Comic Relief

I don't imagine I will ever really be a grown-up.

Submitted for evidence: the first thing I read in the newspaper from end to end every morning is the comics section.

Yes, even Mary Worth. In spite of the fact that she is so preachy-preachy it's nauseating.

My favorites are Pearls Before Swine, Zits and Frazz.

Recently, my local fishwrap decided to start messing with the regulars. It seems they are trying out various strips, then doing a survey of their current readership to get a reaction. They haven't come to us yet to ask our opinion. In the meantime, two of the oldest strips -- Hagar the Horrible and Beetle Bailey -- have been evicted. And some unknowns have had their day.

Peanuts is still there. Running the same strips over and over. Charlie Brown will forever be a doofus. And just about every female character is a nasty bit of something. If they were going to put in a comic strip and run it in perpetuity, I wish it could be Calvin & Hobbes. (Yes, I realize Bill Watterson would not let that happen. But I can't help wishing.)

Of course, what would the whole section do without the advice column...now there are two in my paper. When people have problems to solve, large or small, there's no better way to make them go away than by sharing them with someone who is only hearing one half of the story.

I do so enjoy reading the comics with my breakfast. Although, these days it's mostly in front of the computer, where my newspaper is accessed digitally. I miss snuggling up in my dad's chair with the old-fashioned printed version.

I know I'm just avoiding all of the politics and mayhem. And yes, I do read the main section of the newspaper, too -- eventually.

But it's so nice to first dive into imaginary worlds and see what my favorite characters are doing. I don't watch soap operas. Or Downton Abbey. So this is my guilty pleasure.

Everyone needs to have just a little Dagwood in them.

Suddenly, I feel the urge for a nap. And maybe a sandwich. I hope that pesky Elmo doesn't show up.

What a Card

We pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and found a space in the back. The place was jammin' with sports collectors.

My kid is in this photo, too.

After paying our admission, we entered a room crammed with sports memorabilia. Uniforms, helmets, baseballs, footballs, hockey pucks and other paraphernalia autographed by stars and lesser known players. And, of course, there were bubble gum cards. Billions and billions of them. In every sport. And, for the benefit of spouses or friends who were there merely to lend support, there were the cards of our youth from TV shows and, of course, musical groups.

While Mr. Ginley wound his way through the sports-laden labyrinth in search of a prize, I picked up a binder and began to turn pages. It was bursting with plastic sheets, each equipped to hold eight cards (nine on each side). This particular binder contained Beatles cards. John, Paul, George and Ringo grinned, leered and sneered their best in shot after shot. Larking about playfully together. Giving a solo come-hither look. In concert or in the studio or in a taxi or running from screaming girls.

I enjoyed looking at them, and I was tempted, but I didn't buy any. I knew that I'd spend $3 or $4 or $5 for a card that I would put in a drawer somewhere. Mr. Ginley suggested I buy a few and frame them together, but I couldn't find the right combination. He managed to find a few things he wanted to purchase, so we did and took our leave.

Later, I began to wonder. My brother and I had collected a ton of cards. Back in the day, we'd even enjoyed chewing the rectangular wafer of bubble gum that was part of the package. So, where did they all go? Some gave their lives to the spokes of our bicycles. (I'm sure that thwack, thwack, thwack sound drove the neighbors nuts.) I had a vague recollection that I'd kept a handful. So I went a-lookin'.

There, in my Fox's Biscuit tin, I found what remains of my once-impressive collection. Approximately 40 Monkees cards. About half were from one series (with concert dates and "Monkees Questions and Answers" on the back); the rest featured a piece of a puzzle on the reverse side. The idea was to collect the entire series to form the puzzle. I don't think I ever quite managed this. There was always at least one elusive card.

Also in my tin I found some newer additions. Cards featuring scenes from the Andy Griffith Show, one with Carlos Baerga and a few Animaniacs.

Fortunately for the neighbors, I don't have any left that I'd be willing to part with. So, the clothes pins will remain in the basement, and I won't be riding my bike around at 8 am making that lovely noise.

But I was tempted, just for a second.

Millennial Musings

The millennials are in the news again.

Millennials are the new baby boomers. Now that more of them are coming of age (and are earning their own keep), they are the target of marketers everywhere. This is proving to be a tricky proposition. It would probably help just a little bit if someone could nail down the definition. Consulting the Google, I see there is no consensus, just that a millennial's year of birth is anywhere between 1980 and 2000. Doing the math (which, on good days, I can do without a calculator), this means people between the ages of 16 and 36.

In a newspaper article this week, I read that millennials won't be marketed to. They don't like it when older adults try to talk to them like they talk to each other.

As a member of the Pepsi generation, I had to laugh. Marketers have always tried, with mixed success, to sell stuff to the reigning youngsters.

This week, in a blunder of epic proportions, an AMC executive suggested allowing texting in movie theaters to attract millennials. Apparently, he believes encouraging young folks to sit in a darkened theater and play with their phones, distracting others who actually want to watch the show, is a swell idea. God bless social media: Twitter and Facebook blew up and told AMC in no uncertain terms how unpopular this decision would be. AMC is backpedaling. Fast.

The other topic that's been newsworthy is trigger warnings, particularly on college campuses. The upshot is that kids want to be protected from bad ideas and people who say things that offend them. Apparently, we've raised a generation of doofuses. College is supposed to expand the mind, to expose students to a variety of experiences. Our children need to learn about the world and its history, warts and all. How can you address what needs to be fixed in the world if you don't know what's wrong? After they graduate, are they going to head out into the real world with their hands over their ears, singing la la la la so they don't have to hear anything unpleasant?

Okay, okay, I know, I'm doing my cranky old lady thing again. But this old lady (and the old hard ass beside her) didn't raise no stinkin' whiner. Our son was taught to think for himself. To be self- sufficient. He's learned lessons in the classroom and, just as importantly, outside of it.

He may think we're out there, and that we have a lot of old people ideas. But that's okay. He gives us hope for the next generation.

And hope that, someday, he will raise kids who are just as awesome as he is.*

*And, no, I'm not just saying this because he's coming home to cut the grass this weekend!

Sew What

When it comes to crafty projects, I am the master of procrastination.

The original quilt

For what has become a few years, since I took a class in making quilts out of t-shirts, I've been promising Mr. Ginley I would create a quilt with all of his favorite sports teams.

A couple of years ago, he dug out the shirts he wanted to use.

Last year, I went looking for the instructions from the class. I found one of the pages.

So...now I am thinking I will try to find a class at one of the local fabric stores (again), and, hopefully, complete his quilt over the summer.

I wish I could be like my friend and co-worker, Stephanie. She is a master crocheter, zipping through projects like a pro. I envy her talent and tenacity.

Alas, I'm a slacker.

My intentions are good, it's just that when I come home at the end of the day, make dinner and set my fanny on the couch, I'm done. And on the weekends, I am like a whirling dervish, dashing to errands here and there.

Maybe today, snowbound here in April, will be a good day to create a plan of attack.

Or maybe it will just be a good day to read. To watch old movies on TV. To wait for the snow to melt.

And imagine the wonderful project Stephanie is creating.

Lack of Intestinal Fortitude

I know other writers have phrased this better than I, but, unfortunately, it's the crappy stuff that happens to you that makes you really appreciate the good.

This thought was rattling around my head last night as I sat and paid homage to the porcelain goddess.

At first, I thought it was food poisoning...again. But, at 4:30 a.m., I decided there was probably something more to it than that.

I was sacked out on the couch while Mr. Ginley rummaged through the kitchen cupboards in search of the Imodium A-D I was absolutely, positively certain I'd bought sometime in the last year. Or so. Then I remembered something about our son maybe taking it with him to school. The rummaging continued, as Mr. Ginley called out a litany of useless drugs and their mostly-expired dates.

At 6:00 a.m., I arose once again to do what was necessary, then consulted my favorite faux doctor, the Google, to see what I could do until a trip to the drug store was possible. I was told to nibble on a salty cracker and sip water.

Neither of those stayed around for long.

So here I am, woozy and rumbly. There will be no cat duty for me this morning. Hopefully, it's nothing contagious that I'm going to pass to Mr. Ginley.

And later, when things settle down, I'm going to remember to send up a big thanks for my overall fine health. In spite of the achy knees, acid reflux and occasional illness, I know I've got it really good.

Sorry, gotta go!