It's a Mystery to Me

"Hey, that's Pussy Galore," exclaimed Mr. Ginley last night. "I sure hope she's not going to murder James Bond."

We were watching a 2005 episode of Midsomer Murders entitled A Talent for Life. Sure enough, the victim-to-be was portrayed by Honor Blackman, who was the character with the smirk-inducing name in Goldfinger. In the 1960s Ms. Blackman was also Cathy Gale in The Avengers (no connection to the Marvel comic book characters). She was 94 when she passed away in April of this year.

But there I go, digressing.

Our interest in Midsomer Murders is relatively recent, and we have a lot of catching up to do. We are on the sixth set, and there are a gajillion episodes to watch. Each opens with a murder in a quaint village located in the fictional British county of Midsomer. It's up to Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby* and his young assistant, Sergeant Troy, to solve the murder.

Seldom, however, is the story limited to just one unnatural death. There are usually two or three that follow the initial killing. While I always thought it would be nice to live in the English countryside, I must say this series has put me off a bit. Considering the murder rate per capita, these sleepy little hamlets are in reality a hotbed of premature deaths. One never knows if the dotty old lady next door is going to take offense at some minor criticism and slip a little arsenic in your tea or a stiletto between your shoulder blades.

At any rate, mysteries are one of the few genres Mr. and I share. I keep my finger on the "pause" button so we can inspect some clue or other. And at times, we will pause and make an observation about who the killer could be. (More often than not, we're on the wrong track, but that's okay.)

For whatever reason, the majority of mystery series we've glommed onto were filmed across the pond, some in French or Italian with subtitles. But most are British. There is the added joy (for me) of listening to their accents. The historical settings are cool. And the countryside is lovely. Just the thing for an Anglophile like me.

Thankfully, there are two libraries near us that stock the entire series, so hopefully, we'll be able to view the whole shebang without a hitch. 

If I can't make it to the English countryside, I can at least visit vicariously through British mysteries. 

It's a whole lot safer, too, I'm sure. 

*Fun fact: In real life, Ms. Blackman had a son named "Barnaby." 

Fame and Fortune

My first wallet was quite a prize.

I still have a red wallet.

Red and shiny, with that new plastic smell, it had the added bonus of a photo of a famous movie star, tucked into the clear plastic pocket. Back in the day, they would put a photo there to illustrate how cool it would be to feature a picture of your loved one in that spot.

I gazed at the black and white photo and wrinkled my nose a little. To my five-year-old mind, he was an old, dad-looking guy. He looked like he would be nice, but I didn't recognize him, so he had no real appeal to me.

"It's Gregory Peck," my oldest sister said, as if that clarified all.

 "Who's Gregory Peck."

"He's a movie star. He's been in a bunch of movies," Diane informed me, rolling her big-sister eyes.

I shrugged, not impressed at all. But since I didn't have a photo to place in the pocket of my prized plastic wallet, Mr. Peck continued to hold his place of honor for as long as I owned it. 

Given that pretty much everything non-edible that came into our house was kept forever, Greg and I became well acquainted.

In real life, I haven't had many encounters with famous folk. More often than not, my brushes with fame have been by association. My son, as a preschooler, met and spoke with President Clinton. Harry, former-boss-now-friend, once ate in the same restaurant as Woody Allen. And my brother-in-law, Brian, has had hilarious meet-ups with Jay Leno (from a manhole during a traffic stop), Jim Carey (while helping to fix his stereo) and Garret Morris (who ran from him because he thought Brian was going to serve him papers from his ex).

 

Admittedly, I do like to read about the rich and famous, although, honestly, I'm more apt to read biographies about fascinating people who were not terribly famous themselves, but who hobnobbed with those who were.

Are there any movie stars I'd like to meet?

Giving it some thought (but not too much), I chose five alive and five not-so-alive:

Alive

1. Sam Elliott

2. Jody Foster

3. Tina Fey

4. Jon Stewart

5. Tracy Ullman

Not-so-Alive

1. Cary Grant

2. Jimmie Stewart

3. Harpo Marx

4. Carole Lombard

5. William Powell

I'd love to hear your favorites. Isn't that what social media is all about? 

Spill! (Please.) 

My friend, Gregory Peck, would approve.

I'm Not Karen

 I want to take a moment to thank the person who chose the name "Karen" -- and not mine -- to represent the stereotypical privileged white woman of a certain age.

Yes, I feel badly for the thousands of Karens out there, who must, every day, face down the stigma, magnified by the relentless memes, of Karen behaving badly. "Karen" shouting that she will not wear a mask. "Karen" standing outside her home, threatening peaceful folks of color with a rifle. "Karen" complaining she didn't want onions on her Big Mac but got them anyhow.

There but for the grace of God, etc.

In the year of my birth, "Karen" was ranked as the #4 most popular girl's name, preceded by Mary, Susan and Linda. My name took the #11 spot. 

I do believe, if we find it necessary to give a name to a woman who behaves badly, why don't we have a male counterpart? It may be because, if you look at boys' names from the same period, they are still in vogue today. During the Karen era, the most popular names were Michael, David, James, John and Robert, all of which are still used today. 

In fact, going down the Top 30 list of boys' names, none jumped out as being dated. Which brings up another question. Why are boys' names timeless, while girls' names can often be pegged by generation?

Jennifer, Amanda, Jessica, Melissa and Sarah topped the list for 1980.

In 1990, the top 5 were Jessica, Ashley, Brittany, Amanda and Samantha.

Fast forwarding to 2000, we have Emily, Hannah, Madison, Ashley and Sarah. 

2019: Emma, Ava, Olivia, Isabella and Amelia.

I will grant you that boys' names have become more diverse over the last 20 years. While William, James and Benjamin still made the Top 10 in 2019, ranking high on the list were Liam, Noah and Logan.

Still, I wasn't able to find a boys' name that is unique to my era. 

If we have a "Karen" we should have the male counterpart to represent the white guy of privilege.

Maybe "Donald" would work.

I'm open for suggestions.

Hello Goodbye

I know these are Christmas socks and it's not Christmas.

But I don't care. Because they make me happy.

Now me and these kitties are taking it on the road. To find a place to walk and enjoy this gorgeous day.

Hope you do the same!

Life in the Slow Lane

Two guys on crotch rockets went flying past me on the freeway last night.

They zoom zoomed and zipped their way around the other vehicles on the road. 

I pulled my heart out of my throat and kept a steady pace, allowing them to go by -- and get far, far away from me. 

I've noticed just about everybody is in a hurry these days. It has a lot to do, I'm certain, with being cloistered for several weeks during the pandemic. All that pent-up energy. 

Being the contrarian I am, my inclination has been to slow down. I went home last night and sat by the kitchen window, looking out at my backyard, watching day turn to night. There was a cool breeze. And crickets. And fireflies flickering their lights. Maggie dozed in her basket. I breathed it all in.

This morning I awoke to a cotton candy sky, all pinks and blues. And birdsong. And squirrel chatter.

Just a gentle reminder that the world will continue turn. The sun will make an appearance every morning. And each day we are given has at least some moments of peace and a little joy, if we look for them.

So, why is this "get off my lawn" gal spouting platitudes? 

Don't get used to it. I'm sure the old irascible Barb will return next week.

Sans the crotch rocket.

TTFN.