Reborns, Not Newborns

This headline in a buy/shop Facebook ad stopped me in my tracks:

My Betsy

In search of reborn baby for sale.

I'm sure you're all much smarter than I, and you already know what the ad is about -- and it has nothing to do with purchasing a newly-baptized infant. It's about a baby doll - one that is very lifelike.

Maybe it's because this isn't anywhere near my radar screen -- I don't have a child who's begging for a reborn baby for Christmas. I'm not a doll collector. And, having experienced the live model many years ago, I don't feel the need for a plastic stand-in.

Still, I once was smitten with my dollies, so I understand the appeal. I decided I needed to know a little more. So I went to my friend, the Google, to investigate "reborn babies."

I immediately got 16,700,000 results.

I chose one of the top selling websites and clicked onward. There I found scores of dollies, made of what was described as GentleTouch™ vinyl. (If it's trademarked, it has to be good, right?)

The site boasts the dolls are so realistic, you won't be able to tell the difference between them and real babies. I'd argue that a real infant breathes and hollers and eats and poops, thus making it pretty obvious who's the real deal.

But I digress.

The amount of detail that goes into making these dolls is quite remarkable. Hair that is attached one strand at a time. Birthmarks, veins, eyelashes and fingernails are all part of the doll's DNA. In addition, the dolls are weighted with plastic beads and other filler to give them the right heft.

Fun Facts: The artists who make these dolls are called "reborners." And the process of making them is called "reborning." The industry has been around since the early 1990s.

Most of the dolls are Caucasian, although I did see some African American and Asian babies. And a Hawaiian girl.

The dolls are priced from under $100 to nearly $1,000. Many have been discounted for Black Friday.

Some are cute, some are creepy. Some have eyes that are permanently closed, which seems sad.

None of them will be coming to my house to stay.

If I need a dolly fix, I need only dig through the back of my closet and find my childhood companion, Betsy (no Wetsy). Although she will never be mistaken for the real thing, she'll always be my baby (doll).

A Healthy Attitude

People always say, "At least you have your health."

And we always take it for granted. Until we get sick. Then we swear we'll never take it for granted again -- much the same way someone who has one drink too many swears they will never imbibe again. Ya, right.

Mr. and I started this cycle last week. First, he was sick, then I. Our symptoms didn't match exactly, but I'm pretty sure we shared the same jimmy germs.

He threw up. I didn't. I got laryngitis. He didn't.

But we both had plugged up heads. I can't talk, neither of us can hear very well. Comedy ensues.

Mr. Ginley purports "some" might look upon my inability to speak as a bonus. By "some" he claims it's the cat. (We all know who "some" is.)

Meanwhile, our conversations run something like this:

Mr. Ginley: Did you get my phone out of my pants?

Me: Honey, I'm just not up to that right now.

Mr. Ginley: What?

Me: I'm not feeling very frisky.

Mr. Ginley: What's that got to do with getting my phone out of my pants?

Me: Oh, I thought you said...

Well, you get the idea.

Yesterday, we had to venture out to do a couple of errands. I just wasn't up to cooking, so we stopped at Subway for dinner.

I tried to order.

"She can't hear you. Speak up." Commanded Mr. Ginley.

"This is as loud as it gets," I replied.

And so it was, Mr. Ginley had to relay my order as I croaked it at him.

This will all go away soon, and we'll no doubt return to our full volume lives.

I feel confident and blessed this will be so for Mr. and me.

For those who are not so fortunate, I send comfort and love and and a wish for relief from suffering.

For all of us...the sun is shining today. Don't miss it.

Leave it to the Snow

I had all the best intentions of cleaning up the leaves in my backyard.

There weren't a lot of them, but enough that something needed to be done.

Then we got some snow this week, covering the leaves, and effectively enabling me to put off the whole issue of, "should I rake or should I leaf-blow."

Life is funny like that. The stupid stuff you worry about often takes care of itself.

Now, notice I said "stupid" stuff...there are things you should worry about. Like your health, for example. The cashier who is having trouble counting out your change. Or the driver in front of you who is weaving back and forth across the double yellow lines.

"Stupid things I will not worry about," as defined by moi, include (but are not limited to) the following:

• The many calories in that rare piece of chocolate cake in which I indulge.

• What the person in the car next to me at the stoplight thinks when they see me bopping my head, tapping the steering wheel and singing along with the Beatles.

• Housework. As an old friend once told me, "The dust will be around forever, but I won't."

• What the Millennials are saying about the Baby Boomers. Every generation thinks they have all the answers. The Millennials will have their turn. Their kids will kick them in the ass one day, too. (Plato...or was it Socrates?...made the same observation.)

I welcome any and all comments about you think is worry-worthy (or not).

As for me, I'm going to engage in a little cat therapy tonight. It's been a busy day, and I love it when Maggie curls up under my chin and purrs.

Even if she does have tuna breath...I'm not going to worry about it.

Closeted Memories

"I remember sitting in the backyard with my Mom in the summer, sipping iced tea. We'd add some sugar, and used these spoons to stir.  They were the perfect size for the tall glasses."

Mr. Ginley held up a spoon with a long handle.

It's funny how the strangest things can make us nostalgic. Well, not everyone. Some people are not sentimental that way, but Mr. and I are.

We've been trying to jettison the stuff we've had stored in closets or the basement for year upon year. The treasures come to light now, only to dredge up memories.

The vase and candy dish I bought, part of a collection of display items for sale when I was at JBR.

The full set of dishes I purchased before I married husband #1, which I've barely used.

Coffee cups I got for Mr. Ginley from airport gift shops after attending press checks.

The countless plastic cups taken home from 30+ years of sporting events.

Some of the treasures went back into the closet, to be deep-sixed after we are. Others were wrapped up, to be shared with friends or donated. A lucky few will be incorporated into our current dinnerware menagerie, best described as "eclectic."

I can identify most of the pieces, when I got them and where, yet I can't remember where I left my phone half the time.

Memory is a funny thing.

In the meantime, our overstock is slowly making its way to new homes. Funny thing is, we still seem to have an abundance of stuff.

I think the house has magic powers, and things we've stored in the closet are prone to multiplying while we sleep.

Maybe I should put a few dollar bills in the closet and see what happens...

Imperfect Timing

It's that time of year again -- time to gripe about the time.

Sunday morning at 2 am, most of us in the U.S. will be turning back the hands on our clocks and enjoying another hour of sleep.

Some of us will welcome the extra shuteye. Others will complain that it throws off their sleeping patterns. And still others will bemoan the darkness that comes earlier in the day.

In a couple of days, the noise will end, and water cooler conversations will get back to what really matters: Whom will the Bachelor choose? Why do we have to start advertising Christmas so early? (it used to be the day after Thanksgiving); and, always a hot topic in my local Facebook group, is this the week when bulk items are picked up on garbage day?

A Little History

Daylight Saving Time (DST) has been around since 1905, invented by a New Zealander who wanted to shift the time by TWO hours. (Imagine the outcry THAT would cause here.) His idea morphed into the one-hour method, which was picked up first by a couple hundred Canadians in 1908 (props to our neighbors to the north). It wouldn't be until 1916 that Germany and Austria got on board, and they did it for practical reasons -- they were two years into the Great War and wanted to save fuel for the war effort. 

Other countries followed over the ensuing weeks. The practice was discontinued after World War I and was not taken up again until the start of World War II. (Here in the States, we didn't enact a law until 1918, but it was so unpopular, it was repealed after seven months, only to be brought back as "War Time" during WWII.)

From 1945 to 1966, there was no federal law regulating Daylight Saving Time. So states and local governments could decide willy-nilly whether or not to observe DST and what times it would begin and end.

Understandably, this was a nightmare for certain industries, particularly broadcasting and travel.  Railroad timetables, for example, were changing constantly. And if you happened to be taking a jaunt along a 35-mile stretch of Route 2 between Moundsville, WV and Steubenville, Ohio, you had to put up with seven different time changes. 

Congress finally stepped in and said "enough" in 1966, establishing one pattern for Daylight Saving Time that applied to the entire country. However, they also stipulated that if an entire state wanted to remain on Standard Time, they could do so. (Indiana didn't adopt DST until 2006).

These days, the debate continues, with camps divided among those who want to keep DST, those who want to abolish it, and those who want to go to DST all the time.

I'm in the third camp. I would rather have a little more light at the end of the day. I don't need the sun to make an appearance uber early. For example, if we abolish DST, on the longest day of the year, the sun would rise at 4:52 am and set at 8:04 pm. 

Doctors say all of this changing messes with our innards. I suppose that's true if you're on a rigid schedule, but I'm not. I would imagine one could mitigate this by hitting the sack an hour later tonight, but perhaps I oversimplify. (I do know animals are messed up by the time change, so Maggie will be in my grill at 6 am for sure.)

Whatever camp you may be in, enjoy your extra hour of sleep. 

You can rest up for next spring, when the battle over DST begins anew.