Take a Bow, Rose Marie

Rose Marie died this week.

She had an amazing life, but it still makes me sad to see that generation of performers slowly fade away.

Rose Marie Mazzetta was born in New York City in 1923. She began her show business career at the age of three, singing on the radio. She worked in vaudeville, on Broadway, in Las Vegas, in the movies and on television.

Rose Marie's most famous role was on The Dick Van Dyke Show, as Sally Rogers, a wisecracking writer for a TV variety show. Teaming up with Morey Amsterdam, who played Buddy Sorrell on the series, she was one of the first women on a television sitcom whose career was the focus of her life. Ironically, Mary Tyler Moore played the housewife/mom on the show, and would later be lauded as a pioneer for career women for her role on the Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Recently, Rose Marie came forward with her own #MeToo story. During the making of the film "Top Banana," she was propositioned by one of the producers. She responded, loudly, in front of the crew, "You couldn't get it up if the flag went by." Her musical numbers were subsequently cut from the film, and she had a difficult time for awhile getting roles.

Rose Marie was married once, to Bobby Guy, who was a trumpet player in Kay Kyser's band. He was only 48 when he died of a blood infection in 1964. She was devastated. They had been married for 18 years and had one daughter, Georgiana.

She called Al Capone "Uncle Al." Rose Marie's father worked as an arsonist for the gangster, burning down the warehouse of anyone who crossed Capone -- a fact she wasn't privy to until years later, when she worked in Las Vegas with Bugsy Siegel. 

The signature bow she always wore in her hair was donated to the Smithsonian in 2006. When asked what its significance was, all Rose Marie would say was that it was very personal, and she didn't want to share.

 Rose Marie wrote a memoir in 2003, called "Hold the Roses." And there's a 2017 documentary called "Wait for Your Laugh."  I'm looking forward to reading/watching them both.

Some of the most fascinating people are on the periphery of major stardom.

I think Rose Marie qualifies. What a run, indeed.

Sleeting Moments

I awoke this morning to the ticka-ticka-ticka of frozen precipitation hitting my window.

Bundling up, I prepared to retrieve my newspaper from the lawn, where the carrier normally throws it. Imagine my surprise when I opened my front door and discovered the paper on the porch. Which was very pleasant, indeed, considering the icy drops were coming down fast and hard, and I didn't want to add boots and an umbrella to my ensemble.

Like it always does, the question went through my mind: What's the difference between sleet and freezing rain? Only this time, I did something about it. I went to the Google and asked the National Weather Service.

Obviously, my search was not unique, because the answer popped right up.

Both forms of precipitation start out as just raindrops. The distinction comes when they hurl earthward. If the layer of freezing air is thin, you get freezing rain. The water doesn't freeze in the air, it does so when it hits the ground, making it a real challenge to clean your car and walk around without landing on your ass.

Sleet, on the other hand, reaches the earth in the form of frozen droplets -- confirming that this morning's precipitation was, in fact, sleet. (Now it's turned to snow. I certainly know what that is.)

It's entirely possible that this little weather lesson was an education only to me. I was probably taught it a long time ago during my school years, but it was lost in a haze of other knowledge, most of it useless, that is taking up space in my cranium. (Just to note, some people do think remembering Beatles lyrics is worthwhile.)

Oh well. I figure if I learn something of value every day, no matter how trivial, I can feel a little less like I'm rocketing my way toward a doddering old age.

Speaking of being an old fart, I decided, just for shits and giggles, to go to our 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica, Volume XXV, to see what it had to say about sleet.

Pretty much the same thing, it turns out, with one notable exception: It says that in some cases, sleet may actually begin as snow, not rain, with the transformation taking place as the precipitation encounters an air temperature just above the freezing point.

I'm sure the National Weather Service just decided this level of thoroughness wasn't necessary, that most folks would be satisfied with the edited version. But it does make me wonder how much of the knowledge we get from the internet is condensed in order to keep it mainstream enough for the person of average intelligence.

I'm not a big fan of abridged books, either. I prefer to get the whole story. I'm not comfortable with someone else deciding what's important to me.

But once again, I digress. If digression were an Olympic sport, I'd win the gold every time.

I'm sure there are those who would argue I need to be abridged. Maybe so. But it's my blog, and I have the luxury of bloviating to my heart's content.

Read at your own peril. You've been warned!

I Just Have Something in My Eye

I've never been a fan of Harlequin novels.

I do enjoy the cozy murder mystery now and again. But sappy romance novels? Not me.

So I am grappling with the realization that I am becoming hooked on the Hallmark Channel.

I don't know, maybe it's the time of year. Doesn't everyone get sucked into formulaic stories and happy endings during the holidays?

Or maybe it's just my age. I've heard from coworkers, whose moms are of a certain age (e.g. same as me), who are also hooked on Hallmark.

Or perhaps it's the rancid political climate. The Oh-My-God-I-Just-Can't-Watch-It-Anymore, pit in my stomach feeling that comes from too much CNN.

Could it be that it's just a guilty pleasure? It's relaxing, at the end of a stress-filled day, to sit back and watch two people meet in a small, friendly town, overcome some hurdle(s) or other, and find they want to spend the rest of their lives together.

I need a break from people crashing cars and bashing skulls. From fart jokes and parents who are dumber than their kids. From really, really bad football. From zombies and foolish teenagers who don't know enough NOT TO OPEN THE DAMN DOOR.

And, you know, it's okay if I cry a little at the end. It's all good.

So, now that I've confessed, I will also admit that The Ref is still one of my favorite Christmas movies. That I'm just a little bit in love with Chili Palmer. And Stranger Than Paradise is still my favorite local flick.

So I'm not a total mushy heart.

Now hand me the tuner. I want to see if Uncle Bernie and his bookstore are going bring Sean and Gina together in time for Christmas.

In Search of Holiday Spirit

In the deep recesses of my skeptical heart lives a tiny glimmer of holiday spirit that has not been destroyed by the relentless push to buy, buy, buy.

Chris' Handiwork

Last night, we watched a holiday movie on Hallmark. And yes, I say unashamedly, we got a little teary, as the movie reached its inevitably happy ending. Girl breaks off engagement with Mr. Wrong. Mr. Right is stopped before he boards the plane. The actor formerly known as Fonzie plays the uncle who knew it would happen this way all along. And the too-cute child actor comes to believe that Santa is real. Everyone goes to bed happy.

Today, my quest for the holiday spirit continued. The morning dawned cold and frosty, as Mr. and I hit the freeway and headed to the other side of town. He was dropped off at the library to amuse himself for two hours, while I attended a Christmas Tea, hosted by my coworker (Chris') Presbyterian church.

I went to the Tea several years ago and was happy once again to have been included in the fellowship of these women to celebrate the season.

After a delicious pot lock buffet style breakfast, we adjourned to the church where hymns were sung and bible passages read. The guest speaker was a woman who played the part of Jesus' grandmother in a captivating piece she entitled, "My Grandson Really Does Walk on Water." It was a thoughtful and entertaining take on Mary's conception, Joseph's understandingly hurt reaction, and the ultimate coming to terms by all concerned. It was intriguing to consider how the real-life scenario might have unfolded.

Walking out of the church with the other women, I felt blessed to have been included.

Maybe there is hope for my Christmas spirit, after all.

Mabel's Tale

Thanksgiving morning, I hoisted myself out of bed, stepped into my slippers and groggily worked my way downstairs. Time to feed the cat.

I waited for her morning howl, that, "where have you been and where's my food, you lazy so-and-so."

Then I remembered. She was gone.

For 17 of her 20 years of life, Mabel was my first touch point of the day. Change the water, fill the food dish, clean out the litter box.

Flashing back to April 8, 2000, when we visited what is now called Stay-A-While Cat Sanctuary, our soon-to-be-adopted Mabel was sitting way up high, on top of the refrigerator.

"She doesn't like the other cats," we were informed.

Hmmm...anti-social and bearing a strong resemblance to Marge, our last cat. Sounds like a winner.

"Can we get this one? Pleeeeze?" begged Mr. Ginley

The shelter folks told us she was between 2 1/2 and 3 years old, and her name was "Alley." (That we would quickly fix.) Arrangements were made. She was relatively new to the shelter and had to be spayed and vaccinated. She'd be ready for pick-up on April 21st. Good Friday.

I left work early that afternoon for the shelter. When I arrived, Mabel was pacing back and forth.

"She's been waiting for you," they said.

All the way home, she kvetched at me. When we finally arrived, I opened up the carrier and set her free.

"She'll probably hide for a few days," I had told my then-six-year-old son.

Nope. Not our Mabel.

She went upstairs, downstairs and all through to house, ascertained there were, in fact, no other cats present, jumped up on the couch and all but said, "Yes, I suppose this will do."

At that moment, it became her house and remained so the rest of her days.

When we first considered getting a cat, it was supposed to be for me. But she quickly became my son's. We were sure that when he went off to college, Mabel would lose her will to live. But she actually adapted to his absence better than Mr. Ginley or I.

Over the years, as she slowed down and sleeping became her primary activity, Mr. Ginley would talk to her all day as he went about his chores. He'd sing to her. Or play Bowie for her. Check her eyes for goopies and her paws for bits of litter.

It will be hardest on him, I think.

Last night, as we prepared to watch the latest installment of The Great British Baking Show, Mr. Ginley turned to me and said, "But Mabel won't know how it ends."

Someday, when the time is right, we will adopt another grey tabby. But she will be her own cat. No one can replace Mabel (or Marge) in our hearts.

That's the funny thing about pets. You think you're giving them a home, but really, they are the ones who adopt you.

And once they get their little claws into your heart, that's all she wrote.

Age-Related Issues

Recently, I was on my favorite social media site, and I spied an article belittling us Baby Boomers.

It poked fun at Birkenstocks and flip phones and mocked us for not understanding the newest technology.

I suppose it was meant to get back at the older generation for bemoaning the shortcomings of the Millennials. Some of it was comically true. Some of it was wrong. At the end of the day, I guess every generation thinks those who came before screwed up the world for them. Boo hoo.

On the other hand, I am also tired of reading rants from my generation about how the Millennials are going to ruin the world because their eyes are glued to their devices while the world goes to hell around them. Boo hoo.

The first order of business is to stop labeling one another. Stop identifying others by their age or their gender or color or their religion or their political stance. Step two is to respect each other. Even though we may not be on the same page, we're all reading from the same book.

There are plenty of assholes embedded into each generation. Conversely, there are lots of fabulous human beings, old and young, that I've been lucky to have known. (You know who you are.)

The newer generation will grapple with things we never imagined. On the other hand, they cannot fathom the things we had to deal with to bring them to this point in time.

So, let's leave it at that, shall we?

As to the Facebook post and the snarky article about my generation, my reply was this:

Just wait. Someday, many years into the future, there will be a post about all of the things that Millennials held dear and all of the things they got wrong.

And the world will spin on.

What's the Beef?

"I'm over a hundred years old, and I've never had an accident," proclaimed the wizened woman in the bank.

She was having a gripe-fest with the teller, and, because I couldn't help it, I had to listen in.

"My son wants me to quit driving. The insurance company is raising my rates like I'm a teenager. I'm a good driver. Why do I have to pay more to drive my car?"

I looked out the window toward my vehicle and sent up a silent wish that I hadn't parked anywhere near her. Maybe she hadn't ever had an accident. Maybe she couldn't remember. Either way, it seemed like she was tempting fate. And she'd be leaving the bank before me.

"The other teller got this deposit wrong," the woman continued. "I gave her everything, I just don't know how she could have messed it up."

The current teller spoke soothingly, trying to give a simple explanation as to how the mishap could have occurred. Apparently, there was no harm done, and the woman's banking was completed without further incident. Although she did continue to rant through the processing of her transactions.

I began to wonder, as I waited my turn, if I would live to be that old, and if so, would I be that cranky? Was the woman always irascible, or was this an age-related thing?

Also, I wondered about her son. If she was 100, he was probably somewhere between 65 and 80 years old himself. Meaning he had his own health issues to worry about. What was his frame of mind? Did he get along with her, or did he sit at home and watch "Throw Mama From the Train" over and over?

This is the way I'm wired, I guess. I watch life's little dramas unfold, and I wonder about the strangers who put their lives out there, unaware that they are being emotionally dissected by a random observer.

I suppose my takeaway from the incident was to hope that, if I do reach a ripe old age, I am as in control of my faculties as the old bird appeared to be, but without the poison. Yes, I realize that, given my present level of snarkiness, it seems unlikely I will grow old without that "get off my lawn, you rotten kids" thing going on.

I just hope I could still find things to laugh about. And love about. And wonder about in this crazy world of ours.

Then, I wouldn't mind hanging around so long.