Gaining a Daughter

Having only been the mom to a boy, I've never experienced what it's like to have a daughter (assuming kitties don't count).
All that is about to change.

Last night I attending the virtual edition of my soon-to-be-daughter-in-law's bachelorette party.

In the age of Covid, we party where and how we can.

Having accepted the Facebook invite and in possession of a kit sent to me by mail from the maid of honor, I logged on to join the party.

I sipped something called a Mama Mango (a moscato) that was tasty but didn't render me incapable of an art project. Supplied with paint, a blank canvas and a rock, we were instructed to create something that reminded us of Jill, the bride-to-be.

If you've paid any attention to my blog at all, you know the limits of my artistic ability. I went with simple, painting a heart. After sharing my meager efforts, Jill showed me artwork she and my son did for each other. Sure enough, his prominently features a heart. Proving exactly where Joe gets his talent.

I got to meet Jill's clan, including her mom. Plus her bridesmaids, whom I enjoyed learning about. Like many of their generation, they give me hope for the future of this crummy world.

One highlight of the virtual party included finally meeting face-to-screen with Jill's grandmother, Joan. We've become Facebook friends and found we have a lot in common. Although she didn't comment on last week's blog, I discovered she, too, loved Bobby Sherman. And that she is a birder who goes to great lengths to ensure her backyard friends are fed. Through a quirk of birthing (I had Joe later and he is a little older than Jill), Joan and I are of the same generation. I look forward to seeing her in person at the wedding.

Soon, we'll welcome a daughter to our little family. Jill is a good-hearted person who has made my son a happy man. Who could ask for anything more?

Imagining things will be pretty hectic on their wedding day, I thought I'd share this Gaelic blessing here. (I may be Irish only by marriage, but good luck finding any German blessings. Maybe Axel can chime in here.)

May you always be blessed

With walls for the wind,

A roof for the rain,

A warm cup of tea by the fire --

Laughter to cheer you,

Those you love near you,

And all that your heart 

Might desire.

Mazel tov!

Dreamy Bobby Sherman

A Facebook follower posed the question, "David Cassidy or Bobby Sherman?"

I know he signed it just for me

I don't always chime in, but this time, I was compelled.

Bobby Sherman, absolutely.

My long-time friend Laura was a big David Cassidy fan, watching The Partridge Family religiously. Me, not so much. I always thought David Cassidy was kind of smarmy. I preferred the sweet-natured Bobby Sherman, who could sing and was easy on the eyes.

My Bobby crush started with Here Come the Brides, which I can honestly say now is a pretty awful TV show. (Maybe it's just because it's so dated). At the time, I thought it was the best in TV fare. Week after week, I'd tune in to see Bobby  play Jeremy Bolt, a shy, stuttering youngest brother with a heart of gold.

My big brother, John, who was definitely not a fan of Bobby but who took pity on me, purchased a Bobby Sherman album for me. Yes, I still have it. No, I haven't listened to it in ages. And yes, after this, for nostalgia's sake, I probably will.

Googling Mr. Sherman this morning, I discovered a few more things about him. Turns out, his first wife, Patti, left him and ended up marrying David Soul, who played Bobby's brother on Here Come the Brides. (Soul turned out not to have a very nice one, when he was accused of beating on Patti.)

After appearing on the TV show Emergency, Bobby Sherman decided to become an Emergency Medical Technician (EMT), and spent the next several years in the Los Angeles and San Bernardino fire and police departments. 

David Cassidy's fame never matched his Partridge Family days, although he performed in various venues for the rest of his life. He died from complications of alcoholism.

So, Bobby it is. And Bobby it shall ever be. 

Julie may (or may not) love Bobby. 

But I do.

Reggolections of Easter

This year, I traded in my Easter bonnet for a mask.

Sans measles, 1 yr. later

Not that I've worn many bonnets since my childhood. In my early days, hats were a cherished ritual, along with the pretty dresses that we'd wear to Easter mass. sashaying down the aisle like pastel butterflies. 

Afterward, we'd stand in the backyard and squint into the sun, and my mother snapped our photo for posterity. (She'd read in the Kodak manual that the photographer should stand with his/her back to the sun so the subjects' faces wouldn't be in shadow.)

German measles were my rotten-egg-of-a-surprise one Easter morning. I was five. If I'm recalling correctly, I still did the Easter egg hunt. But the goodies in my basket would have to wait. My mom, who insisted on returning our baskets to the attic the day after, assembled my treats and placed them in a cigar box. 

My next-in-line sister and I had bunk beds (I was on the bottom bunk), and we each had a small bookshelf as the headboard. That's where I kept the goods, suspiciously eying any sibling who came too close.

Time, orangy St. Joseph Children's Aspirin and calamine lotion took care of the measles. But there was no Easter bonnet that year. 

I wonder if hats will ever make a comeback. Once a cherished accessory, and a hallmark of Jackie Kennedy's wardrobe, they've pretty much disappeared.

I can imagine today's generation asking, "What's an Easter bonnet?"

One more thing that dates me. 

Oh, well. at least I'm getting dates...

No Fungible Way

On my way to work the other day, I heard a report on NPR about Non-Fungible Tokens (NFTs).

This little guy sold for $170K

"They're sort of like bitcoins," the reporter said.

My head started to hurt just a little at the mention of cyberspace cash. Not having extra clams to hurl about the internet, I never thought much about bitcoin. Or blockchain. Two "B" words that I could reasonably ignore without being impacted.

Now here they were talking about NFTs. I was inclined to given the subject the same cold shoulder as bitcoins, but I was just a little bit intrigued. And in need of a topic this week. So down the rabbit hole went I.

As it turns out, NFTs are essentially bragging rights. 

For example, you buy a cute little cat meme you've had your eye on. Then you get to tell everybody it's yours.

Except...it is in an electronic format. So potentially billions and billions of people can still download it and share it and use it to say "Happy Birthday" or "Get Stuffed" to their friends and family.

But...if you buy that bit of imagery, you get to say that it's yours.

To help illustrate, it's like owning an original Van Gogh. Sure, there are lots of prints out there, but if you're a serious art collector, possessing Starry Night is quite the coup. 

Some collectors are hoping to buy up the most popular cyberspace art in the hopes this trend will really catch on, and they can then sell their NFTs to make a profit.

Clearly, this is a game for those with way more dinero than yours truly.

On the other hand, it's been purported to support artists, so I guess that's something.

Now that I know what NFTs are, I can move on without giving them anymore thought, confident in the knowledge I'm not missing a thing.

I can continue to borrow and share silly kitty memes willy nilly, then set them free. 

Hmm. Maybe that's why I like libraries so much...

Popping Weasels

Typical conversations with Mr. Ginley include ruminations on a wealth of topics.

Public domain image from NYPL

For example, the other day, he observed, "We always sang Pop Goes the Weasel as "All around the mulberry bush," but I read somewhere it's really "All around the cobbler's bench." Which is correct?

I stuck the question in the back of my mind and decided to look into it later. Well, here we are at later...

It turns out the nursery rhyme dates back to the 19th Century. The original lyrics made mention of a popular London pub. And there was no talk of either a cobbler's bench or a mulberry bush:

Half a pound of tuppeny rice,

Half a pound of treacle.

That's the way the money goes

Pop goes the weasel.

(The monkey appears in the second verse, but still no mention of a cobbler or bush.)

Every night when I go out

The monkey's on the table

Take a stick and knock it off

Pop goes the weasel.

Up and down the city road

In and out the Eagle*

That's the way the money goes

Pop goes the weasel

*The aforementioned London pub.

The song crossed the pond mid-19th Century, and voila, enter the cobbler:

All around the cobbler's house

The monkey chased the people

And after them in double haste

Pop goes the weasel.

Then, a century later, someone noodled with the lyrics and up popped the mulberry bush:

All around the mulberry bush

The monkey chased the weasel

The monkey thought it was all in fun

Pop goes the weasel.

The prevailing theory is the mulberry bush was appropriated from a similar children's rhyme, Here We Go 'Round the Mulberry Bush.

Also, there is speculation the phrase "Stop beating around the mulberry bush" had something to do with the change. This phrase appeared in jazz tunes and later in a song by Bill Haley and the Comets.

Just to note, the phrase has since been shortened to "stop beating around the bush" (sans "mulberry").

As to the "Pop Goes the Weasel" part, there has been much speculation but no suitable answer. The consensus seems to be it's just a nonsensical phrase. This may be copout, but I'm inclined to agree, given the storyline doesn't feature an actual weasel, and that particular animal is not known to "go pop." 

While Mr. was not satisfied with this answer and came up with this own speculations about monkey and weasel behavior, I'm sticking with the nonsensical explanation.

Stay tuned for more lively discussions, right here in this space.

Hit Me with Your Best Shot

Thanks to Facebook, finding a place to get vaccinated turned out not to be a big deal.

The FTC encourages us to use this "cool sticker"

Maybe it was just good timing. Or it was because places are finally getting the process down to a science. In any event, scheduling and getting the shot turned out to be easy peasy.

Mr. and I arrived at our city's local recreation center, which has been closed during the whole Covid fiasco. Police directed traffic in and out of the facility. Following Mr. Rogers' advice, we looked for the helpers. They were everywhere, clad in day-glo vests. We were guided to the registration desk and given a number and a form to fill out. My behind barely touched the metal folding chair before my number was called. 

Another helper made sure the form was filled out completely, gave me some paperwork to scare me later and directed me to the shooter.

Up went my sleeve. Away I turned. In went the needle. On went the band aid. And before I knew it, I was off to another metal folding chair for my 15 minute time out to make sure I wasn't going to keel over or experience any other dramatic symptoms. 

Mr. was very brave, especially for someone who hates needles and is convinced he's got every dire disease described in those happy-go-lucky drug ads on TV.  

We met up and waited until the proscribed time, then headed home and waited to see what side effects we'd experience.

I had a metallic taste in my mouth, an unusual but not worrisome symptom. Also, my opposite shoulder was sore. (Go figure.) Mr. had the classic overall-achy feeling, as well as a sore arm (the one where the vaccine was given).

Now we wait three weeks until we can return and get our second shot. The idea of being able to return to normal activities makes my positively giddy. I cannot imagine anyone not getting the vaccine if they have the opportunity. 

Eating dinner in a restaurant. Hugging loved ones. Attending my son's wedding without a mask. 

Who would have guessed a couple of years ago that one day such simple pleasures would become gold?

Hairs to You, Mr. Ginley

Well, it's that time of year again. 

Once more, Mr. Ginley, perhaps inspired by the winter blahs, began growing facial hair.

Unlike prior years, however, he's decided to try for the full beard and mustache combo. In the past, it was just a goatee. 

Every day he asks me if I like it. If he should keep it. Really, it doesn't matter what I think. I know from past experience because after a certain point in time, he will tire of the fussy care required (or it will itch or cause some other kind of discomfort) and that will be the end of it.

As one would assume this time in his life, his beard is coming in grey and white. 

Just to note: He doesn't like being called "Patchy." Or the "Gorton's of Gloucester Fisherman."

So, how long will it last? Will he have it for our son's wedding in May? Will it be reduced to a goatee? Or will it disappear when spring begins in earnest?

Assuming history does repeat itself, I took a shot of his face before the razor gets a shot at it.

And speaking of history, Mr. Ginley thought it would be fun to include a photo of "The Young Abe Lincoln," aka "The Amish Kid" from many years gone by (before we started dating).

What's that you say, Mr. Ginley? Barbasol has left and gone away. Hey, hey, hey...

Bonus points if you get the reference.