping of sarcasm), "Thank you. Thank you very much."