Fa La Blah Blah Blah

This is about the time of the holiday season when I reach my maximum capacity for holiday tunes.

I've heard countless renditions of the secular classics, including (but not limited to) Silver Bells, Jingle Bell Rock, Twelve Days of Christmas and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Plus the religious carols, a la Silent Night, The First Noel, Little Drummer Boy and Joy to the World. Not to mention all the latter-day classics: Lennon and McCartney with their respective holiday cheer; Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas, and, who can forget (no matter how hard they try), George Michael crooning Last Christmas.

I will admit to having a nostalgic soft spot for the music of my childhood. Alvin and the Chipmunks still rock my world. Mitch Miller and his sing-alongers are still welcome. And I enjoy a little Bing, a Little Rosemary Clooney, a little Mantovani.

And yes, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas still makes me teary.

Music has always been a memory trigger for me. Which is generally a good thing, particularly at this time of year. I envision my mom's handiwork on the holiday decorations. Dad wrangling the live Christmas tree into position, murmuring expletives under his breath so as not to corrupt young minds (ha ha), trying to position the tree so the best part was in the front. And six of us decorating the tree, arguing over the aesthetics, the older ones re-hanging ornaments that were too close together or unclumping tinsel clumped by us younger sibs.

My dad, sitting in his chair, sipping a hot toddy, the room lit only by the lights from the tree. The fake cardboard fireplace. The little trees on the "mantel" that spun when the lights inside them warmed, casting patterns onto the wall. These are the images that holiday music evokes.

Hmmm...I suppose I can put up with the holiday noise for another couple of weeks.

But please, no hippos for Christmas. Or dogs barking out Jingle Bells. Or grandmas being run down by reindeer.

Must be Santa. Santa Claus.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Something

What is it about the holidays that make people all crazy about silly stuff?

Making the rounds in social media are the kerfuffle over the Rudolph TV special and the ever-persistent "Merry Christmas" versus "Happy Holidays" greeting, which carries over into Starbucks' coffee cup territory.

Let's tackle Rudolph first.

A beloved classic, the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer TV special has been around as long as my brother (54 years) and viewed by millions of children, presumably without any damage to delicate psyches.

I think it probably started as a joke, but now there are folks who seriously think this special is bad for children because Santa is a bully and Rudolph's dad acts like a dick to his kid, making him wear a false nose so he doesn't embarrass his family.

Then there's the island of misfit toys, which is a whole other Santa's bag of mishegas. 

I think the point here is that in order to have a story, there has to be some sort of conflict to overcome. For Rudolph and Herbie and the misfit toys, it's being different in a world where people (and reindeer) want others to look, think and be just like themselves.

By the end of the tale, Santa and the other critters see the value in being different, and everybody sings as Santa's sleight wings its way through the night.

Despite the hoo-ha, 83% of folks polled still chose Rudolph as their favorite TV holiday special. So I think the controversy is a tempest in a teapot, really. Most of us can appreciate that there was a lesson the grown-ups learned in the end, and that even a train with square wheels and a jack-in-the-box named Charlie can be loved.

As to the holiday greeting thing, can we please just stop?

This is the holiday season, and we have Hanukkah, Winter Solstice, Festivus and Kwanzaa, as well as Christmas. So by saying, "Happy Holidays," we're covering all the bases and being inclusive of all folks, a sentiment I'm pretty sure Jesus would be cool with.

Especially since, in all likelihood, the date of his birth was chosen to coincide with Saturnalia, a pagan holiday that celebrated the Winter Solstice. The idea was to get the pagans on board with Christianity by re-purposing a holiday they were already celebrating. (It wasn't until the 4th century that December 25th was designated as the big guy's birthday.)

If the reason for the season is sharing and love of our fellow human beings, doesn't it make sense to go with "Happy Holidays"?

On the other hand, am I going to get my knickers in a twist if someone wishes me a "Merry Christmas"? Nope. I'm going to take it in the spirit in which it's intended, meaning someone is wishing me glad tidings during this festive season.

So, if your coffee cup is red when you wanted it to be green or it doesn't have the greeting you prefer, just drink up, toss the cup and get on with your life.

Happy Merry Holiday Christmas Hanukkah Kwanzaa Winter Solstice Festivus Everyone!

They're Trying to Sleigh Me

It's an occupational hazard, I presume, that causes me to watch television commercials.

While others may turn away or run to the loo, I sit and watch until the bitter end. Particularly during the holiday season.

What amazes me is the number of car commercials. A seemingly endless parade, in fact. A phenomenon which didn't exist (or wasn't as overt) back in the day.

People must buy cars and trucks and SUVs for Christmas, I have to assume, otherwise, it wouldn't pay to advertise them. But it's something that I -- a baby boomer from a modest middle-class family -- cannot fathom.

One in particular has nettled Mr. Ginley since it first began to play. A woman walks into her kitchen with two small indistinct objects in her hand, sets them on the counter, and says, "I did a little early shopping this year." Her husband picks up the object, makes a dismissive comment about it, and says, "I did a little early shopping, too." Whereupon the husband leads the wife back outside to show her two mammoth trucks (his and hers). Except that, in a moment of high hilarity, she chooses the black one, which everybody knows is the boy's. He shrugs and acquiesces to his wife (clearly, playing the role of the little rich girl who always gets her way), and settles on the candy apple red because, "I like red, too."

The best part, at least for Mr. Ginley, is the teeny tiny type at the bottom of the ad that states the sticker price for these behemoths is over $50,000 apiece.

Where do I begin?

First and foremost, of course, how many people spend $100,000 on Christmas? Then, what guy hands over $100,000, then backs down when his wife chooses the $50,000 monstrosity he has his heart set on? Finally, how did the wife miss seeing these two goliaths in her driveway?

I cannot remember what brand of trucks these things were. I suppose it could be argued that if I coveted such things, I would recall. But to me, all the vehicle ads look pretty much alike, they all have their own little bells and whistles, and I know I'm not going to buy one, so I really don't care.

On the other hand, if you're spending a gajillion dollars to create and air a commercial, shouldn't it be memorable, not just for its content, but for who created that content?

Come to think of it, there aren't a lot of jingles or memorable tag lines these days, either.

Said the old-timer who can still sing, "See the USA in a Chevrolet."

Where have you gone, Don Draper?

Thankfuliscious

We had a wonderful Turkey time, spent both with family (Wednesday evening) and friends (Thursday).

Mr. G. with unidentified sleeping guy at the Fleetwood Diner.

In the true tradition of the season, I thought I would list, in no particular order, ten things for which I am thankful. Just to note, I am not including Mr. Ginley or my kid or family in this list because, of course, I am thankful for them every day. And yes, I appreciate my good health. This list is for some of the other stuff.

1. I'm going to start off with John and Lisa, mostly because they are top of mind for hosting our Thanksgiving feast for the third year in a row. We couldn't get a better meal in a fine restaurant anywhere. Everything was delish, and the company was great. Our only regret is we didn't get to visit more with our hosts, who were busy preparing the meal for us.

2. Cats. Maggie joined our merry band this year to make us a trio. Yes, I know, I am often saying, "Kitties of world ain't nothin' but trouble," because she has stolen Mr. Ginley's favorite pen or splashed all the water out of her fountain (which we had to put away). But, as nature intended, her cuteness saves her ass every time.

3. Coffee and chocolate. Coffee is the nectar of the gods. For those of us who imbibe, no further explanation is required. (Mr. Ginley would substitute Vanilla Coke here, that's his prerogative.) As for chocolate, we can both agree it is, as the kids (used to) say, "bomb diggity."

4. Weekends. Yes, I realize I'm not mining for coal or cashiering at a dollar store, so my job isn't hazardous or anything. Nevertheless, I am thankful for these two days during which I can get all the stuff done that I'm too tired to do weekday evenings.

5. Indoor plumbing and heating. I know that if I had to, I could run outside in all weather to do my business, but I'm grateful I don't have to (bed pan or no bed pan). And hunching over a pile of burning logs, while it can be romantic, is not a habit I'd choose to take up on a permanent basis. I love my furnace. Good furnace.

6. Growing up in an era with rapidly changing technology. Sure, I may not be as zippety-do-dah as my son in terms of picking up new technology. But having experienced stages of progress, I have a much better understanding of why things work the way they do. So if we did lose access to technology for awhile, I would able to put my wits to use and figure out a work-around. (And being off the grid would not throw me into a tailspin.)

7. Good newspapers. Without them, we'd have to rely on social media for our news. And that's never a good thing.

8. Hippie Hash from the Fleetwood Diner in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I experienced this for the first time yesterday, before we left for home. Yum. Yum. Yum. For those of you who've never partaken, it's hash that is chock full of veggies and topped with feta cheese. (And yes, I had the "meaty" version, so it had corned beef in it, too.) Yum.

The hippest of hash.

9. Entertainers. Musicians and actors and comedians. The folks who create and stir up memories and make life palatable by making us laugh and cry and think about something besides ourselves.

10. Words. Enough said.

No Face Like Gnome

Finding no inspiration for a topic for this blog in my local rag, I poked my head out from the newspaper and made eye contact with my gnome.

That's when I decided.

Unlike my friends across the pond, my gnome resides in my living room, not my backyard. His eyes possess the wisdom of the ages, his beard bespeaks a life packed with interesting experiences, and his pipe gives him a Fred-McMurray-as-Steve-Douglas persona.

Hmmm. Now that I think of it, I never named him. I think "Douglas" would work.

But I digress.

Off I went to my friend the Google to learn what I could about my woodland friend.

Gnomes date back to the early 1700s. They were said to be spirits who live inside the earth and guard its treasures. They have been described as "diminutive" (just like me!) and troll-like.

The gnomes we know today -- the red-capped, long-coated pipe smokers -- hail from Germany and Switzerland. Known as folklore dwarfs, these garden figures migrated from Germany to England in the 1860s.

Today, garden gnomes can be found at craft stores and garden centers alike. They have many faces and sizes, and enjoy a place of pride beside chrome balls and lawn jockeys.

We actually have two -- one is a gnome that was a giveaway at a Washington Capitals hockey game. It bears the visage of Nicklas Backstrom, the Swedish star of the Capitals.

Mr. Ginley rolled his eyes when I brought home the first gnome. But I believe he's grown rather fond of our Douglas.

What's not to love?

A Capital Story

"Wow," Mr. Ginley exclaimed from the office. "Come here, you gotta read this."

He was on Twitter, his social media platform of choice, when he came across a story about a guy who donated his half of a 50-50 raffle from a Washington Capitals' hockey game. The Caps, who were playing the Penguins that night, had slated their half of the pot to support the Jewish Federation of Pittsburgh, which is managing recovery efforts from the shooting that took place at the Tree of Life synagogue last month. The winner of the other half, an 8-year season ticket holder, who was attending the game with his teenage son, decided to do the same.

Sounds pretty nice, a tidy little sum of money donated to support a worthy cause.

Except this guy's half of the take totaled $19,285.

"Would you have been willing to donate that money?" Mr. Ginley asked me.

"Maybe part of it," I replied. "But no, honestly, not all of it."

The winner admitted he would not have gotten out his checkbook and donated this sum. But he said "it was easy" to do so, given that it was just a matter of signing a paper declining the winnings.

I thought it would be interesting to find out who this guy is and what the rest of his life is like but, alas, he wished to remain anonymous.

But the dad wasn't the only hero here. His son asked his dad, prior to the game when it was announced where the Caps' half of the winnings would be donated, if he could spend his own money to buy some tickets. Together, they bought $100 in raffle tickets.

And they didn't check the ticket numbers until they were heading out of the arena after the game.

With all of the outrageous nonsense that continued to spew from the leader of our torn-up country this past week, reading this story soothed my soul a little.

Love does trump hate.

Repeat and repeat and repeat.

Oh, and by the way, the ticketholder and his son? They're not Jewish.

They just wanted to help.

Speaking of Gerbils

Included in today's local rag, in the section that tells you all of the amazing happenings in town, is the announcement that the Midwest Gerbil Show is being held in Westlake.

In attendance will be gerbil breeders and enthusiasts. And, just like the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, this one will have judges to assess the rodents for the shade of their fur and their temperament. (Snarky gerbils need not attend.)

The event will also feature pet classes and include competitions for things like toilet paper roll chewing and ball races. And what event would be complete without a photo booth?

This story took me back to my own childhood. We were not permitted to have a dog or a cat. My mom figured (rightly so, I'm sure) that the responsibility for caring for a larger animal would fall to her. "I already have six children, that's enough," she would say.

So, we had to scout about for smaller critters. My brothers led the charge with birds, a snake, and a frog. My sister had turtles.

Then we landed on gerbils. We had a number of the cute, furry critters over the years. They lived in an aquarium, which we quickly learned required a caged top (they're great little jumpers). They were relatively clean, so their cage didn't require frequent changing. Entertaining and lively, they were the perfect pet.

(Except for that time when one escaped when we were out of town and chewed a hole in the mattress.)

At that time, not everyone was familiar with gerbils. They were brought here from northern China in 1954 to use as lab animals. But the researchers fell in love with them and started taking them home as pets. And the rest, as the cliché goes, is history.

Sadly, gerbils don't spend a long time with us. The average life span is 3-3 1/2 years. But they sure carpe diem the heck out of their lives while they last.

On a somewhat related note, for those of you who are snickering about "gerbiling," NO, Richard Gere did not, and there have NEVER been any proven instances of a hospital visit by ANYONE who had to have a rodent removed from their rectum.

As always, I'm happy to be your source for both news and accurate information.