Delivering a Momily

"Your kid wants to know what you want for Mother's Day," Mr. Ginley said last Thursday.

"I'm easy to buy for," I say breezily.

That's when I get "the look."

In her happy place.

"You are the most difficult person ever to buy for," he informs me. "You never want anything, and you always say you'll be happy with whatever you get."

All of this is true. It's also true that the one thing I always ask for -- to sit across the table and share breakfast with my son -- isn't going to happen this year. Instead, in the immortal words of Ohio Bell Telephone, I will "reach out and touch someone" albeit via Skype. Which, I'm sorry, just isn't the same. But it's the safe and responsible thing to do.

Thinking back on what we got our mom for Mother's Day, there was always a card. In our younger days, they were handmade. Later on, we bought funny or sappy Hallmark or American Greetings cards. And maybe a little chocolate for Mom (giving us an excuse to treat ourselves, too. After all, we were the reason she celebrated Mother's Day.)

My mom has been gone for eight years now, and I still think about her all the time. I converted a VHS tape of her and my dad at our son's first birthday party, and watching it really gave me a jolt. Captured forever are images of my mom -- her voice, her laughter -- that continue to live in my heart. That's where she's alive and well -- and gently nudging me when I get "too big for my britches."

For all of my friends who are moms, my wish tomorrow is for a quiet day, with someone else doing the cooking, and a chat with your offspring, whether you be in the same room, across town or across the country. For those of you with the four-legged variety of children, I hope they show their love and appreciation for all you've done for them. (Yes, kitty cats, even you can break out a lap sit and a purr for Mother's Day.)

And please, oh, please, let's not have snow tomorrow.

Mom wouldn't like it snowing on her garden.

Comic Conversations

Mr. Ginley struck up a lively conversation about comic books last night.

Anything to not talk about the current state of the union.

And so it was that Betty versus Veronica became an actual topic of discussion, with Mr. Ginley leading the interview:

Mr: Who did you like better, Betty or Veronica?

Me: Betty. Veronica was too much like the girls I knew in high school with too much money and too little empathy for wallflowers like me. Betty seemed nice, if a little vapid.

Mr: Who would you have been attracted to, Archie, Reggie or Jughead?

©1966 K.K. Publications

Me: Archie, by default. Reggie was too snarky, Jughead too dopey. But I wouldn't have been as moony over Archie as the girls in the comics were. I equate him to Richie Cunningham from Happy Days. A nice guy, fairly down-to-earth. But nothing to get the blood pumping through my adolescent veins.

Themes like this have become de rigueur at our home. And I've found myself addressing other mind-blowing questions, such as:

Did you ever want a boyfriend like Ned Nickerson (Nancy Drew's boyfriend)? No, I admired Nancy but Ned was just a prop, really.

Pick one: Speed Racer or Driver X. Meh, I guess Driver X because he was mysterious.

Which superhero did you think was hot? None, I wasn't into superheroes. I'm still not.

At this point, Mr. Ginley points out I have a stash of comic books in the closet from my childhood. There are old Superman comics, many without covers. But these were the ones that belonged to my whole family. There is a bizarre range of themes here, including a Classics Illustrated edition of H.G. Wells' The Food of the Gods, the cover of which still gives me the willies.

©1967 Gilberton Company Inc.

My own personal comics, in a separate well-worn paper shopping bag, were more along the lines of Bugs Bunny and TV shows -- most notably, The Man from Uncle. And, no surprise, The Monkees. I only kept a few...the rest of the items in the bag are fan magazines, now, sadly, sans their glossy photos and posters, which adorned the wall of my childhood bedroom.

Now, I will answer the next inevitable questions, as yet unasked.

Illya Kuryakin. And Davy Jones.

May your days in isolation be filled with equally stimulating conversation.

Rants and Raves

Although Mr. Ginley and I are no strangers to the idea of social isolation, there are signs that tensions are ramping up in these days of Covid-19.

It's not like we were hanging around in bars or going to sporting events or parties. We'd already done a lot of cutting back and had become accustomed to spending most of our days at the Casa de Ginley.

But I believe the closing of the libraries was a bridge too far for my other half. Aside from accusing the cat of threatening to rip out his throat with her "talons of steel," lately, he has taken to yelling at the television and his I-Pad.  Well, okay, he's always done this to some extent, but lately it's been getting worse.

I'm learning how to cope.

For example, I've found it's best if we watch DVDs rather than live TV. This precludes having to sit through rants about the commercials. Permit me to share:

"What kind of parents are you, your kid fills up the sink to overflowing and you think that's cute? Now you're going to have to mop up that monsoon and hope you don't have to call a contractor to fix your ceiling. That kid is asking for a spanking."

"Who takes a dog to a car dealership? Leave your dog at home, what's wrong with you?!"

"Don't be stupid. Stop putting baby powder in your..."

Well, you get the idea.

Also, every time an ad comes on selling one of those "ask your doctor" medications, and they list all the symptoms, without fail, Mr. Ginley says, "I've got all that. I must have (fill in the disease/disorder)."

Worst of all is the news, which turns him into a fiery ball of frustration -- with politicians, meteorologists and vapid reporters.

Sometimes I laugh. Mostly I shrug and let him blow off steam.

It seemed like a good idea to air him out, so we went for a drive through the park. The skies were blue, the trees budding, Mother Nature in all her loveliness. What is there to kvetch about?

"Hey, Lance Armstrong, get out of the middle of the road."

"How come when I see a jogger, it's a dude, where are all the pretty girls?"

"Stop tailgating, Mario Andretti -- if you were in a hurry, you should have taken the freeway!"

And so it goes. The soundtrack of my life.

Serial Thrillers

"One Saturday afternoon, you'd watch a Dick Tracy short, and there he was, sailing over a cliff in the last frame. You'd wonder all week how he was going to get out of that fix. Then, next week, in the opening shot, you'd see Tracy jump to safety at the last possible second."

According to my Dad, that's how serial pictures kept you coming back. He'd explain on rainy Saturday afternoons, when we were stuck indoors and watching old movies together on TV. (He loved Tarzan -- especially the stampeding elephants.) His favorite line to deliver, at the suspenseful climax of any movie or TV show, was something like, "He's in for it now. I guess this will be the last show."

Of course, it wasn't. And our hero lived to face another day of treachery and mayhem.

I imagine serials have been around as long as storytelling has existed. Even ancient peoples were curious about what would happen next.

Today, we have binge watching. Where you don't have to wait until next week to see what happens. You can stay glued to your device for hour upon pointless hour.

On some level, I understand this guilty pleasure. On the other hand, there is something delicious about having to wait to find out.

I know some people are like this with books, too. They turn to the end to read the final chapter. Admittedly, I've been guilty of this on occasion, but only with books I was having a difficult time slogging through. So if it had a bad ending, I would just bail. I know this is cheating, but, well, it's my book and I'll peek if I want to.

Today, the sun shines, the snow melts and I'm not going to be watching television this afternoon. In spite of the cold, I hope to persuade Mr. Ginley to take a walk with me.

But maybe later, I'll dip into the archives and partake of a bit of noir...even if it's something I've seen before.

Half the time, I can't remember the plot, anyhow.

Oh well. Enjoy your day. I'll be back next week with another exciting installment!

Eggs-traordinary

There's a part of me that wants to go out right now and buy a Paas Easter egg coloring kit.

Displayed on the official Easter Egg Tray

Yes, I know I'd have to make more hard boiled eggs than the two of us could/should eat. And yes, I realize it would never be the same as sitting at a table comprised of bickering/bossy siblings. (And yes, I get that I fall into that category as it relates to my younger brother, Paul. Sorry, Paul.)

Coloring eggs was a family tradition that lasted well into my teens. We were each apportioned a share of eggs. My mom (or older sister) would prepare the water and add the dye, and we would proceed to dunk the eggs whole, or suspend them using little wire hangers. (If you weren't careful, the egg would roll off the hanger, and you'd have to give up your dream of a perfectly half-and-half colored egg.)

The longer the egg was in the bath, the deeper the color. Being creatures of limited patience, us younger siblings tended to produce eggs in pastel shades. We would jazz them up by adding the stickers provided in the kit.

In addition, the Paas folks discovered that if you used a clear wax crayon on the egg before you dunked it, the dye wouldn't stick to that part. So you could create designs or add your own special message. The problem with this was, because you were using a clear crayon on a white egg, you couldn't really see the quality of your work until the egg came out of its colorful soak. Many times, while I would envision something wondrous making its appearance, more often than not, the lettering would appear as though it had been penned by someone who'd imbibed one cocktail too many. This, naturally, resulted in much mirth from older siblings, who had long-ago wised up to the limitations of crayon-on-egg.

The egg decorating always took place the day before Easter (also known as "Holy Saturday"). Good Friday was somber. Easter was joyful. Holy Saturday was a break that allowed you to adjust and get ready for the big, "ta da!"

As a child, the religious connotations of Easter escaped me. I remember one year, my brother and I were watching cartoons on Good Friday. Mom made us turn off the TV and contemplate Jesus rising from the dead. But the whole concept was way above our earth-bound childhood heads.

Which is probably why my fondest memories of this holy day involve new hats and dresses to wear to Easter morning mass. Plus chocolate rabbits and jelly beans. And hunting Easter eggs.

I'm sure if I asked him, Mr. Ginley would hide a few eggs around the place for me to find. But it just wouldn't be the same.

Do families still dye Easter eggs? And have hunts for their kids? I hope so.

I always enjoy living (or re-living) vicariously through others.

Wishing all of you a safe, healthy, Happy Easter!

Physical Fitless

As most of you know, I'm a sports fan primarily by association.

Mr. Ginley has been known to remark, "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't know what holding was (football) or the infield fly rule (baseball) or what the five hole is (hockey).

This may have been in part because I was never athletically inclined during my growing up years. I excelled at activities that required endurance but not skill. One of my favorite gym classes in high school was called "conditioning." We were required to fulfill a certain number of activities to pass the class -- run a certain number of laps around the gym, do x number of push-ups and so many jumping jacks.

Certainly, early on I was hampered by the fact I refused to wear glasses, rendering me useless at softball, for example, because I couldn't see the ball until it was hitting me in the head. Something which I had a total dread of. As a result, if I sensed the ball was coming at me, I had a tendency to duck, which is not the desirable reaction for an outfielder.

I once took a tai chi class, which so stressed me out, I ended up dropping out. Sure, I could repulse a monkey or grasp a sparrow's tail with the best of them. But it was going from one movement to the next with grace and fluidity that tripped me up. As a result, instead of moving in the same direction as the rest of the class, I would find myself face-to-face with a classmate. At some point during the course, it occurred to me that feeling agitated after each session was not doing me any good.

Finally, I landed on walking as exercise. Happily, I can hoof it with the best of them. For miles and miles in the park and around the neighborhood. And walking is something I can do in the comfort and convenience of my own home -- I have a pile of exercise DVDs and a small TV in my basement. There, no one is watching me oof and ugh through the routines, and I feel pretty good when I'm finished.

Plus, I don't have to worry about getting hit in the head. Or hearing snickers from others around me.

Best of all, the instructor on the video always tells me that I've done a good job and encourages me to come back next time.

Sure, I know she's not talking just to me.

But I appreciate her inspiring words, all the same.

Order in the Court

I remember being bummed when I found out Raymond Burr was gay.

Not that I ever had a shot at him or anything, but I do enjoy my Perry Mason-Della Street fantasies. There was some serious chemistry between the two characters. Growing up, I wanted a job like Della's. She was competent and smart and Perry was a dreamy boss. And Paul Drake, the honest, reliable go-to private detective was easy on the eyes.

And the cars...don't get me started on the cars. Yes, I know they probably only got, like, seven miles to the gallon, but can you imagine cruising around town in one of those lovely beasts?

Part of our stay-at-home curriculum has involved watching lots of old episodes of Perry Mason. We have the whole series on DVD.

We've viewed all of these shows at least twice, yet Mr. Ginley and I are still murky most of the time on whom the killer might be. One or the other of us will call out during the course of the drama, "I bet she's the one." Mr. Ginley will sometimes opine, "I hope that guy is the killer. He's a real SOB."

I love courtroom dramas, especially when you know Perry is going to be the victor and the bad guy is going to get caught in the end.

You'd think, given all this, I'd be a big fan of Law & Order. Not so much. Too often, the bad guys got away with it. Too much like real life. No thanks.

If I'm going to be tucked inside on a rainy day like this, my preference is for escapism.

The real world is too real for me. I need a break.

Hand me the remote!