ginnygram

Quick ginnygram tonight. No politicking, no proselytizing. (Not that I’d ever do either.)

My hometown alma mater may have hosted the VP debates on Thursday, but it opened Saturday Night Live last night.

I paused to consider which made me proudest: The national coverage of the debate? Or the natural send-up by SNL?

No contest.

Sorry, CNN, but George Carlin stole my heart 37 years ago — on October 11, 1975.

Tomorrow, I’m off to Frankfurt, Germany, for die Frankfurter Buchmesse. In honor of my trip, I’d like to remind you of this guy: “Strool Peter.”

I now know how to correctly pronounce his name, which sounds more like “dur stroovelpaytah,” thanks to a) growing up, and b) going to Germany a buncha times. The author, Heinrich Hoffmann, was from Frankfurt; the (der) Struwwelpeter museum is there, and it is wunderbar.

Somewhere in my childhood, there was an English version of this deliciously horrifying children’s book, and I adored reading the stories of doomed little children who shouldn’t be playing with fire or cats and should be all-around neater and nicer.

And did I just have my hair cut and colored? And nails shaped and polished? Ja!

Danke, Herr Hoffmann.

When I was a little girl, I used to cipher what my age would be in the year 2000. My age would be 42, and I wondered if I would live long enough to see the year 2000, and even if I did, would I be too old to appreciate it? I’m so pleased to report back to little Ginny that I wasn’t too old! I love the 2000s!

I’m sorry if this sounds commercial and awful and consumerist and ugly-American. But back in the 1980s, I loved my Apple IIc. We kept it in the kitchen, and I told people that I could use it to program my oven to start supper. In the 1990s, I loved my Palm Pilot, and I used to wish I could just touch the phone numbers or addresses to place a call or send an email. So imagine how much I love having lived long enough to see what my Mac can do. What my iPhone can do. How much I love watching Downton Abbey on my iPad, while walking on the dreadmill in the basement.

On Thursday, our TV checked out. In her day, she was a beauty — a 2004 flat-screen with a plasma display. If you pulled away the media cabinet to look at all the wiring, you’d drop your teeth. I reckon there were easily 20 tagged and color-coded wires coming out of an umbilical cord that was about and inch and a half in diameter — all running to the receiver and DVD player. And she put out enough heat to melt your lipstick, if you stood too close. But she wasn’t high-def, and she wasn’t HDMI compliant. She’d seen a lot of hours, what with Pammy and Papa watching all day and all evening all the time. So we weren’t surprised when she clicked but didn’t glow.

I went straight to the internet on my wireless Mac and researched smart TVs and made a date to buy one the very next morning!

Yes, I have lived long enough to own — and appreciate — a smart TV! How about that, Ginny girl? (No, I don’t have a hover car, missy.)

Gotta tell ya, I love the good ol’ days as much as anybody, but I don’t miss the good ol’ technology.

Not remotely.

My college friend Lee Woehle silkscreened this more than 30 years ago. I think it may just be a proof. But I love it. And it goes where I go.

As precious as it is to me, I’ve never framed it. Never protected it. I just keep tacking it up. In apartments, cubes, houses, offices. It is dog-eared and yellowed.

And every time my eye catches it, I think, “Should I frame you? To keep you safe from the sun and dust?”

Then we both laugh and say, “Sorry, no thanks.”

It is Sunday night, and we are sitting here watching the Bears game in our media-blackout mode, which means we record it, then watch it as soon as we’re back from the lake. We avoid all live media/texts/phone calls while traveling. Officer Ginger is off tonight, so she’s curled up next to me, commenting and conversating.

Ginger: “Mom, you haven’t blogged in a while.”

Me: “Haven’t really felt a story.”

Bill: “Oh, the male hummingbirds have already migrated.”

Ginger: “What? They left the females behind?”

Me: “Yeah, and you’d think they’d be nice to each other, with all the guys gone. Going shoe shopping and getting mani-pedis. But they’re being really mean and greedy.”

Ginger: “Oh. They’re the Real Hummingbirds of Beverly Hilllbillies.”

Bill: *sigh*

We’re sitting here eating supper in front of the TV, watching the Country Music Awards. And if I had TV trays and Velveeta and Rotel tomatoes, we’d be eating Rotel dip on our TV trays and we’d OWN it. Oh, wait. I do have TV trays, Velveeta, and Rotel. And, well, maybe that’s what we’ll have for dessert. So there.

When the CMA teaser said Hank Williams, Jr., was coming up, I tossed aside my filet mignon and grabbed my laptop for a quick ginnygram. This one goes out to my Nashville — wait! Band Perry is doing “Fat Bottom Girls”  — wow — I’m back — friends.

ANYWAY! In 1966 or 1967, Daddy finished commercial flight school, and we all moved to Nashville, where he started flying for American Airlines. I was in the 4th grade. Bucky and I went to Burton Elementary School, where Pat Boone went to grammar school. And although I cannot find proof this was the real reason, we were told Dottie West’s house had burned down so she had to enroll Shelly at Burton; and Shelly was in Mama’s and my Girl Scout troop and in my classroom. Up the hill from us, Donna Fargo handed out FULL-SIZE Sweet-Tarts for Halloween. And Mama and I have recently remembered how she and Daddy got all dressed up to see Mel Tillis record. At Acuff-Rose, perhaps?

I have lots of really good — and some bittersweet — memories from those few years in Nashville. Bet you’ll read some future ginnygrams about our Tennessee years.

Here’s a funny Nashville memory for us: Gigi and Bruce had friends who lived next-door to Hank Williams, Jr. Or close to him, anyway. And when we’d go over to their house, we kids would sneak over to Hank Junior’s unlocked garage. He had a big stuffed owl in there and we’d peep in and dang-near scream! Its wings were all outstretched and it was AWESOME! We didn’t scream, because we knew we shouldn’t oughtta be there, and well, he was famous and all. And probably had dogs and bodyguards and stuff.

He didn’t. And I thank him for that.