Monthly Archives: November 2012

Meanwhile, Back on the Couch…

This happened just seconds after I posted today’s ginnygram. And it is just too funny not to share.

Brunch began at noon today. And the Bears vs. Vikings game also began at noon today. Now, Bill and I are used to taping the game, then being on a “media blackout” until we’re home from the lake house. But this was a first attempt at a media blackout for our friend and fellow bruncher Harvey, who was a really good sport and only teased our hostess, Maria, a little bit about her timing.

Bill instructed Harvey on how to find the game on his on-screen TV guide, then simply press the red “record” button on his remote. And that’s just what Harvey did. And we all had brunch, secure in the knowledge that we could all go home, put on our sweatpants, watch the game, fast-foward through the commercials, and even pause the game for a nap, if necessary.

Right at about half-time during our recorded viewing, the phone rang. It was Harvey.

His game didn’t record. Because even though he did everything right, he doesn’t have a DVR!

So Harvey phoned Best Buy and ordered a DVR. And when the customer service representative asked if he had any other questions, Harvey said yes, he did.

“Who won the game?”

Mercy!

This photo is a little dark, because I just couldn’t bring myself to use the flash in the bar at the Four Seasons Hotel. Yep, just when my waistband whimpered for mercy, today I put on my dressiest muumuu and went downtown with Bill to have brunch with friends, and to toast Frances on her birthday, which was on Thursday. She called it her “Thanksbirthday,” which is way better than what I almost called it. “Birthgiving” didn’t sound like something that should happen during brunch at the Four Seasons, so I clamped my mouth shut.

Did I say I clamped my mouth shut? That was only a figure of speech. Or a lie. Because we all enjoyed a lovely and civilized four-course bruncheon, and then we pretty much went around the table and declared which diet each of us would be starting tomorrow.

I know I declared Weight Watchers, but I secretly love the 1980s way of slimming down. No, not the coffee and grapefruit diet.

High heels and shoulder pads.

Dedicated

Today, I opened this box, expecting to find childhood books that I have forgotten that I once loved. Hmm. There were only a few books in the box, and most of them either didn’t ring a bell, or were clearly not mine to begin with. Way back when, my brothers both received gifts of signed Curious George books, while I received a signed Suki and the Magic Umbrella. So I know George isn’t mine.

These four books belong to my little brother, Monty. Let’s look inside My Brimful Book and Curious George Learns the Alphabet:

  

Both dedications are priceless, don’t you think?

Yes! Virginia!

I work in the field of children’s book publishing. Every year, we publish hundreds of children’s books, in partnership with Disney, Sesame Workshop, The Jim Henson Company, Dreamworks, Fox, Warner Bros., Nickelodeon, Mattel, Peanuts Worldwide, Sanrio, and others. As you know, because you don’t live on Mars, many of these companies publicize their brands with giant character balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Kermit, Spider-Man, Charlie Brown, Buzz Lightyear, Papa Smurf, Hello Kitty, and Spongebob Squarepants, were just a few of this year’s line-up. Big names, right? All year long, I hear proud announcements from all of these partners: “And we will have a [character name goes here] balloon in the Macy’s parade this Thanksgiving!”

Imagine my surprise to see a Virginia balloon in the parade yesterday! High-fived my daughter, Virginia, and sent out some love to my mother and grandmother Virginias (the plural of Virginia looks weird, I know, and autocorrect wants me to change it to Virginians), and to Miss Annie Virginia, for whom my grandmother was named. Train sings an awesome song about meeting Virginia (she wears high heels when she exercises!), and for years, Billy Joel has tried to get Catholic school-girl Virginia to come out and play. Every Virginia knows the first baby born in the Americas was Virginia Dare, born in Roanoke, Virginia. Back in the 1970s, every teen and 20-something girl named Virginia wore a t-shirt, or at least had a key chain, that advertised “Virginia Is for Lovers.” Heh. And yes, there’s a downside to being a Virginia — my driver’s license and Ginger’s high school class composite both name us “Virgina.” This happens a lot. We try to laugh it off, but, well, it isn’t really funny.

Anyway, we Virginias thought the “Yes, Virginia” float was adorable. And Ginger loved that it was a ginger Virginia. Then Virginias all over the world said a silent thank-you that it wasn’t a Francis P. Church balloon. Because as great as his Sun editorial was, his balloon would be just creepy.

P.S.

Oh look! Priscilla and John have a Thanksgiving dinner! I’ll show you the newly unpacked doll kitchen and stuff another time, but how could I not show you this itty bitty turkey feast today?

Pilgrim Love

We all grew up with variations of these darling pilgrim candles, which no one could bear to burn, right?

Didn’t you think of this cute couple as John and Priscilla? As in “Speak for yourself, John?” And you felt kinda bad for Myles Standish, but not too much? And then you felt bad that Pocahontas didn’t get to marry John Smith? And you kinda wanted to plant some corn with some fish? And…

Well, anyway…

Live, from our china cabinet! It’s Thanksgiving Day!

XOXOXO

Good pickin’s in this bin! Tiny little moccasins, a Daisy Scout pinny, an aunt-knitted baby sweater, a Miss Transylvania Beauty Contest sash (not related to Transylvania University in yesterday’s post, although hilarious in timing), and a menu from Teru Sushi on Ventura Boulevard, Studio City, California.

Let’s have a closer look at this menu.

  

I was enjoying a business dinner of sushi and sake at Teru Sushi with my colleagues and a Disney associate, when young Gaby Hoffmann and Christina Ricci plopped down at the next table. They were so cute, and just a year off their 1995 movie Now and Then.

Ginger’s 13th birthday party had been a movie night for a bunch of girls and their moms. We went to see Now and Then. We moms sat in the row behind our beautiful newly teen daughters, and we all bounced and sang along and ate too much popcorn.

I know Gaby and Christina sent their X’s and O’s to Ginger, but I’d like to blow some back at them, for being gracious little ladies who didn’t make someone’s mom feel awkward about asking for autographs for her daughter.

In Search of Ice Skates

What do ice skates have to do with this pile of boxes and bins on the guest room bed?

You are going to be so sorry you asked.

Our front door is painted black. I know it sounds funereal, but it is actually rawther handsome. And it is set about 18 inches in from the full-glass storm door, so on top of being black, it is also mostly in shadow. I really love to showcase our 1920s Lannon-stone home, so I’m always looking for door decorations that pop off the black. And I just saw a cute idea that involves vintage white figure skates, holly, and evergreens. White skates will totally pop off my black front door, right? And so, the hunt begins. My figure skates are in a box somewhere. If mine are not, Ginger’s are. With Thanksgiving closing in, I am obsessed with finding our skates for my Christmas door decoration.

So, on Sunday, I climbed up into the garage attic, to find skates. I did not find skates, but I did ask Bill to bring down these boxes and bins. Up in the attic, I’d had a quick peep inside most of the boxes, to see just enough to make me want to explore a little more. Saw some old friends, and said, “Oh! I wondered where you were!” And found some things that were mistakenly stored, because the box was mislabeled.

Little by little, I’m going to open these treasure chests with you. I’m going to share some stuff that dates back to Early America, some stuff from Mid-Century America, some souvenirs from Not America, and some Junk with a capital J.

This is my 100th ginnygram, so I’m going to show you my first treasure — which is sweet because it relates to my very first ginnygram.

 Let’s open this box labeled “Ginny — Tull Children’s Books.” Meaning, it should be full of books from my grandmother’s childhood in Kinston, North Carolina.

 Oh, yeah. We’ll sort through these in another ginnygram! But may I just say how wonderful they smell? Truly. I’m not being smart.

    Best book in the box? My grandfather’s 1926 Transylvania University yearbook.

 William Kingsley Miller, Burkesville, Ky. My handsome granddaddy.

What ice skates?

Feliz Cumpleanos

So I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when my daughter pointed to a party of partying partiers at the now back-to-normal corner of the bar, where the play had just been. “Oh look! How cute! They have a list of things for their mom to do on her birthday,” says Ginger.

Now, I have been pretty committed to acting my age, for a long long time. But OUCH! What was that little stabbing pain in my neck? Apparently it was the (really cute) little devil on my shoulder! Who invited her? And off I skipped (not literally, at least) to ask these happy strangers what was on their mama’s Birthday To-Do List.

Do you see the check mark on #4? That was me. After studying the list of 48 things she needed to accomplish this night, I challenged the Birthday Girl to an arm-wrestling contest. I did whisper that I’d let her win, just in case she thought I was a serious contender. So I tied my paisley pashmina around my head like a Middle-Aged Warrior Queen, and got straight to it. Everyone at the bar chanted, and I spectacularly lost to Elena, a lively and obviously cherished Latina Mamacita.

Do you see these empty snifters? I am very sorry to tell you that they once held shots of Goldschlager.

Cheers, Sort Of

Speaking of theatre in Chicago, last night we were in the audience at Fuller’s Pub, to see a friend and retired Chicago cop starring in Busted City, an intimate play written by Paul Carr. Intimate, because the story takes place in a neighborhood bar, so the play is staged in a neighborhood bar. The best seats in the house are at the bar, right next to the actors, which I suppose makes you an extra. We sat on metal folding chairs, second row from the “stage.” But the line between stage and audience is blurred, so you feel like you are just hanging out at the local dive, eavesdropping on the regulars.

The five-man play is a snapshot of the days leading up to Harold Washington’s primary win, which led to his election as Chicago’s first black mayor. The language is authentic and rough; the characters are archetypes but not always predictable. It was both enjoyable and uncomfortable (emotionally and because of the metal folding chairs). You know what history is about to serve up, but you don’t know what “dese guys” are gonna do with it.

We were there to see Mike Byrne (in the plaid shirt) act the part of a retired sout’side cop. Mike and Bill were on the same 014th District Tactical Unit, back in the day. It was funny to have to walk onto the “set” to tap my husband on the shoulder and ask him to stop visiting with the star, so the play could begin. The set was too realistic, apparently.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about the after-party at Fuller’s Pub. Let’s just say that the playwright threatened to hire me.