She Works Hard For The Money

I've been thinking about work lately.  I started working in 1972 at age 15.  I've had 14 paying jobs. Here are some work memories:

Rus Joy Inn, Waitress.  I made 60 cents an hour plus tips.  Working weekends and some evenings I saved enough money to pay cash for my first car, a used grey Mazda for $2,000.  I sold it before I moved to Virginia to a young guy who saw the "for sale" sign and said God had told him to buy the first grey car he saw.

Manchester Sewing Factory, Sewing Machine Operator.  I sewed pockets on the outside of men's leisure suits and disposable clothing used in hospitals.  It was piece-work meaning you were paid for the amount you sewed.  Most of the other employees were middle-aged ladies with bee-hive hairdos. One girl was my age (18).  She was deaf and taught me sign language.

Westminster Shoe Factory, Sewing Machine Operator.  I sewed shoes, mainly the seam down the back.  This job was also piece-work. My fingers would crack open and bleed because the leather and suede dried out your skin. Bee-hives ruled here too.  To this day I can't buy a pair of shoes without looking at the sewing.

Fleet Accounting & Dispersing Center, File Clerk.  Civil Service!  This was a temporary job I knew would only last 4 months, but I took it in hopes of securing a full-time position.  This was my first job in an office setting.  I sat at a desk and pushed buttons and a file drawer would come out of the wall on tracts until it reached me and I would either file documents or remove them for other workers.  In those short 4 months I learned Government work was probably not going to be a good fit for me when my supervisor pulled me aside to tell me to slow down because I was working too fast and making the other workers look bad.

Colonial Chevrolet, Executive Secretary.  I was hired as a Title Clerk and later was promoted to Executive Secretary.  This job was pivotal for me.  Up until this time I had mostly worked in factories.  I wanted an office job and I knew I could do it, but without experience it was hard to get your foot in the door.  I knew the girl who was leaving as Title Clerk (she was my future step-mother's, sister's, step-daughter - ha, ha...I can't make this stuff up!).  She put in a good word for me so when I went in for my interview with the Vice President he told me usually he wouldn't hire without experience, but since I was recommended he gave me a shot.  I will never forget him and what he did for me that day.  I worked for Colonial when I met and married Bob.  When Bob got orders and I had to give my notice I cried, I really loved that job.

Warrington Baptist Church, Secretary.  This was the first job I took after Ricky died.  I had not worked for several years and wanted to find something that wasn't stressful.

Jerry Pate Turf & Irrigation, Service Coordinator.  When I interviewed for this position with the Service Manager in 1995, I didn't receive a call back and after 2 weeks figured they hired someone else.  I did receive a call 3 weeks later asking if I had found a job yet and when I said no, he offered me the position.  He had hired another girl, but she only stayed 2 weeks. He told me later that I had been his first choice, but he was leery to hire me since I had worked for a Church and was afraid I'd try to save his soul.  I spent 22 years there.  So many stories that I'm sure will be the subject of future blogs.  I'd still be there if it wasn't for a higher calling.  These people are my second family and I love them.

Now I'm Granny and I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing.  I'm humbled at the opportunity.  "Already knows, these are the good times."    

Home Is Where I Hang My Heart

When someone new asks me where I am from, I hesitate.  I don't really feel like I'm "from" a particular location.  My answer depends who is asking and how much time I have.

My Dad being career Marine and Bob career Navy I've moved quite a bit.   My locations from birth:

Danville, VA
Jacksonville, NC
Buford, SC
Charlottesville, VA (1st grade)
Jacksonville, NC (2nd grade)
Sandusky, OH  (3rd grade)
Manchester, MD (4th grade)
Oceanside, CA  (5th grade)
Manchester, MD  (6th-12th grades)
Norfolk, VA
Patuxent River, MD
Pensacola, FL
Carrollton, VA
Pensacola, FL

I was born in Danville, VA, but have no memories of it since we left before I was 2 so it seems odd to say I'm "from" there.  My parents were both from Carroll County Maryland so that is my usual response when trying to explain my origins.  I always seem to throw in that Carroll County borders Pennsylvania and that the majority of my relatives live in either MD or PA.

I've always considered myself a "southern" gal, having lived in the south until 3rd grade when we moved to Ohio.  My school promptly placed me in speech class because I "talked funny".  Bob calls me a Yankee because my family is from Maryland, regardless of how many times I explain Maryland is BELOW the Mason-Dixon line.  I remind him I was born in Virginia, but since he's from South Carolina, even Virginia is "north" to him.

I feel so very blessed to have seen so much of the U.S. and met so many different people.  I cherish the friendships I've made along the way and love reconnecting with them through Facebook.  I'm thankful my Mother always made sure we had a "home" wherever we were stationed.  Even though Dad was transferred every year, Mom unpacked every box, hung every picture, made every house a home for us.  We may not have been "from" there, but I always felt at home.  I continued that tradition with my family.  We did not have to move every year, but when we did move I made sure to set up our home quickly.  

I've lived in Pensacola, FL (27 years) longer than anywhere, almost half my life.  When Bob first received orders in 1987, I had never heard of Pensacola, but I had been to Fort Meyers as a child and remembered I loved everything I had seen there - lots of hot sunshine, palm trees, alligators, oranges you picked in your backyard!  Bob was sent to C-School so just Heather (not yet 2) and I drove from Norfolk, VA to find our new home.  As I turned off of Interstate 10 and headed to the Navy Lodge aboard NAS Pensacola, our new location didn't look like the Florida I remembered.  If you're not familiar with Pensacola, we're as far west as you can be without being in Alabama.  Locals fondly refer to Pensacola as "LA", Lower-Alabama!

Even though Pensacola didn't look exactly like the Florida I knew, I fell in love.  When Bob retired we could have moved anywhere, but Pensacola was home.  Bob said I had followed him wherever he went and now it was my turn, and I chose to stay.  I have lived here long enough that I usually see someone I know everywhere I go.  That's a novel feeling for a quasi-nomad and I love it.

I may have trouble explaining where I'm from, but I always know when I'm home.

Dance Hall Days

Ask Bob how we met and he will tell you we met in a bar.  He says that mainly because he knows it will get a rise out of me, but since alcohol was served there, I guess he's not far off.  It was a club.  It was 1982 and we had disco fever.

The evening started innocently enough.  I was relaxing in my bachelorette pad with my roommate, when she suggested we go dancing.  I initially balked, reminding her the next day was a work day, but without too much arm twisting we were on our way to the Portsmouth, Virginia Enlisted Club. We liked going to the Navy Base clubs because there were always young men ready to dance and they were generally more polite and respectful than the non-military area honky-tonk crowd.  We found a table and got ready to dance the night away.

It wasn't long before a handsome man approached and asked if I'd like to dance.  Tall, dark hair, handsome.  He was dressed the part; silk shirt, flared polyester pants, side-zipped ankle boots. This guy had style.  This guy had class.

There on that dance floor in Portsmouth, VA, as we danced our first dance to Ebony and Ivory, our story began.  Chapter One, Page One.  Some chapters read like a mystery while others are more horror-filled.  There is drama, comedy, adventure, romance, and we continue to write.  It may never make the Times Best Seller list, but it's our story...and we're sticking to it.

Just Say No To Donuts

I could tell by the story headline in yesterday's newspaper, "Doughnut Flakes In Car Test Positive For Meth", it was going to be an interesting read.  A 64 year old man was arrested during a traffic stop when officers spotted four tiny flakes of donut glaze on his floorboard and thought they were pieces of crystal methamphetamine.  The man told police he had eaten Krispy Kreme donuts in his car, but somehow the flakes tested positive for meth in the roadside drug tests.  I'm not making this up.  He spent ten hours in jail before being released and three days later the charges were dropped.

Whoa, hold the phone! I have inhaled my share of glazed Krispy Kremes in my car and to think that could get me a stint in the pokey is unreal.  I tried to tell you people I had an addiction! 

If you've ever had a glazed Krispy Kreme donut when the "Hot Now" neon sign is flashing, you know where I'm coming from.  For those of you poor souls without a KK, there is a conveyor belt that carries the lushious lovelies through their sugar glaze bath.  Once you score your fix, the melt in your mouth, hot, gooey goodness is dangerous.  A half dozen can disappear in an instant and before you know it you're on a sugar high and as if that's not bad enough, now you have to be on the lookout for the Fuzz?!?!  I've heard of the food police, but since there is no such thing as pig-out prison or junk-food jail, I didn't really worry about it.  Now that arrest is actually possible, I'm going to have to give up the junk or resign myself to a life of crime.

It looks like I'll have to give up the Krispy Kremes for good.  I'm not cut out for the thug life.   

Buttercream Dreams

I'm a dreamer.  No, I'm not walking around with my head in the clouds, wearing love beads and singing Kumbaya.  I dream when I sleep.  Vivid, realistic dreams.  Not every night, but often.

I still remember dreams I had as a teenager.  Once I dreamt I was at my town's swimming pool.  It was a place where I spent lots of awake time, so it wasn't odd I would dream I was there.  Except in my dream I had on a full length fur coat.  Everyone one else was splashing and swimming and tanning; and there I was, walking around in my coat.  In my dream it was not odd or unusual.  It just was.

For a good while now my dreams revolve mainly around food.  Not just any food.  Decadent, sugary, sinful, forbidden food.  In my dream I'm eating cake, or cookies, or some sweet treat.  I'm not sad or glad; not wallowing in guilt or giddy with excitement, just methodically eating.  I am aware of the taste of it.  In my dream it tastes just like it does in reality. 

When I wake up for a moment I'm confused and a little panicked.  Did I really just eat that cake?  It seemed so real.

Perhaps you're thinking I should just eat the cake, or cookies, or whatever, and maybe these eating dreams would stop.  It's not that easy.  If you know me, you know sweets are my kryptonite.  Sweets are my addiction.  Sweets are to me as alcohol is to an alcoholic, as heroin is to an addict.  It's my drug.  I'd mainline it if I could, and not weigh 300 pounds.  There is no such thing as a bite or a sensible portion of a sweet to me.  It leads to a binge and that is no dream, it's a nightmare.

So let me sleep as sugarplums dance in my head.  My buttercream dreams are delicious sleep.  Sweet dreams.     

It's a Girl!

Today I am richer.  Today I am blessed.

My Dear Fallon:

Since he was a little boy
I knew the day would come
When he would finally say these words...
"Mom, I've found 'the one'".

It was so easy for me to see
Right from the very start
The special way he looked at you
I knew you stole his heart.

All these years I prayed for you,
The one who'd share his life
Now I thank God for sending
My new daughter, his new wife.

Welcome to the family.

Love,
Gina

Wigging Out

In case you hadn't heard, I wear wigs.  I don't have to, I choose to.  I was blessed with hair like my Grandma Baust, thin and sparse.  To make matters worse, my hairline starts waaaay back on the sides.  It didn't recede, it would have had to begun farther up in order to recede.  Instead it chose to remain far back, like it was afraid to meet up with the front of my face.

I've never particularly cared for my hair which is why I've had more hairstyles than Carter's got liver pills (what on Earth is a liver pill and why does Carter have so many of them?).  I've had hair below my waist as well as a few inches long.  I've permed, teased, dyed, gelled, moosed, sprayed, highlighted and layered, all in search of those lovely locks that graced other's heads.  Finally I decided if I can't grow it, I'll buy it.

I had been thinking about it for years.  I talked it over with Bob to see what he thought (he's the only one who had to be ok with it...he was by the way), but what really put me over the top was when I found out someone I knew wore wigs...and I had no idea.  I admired her hair every Sunday in Church and one day asked her who did her hair (I was thinking maybe they could do something with my mop).  It was then she confided in me it was a wig and she wore them all the time.  I thought WOW! that's not at all how I remember wigs...you know those pitiful things that looked like a possum had crawled up on their head and died.  It was beautiful and looked real.

So in October of 2012 I bought my first wig and now have 5.  I still have my own hair that I keep cut short and colored.  I don't wear a wig when I'm at the gym, beach, pool or around the house.  I love my "hair" and finally in my 50's have the hair I've always wanted.

I don't care if people know I wear wigs and have to control myself from telling complete strangers when they compliment my hair.  My daughter said, "Mom, you don't have to tell everyone you wear a wig!"  I have to learn to just say, thank you. 

A few weeks ago I bought my newest wig which is shorter than all my other ones and in the style I keep my "real" hair.  The first time I wore it to work several people thought it was my "real" hair.  That made my day since I don't want to be the crazy lady with a dead possum on her head...not yet anyway.