Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life made its Netflix debut over the Thanksgiving weekend with much fanfare, hoopla and hype as the three leading actresses appeared on every talk show under the sun to promote the four-part mini-series that was supposed to be a panacea for the yearnings of a major contingent of followers who wanted more from the Gilmore women of Stars Hollow and Hartford. The original American TV comedy series ran for seven seasons from 2000 to 2007, was apparently quite popular, and still missed by many.
Pretty and I were not Gilmore Girls watchers in those first runs; perhaps because we were younger, our relationship was newer, our social life was busier, we were watching Frasier re-runs… or something else I can’t remember. Whatever the reasons, we missed it the first time around. But since we are now seasoned Netflix subscribers and recently finished the gazillion-episode BBC series Doc Martin and needed a new diversion, we decided to give the Gilmore Girls a whirl.
We recently started with the first season and are now prepared to spend the rest of our lives watching Loralei and Rory get daily coffee fixes at Luke’s coffee shop because each of the early years had at least a hundred episodes per season. Luckily, we found ourselves growing fond of the characters as we usually do when the writing is good and the actors as good as the script.
For example, in one of the first season’s episodes this week I was disappointed when teenage Rory’s first true love, Dean the grocery store bag boy, dumped her. Such a cute, sweet boy – young love blossomed, bloomed, bleeped, fizzled, done. And on their three-month anniversary, too. Sigh. What to do? Talk to Mom.
Mom’s (Lorelei’s) advice to her teenage daughter was priceless: wallow. That’s right. Wallow. Stay in your pajamas all day while you eat pizza and ice cream…don’t put on makeup…don’t shave your legs…sit in a dark room watching old movies like Love Story, An Affair to Remember, Ishtar, Old Yeller and have a good cry. Wallow the day away.
What’s really amazing about this advice is I’ve been wallowing minus the crying part and old movies for years without realizing it; my wallowing has nothing at all to do with my love life. I was born to wallow, and then I had a relapse when I had a real job that required getting out of bed, applying Clinique makeup every morning after my shower, spending a fortune on perms and color to give my straight-as-a-board graying hair curls and blondeness, getting dressed in appropriate business attire, commuting long distances to an office where I sat in front of a computer screen looking at numbers all day while agonizing over the financial decisions my clients were wrestling with…all in all, a relapse that lasted 40 years.
But now, I have reclaimed my roots (the silver ones, too), and I wallow almost each day. Some days I never get out of my pajamas, my toothpaste gets more use than my bath soap, I gave up shaving my legs for Lent and didn’t resurrect it for Easter, I only wear makeup for date nights, and my straight short white hair qualifies for the “man’s haircut rate” with my hair stylist. The longest commute I have is from my upstairs office to the kitchen downstairs. Life is good.
Writing is the perfect career for wallowing. If Pretty asks me what I’ve been doing when she comes home from surveying her antique empire and finds me still in my pajamas, I can say Oh, I’ve been writing all day – which could or could not be exactly true. Unless you count watching In the Heat of the Night as research. (Ishtar, no thanks.)
Today is New Year’s Eve, the last day of 2016, the day when many of us will be making our resolutions for 2017. I have started my list with the same one I’ve started with for the past 40 years: I need to lose 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35 pounds this year. My, how time flies.
Hm. I never get past that first one.
If you are making your list and checking it twice, add a day to wallow once a month. You don’t need to break up a relationship to do it – simply indulge and wallow. Indulge. Wallow. Enjoy.
Pretty and I wish you a Happy New Year from our home at Casa de Canterbury to yours wherever you are in cyberspace around the world – stay safe, and we’ll look forward to having you hang with us in 2017!
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In 2017 Pretty and I moved from our two-story Casa de Canterbury in downtown Columbia across the Gervais Street Bridge over the Congaree River to our one-story Casa de Cardinal in West Columbia, fifteen minutes away. Happily, many of our friends in cyberspace made the move with us. And yes, to answer your question, I do still wallow but in the intervening years I read something about the importance of getting dressed every day even if you work from home, so I have given up wallowing in pajamas. The good news is it’s possible to wallow in street clothes. In April of 2021 when I turned 75 years old I finally followed through on a Birthday Eve resolution to lose 50 pounds and have kept it off for two years. In July of 2023 it’s kinda fun to think about New Year’s Eve temperatures and using the oppressive heat as an excuse to wallow. Give it a whirl.
I set out on a narrow way Many years ago Hopin’ I would find true love Along the broken road But I got lost a time or two I wiped my brow Kept pushin’ through I couldn’t see how every sign Pointed straight to you
And every long lost dream Led me to where you are Others who broke my heart They were just northern stars Pointing me on my way Into your lovin’ arms This much I know is true That God blessed the broken road And led me straight to you
I think about the years I spent Just passin’ through I’d like to take the time I lost And give it back to you But you just smile and take my hand You’ve been there you understand It’s all part of His grander plan That is coming true
And every long lost dream Led me to where you are Others who broke my heart They were just northern stars Pointing me on my way Into your lovin’ arms This much I know is true That God blessed the broken road And led me straight to you
By Nancy Pelosi, House speaker emerita (msnbc.com)
On this day [July 19, 1848] 175 years ago, in the small town of Seneca Falls, New York, a group of visionary women shook the world.
With their Declaration of Sentiments, they not only echoed but improved upon our founding charter — boldly asserting that “all men and women are created equal” and rallying women to “demand the equal station to which they are entitled.”
Imagine the courage that it took for those women at that time. Some had left home without their husband’s or father’s permission, and spoke openly about issues of discrimination and disenfranchisement and domestic violence.
The groundbreaking convention in Seneca Falls further energized what was a burgeoning women’s rights movement in America. And since then, generations of fearless women marching, mobilizing and demanding full equality for all have carried forth their torch.
Today, we stand on the shoulders of our courageous foremothers. Because they took a stand, at last we have a seat at the table.
For their audacity in blazing a path for progress, our nation owes a debt to Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Lucretia Mott, Martha Wright, Mary Ann M’Clintock, Jane Hunt, Alice Paul, Susan B. Anthony, Sojourner Truth and countless heroines of history, including those who were enslaved, abused or marginalized.
More than seven decades later, women won the right to vote with the 19th Amendment, although it would take many more decades before Black women could fully exercise this freedom everywhere. The Equal Pay Act of 1963 and the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act of 2009 are both pieces of an ongoing effort to close the gender pay gap. In the 1990s, Congress secured expanded access to family and medical leave, as well as strong protections in the Violence Against Women Act.
Meanwhile, our coalition has only grown broader and stronger as we have fought for the rights and protections of transgender women and nonbinary Americans.
All this progress has made possible a woman as vice president, a woman as speaker — and someday soon, a woman as president.
Today, we stand on the shoulders of our courageous foremothers. Because they took a stand, at last we have a seat at the table.
Yet outrageously, our centuries-long march toward gender justice was abruptly halted last summer when the Republican supermajority on the Supreme Court took a wrecking ball to women’s health freedom.
The monstrous decision overturningRoe v. Waderipped away long-held rights — and unleashed a flood of draconian policies denying access to the full spectrum of reproductive care, even in life-threatening circumstances.
For the first time in our history, girls growing up today have less reproductive freedom than their mothers. Democrats will not rest until the rights of Roe are restored for all.
At the same time, women still face too many barriers in the workplace.
Gender justice starts with finally achieving equal pay for equal work. And we must ease the burden of caregiving that falls disproportionately on women by investing in the expanded child tax credit, universal child care, paid family and medical leave, home health care services and more.
This is the imperative, ongoing work of the Biden-Harris administration and Democrats in the Congress — and we are committed to finishing the job.
The story of America has always been one of ever-expanding freedoms, from abolishing the scourge of slavery, which was strongly supported at Seneca Falls, to ensuring all women and people of color are able to vote, to securing reproductive freedom, to achieving marriage equality.
These victories were made possible by everyday Americans participating in the highest form of patriotism: outside mobilization. This is the indelible legacy of Seneca Falls, stirring generations of women not to wait but to work for change.
So, on this momentous 175th anniversary, let us renew our pledge to continue the work of Seneca Falls. Because all of America’s mothers, wives, sisters and daughters must be able to enjoy the liberties and opportunities that they deserve.
When women succeed, America succeeds.
Nancy Pelosi
Speaker emerita Nancy Pelosi has represented San Francisco in Congress for more than 36 years. She served as the 52nd speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, from 2007 to 2011 and from 2019 to 2023.
Fun tennis fact: The Championship at Wimbledon in 2023 for men’s singles was the first time in 25 years neither Roger Federer nor Rafa Nadal was included in the draw. Federer officially retired during the Laver Cup in September, 2022 at the age of forty-one; Nadal hasn’t played since January of 2023 but hopes to return to competition in 2024 for a farewell tour. He is thirty-seven years old with amazing resilience so fingers crossed he plays again.Regardless, as Wimbledon winds down this weekend I miss them both and resurrected this piece from July, 2018.
For tennis fans, when July rolls around, the sounds of tennis balls flying off rackets held by seasoned warriors or hopeful newcomers, tennis balls traveling through the air at record speeds or strategic spins, landing on immaculately prepared grass courts with awkward bounces that require extraordinary hand-eye coordination to even be struck by another racket held by an adversary across a 3-ft net – for that first fortnight in July and for those fans, the air is filled with the electric sights and sounds of Wimbledon, The Championships at the All England Club, the 3rd of 4 annual Major tennis tournaments but arguably the most revered for its traditions and longevity.
The first week of the two-week tournament at Wimbledon for 2018 is a wrap, as we say in the entertainment industry. I have had my usual bleacher seats in front of a tv this week – the same seats I’ve had for the past 51 years since the color telecasts started. My television sets have changed through the years, but my love of the game has remained steadfast. And cheerio, the addition of the Tennis Channel with its 24-7 coverage of the sport year round has been an awesome addition for Pretty and me.
Pretty once told me many years ago when we were in the middle of a dispute about how much time she devoted to playing tennis (which took her away from me) that “I had tennis before you. I’ll have tennis after you.” That put everything in perspective, let me tell you. As it turns out, she now has tennis with me in the bleacher seats but still longs to be able to return to the courts one day.
Today is Sunday in the middle of The Championships at Wimbledon so the players who survived the first week are resting to prepare for Manic Monday tomorrow when both the women’s and men’s singles round of 16 will be played. The winners of these matches will move on to the quarterfinals, and two of them will win the finals at the end of this week.
The women’s draw has been full of shocking upsets in week one with only one of the top seeds, Karolina Pliskova, remaining. And then, of course, all eyes including mine will be on Serena Williams who won the most important title of all last year when she and her husband served up their daughter Olympia who is the cutest baby ever. Serena has moved on to the second week, and I will be following her progress as I have followed her for the past 20 years. That’s right…t-w-e-n-t-y years. Serena at the age of 35 won her 23rd. major title which set the record for most women’s singles titles in the Open era when she won the Australian Open in 2017.
As for the men in the second week, what can I say? Names that now define a Golden Age of tennis are chasing the Wimbledon title again. Roger Federer who at 37 apparently embodies the ageless body of Dorian Gray had he been a tennis player. The passionate Spaniard Rafael Nadal whose Vamos! inspires the enthusiasm of crowds like touchdowns in a Super Bowl. Winners of the past 6 tennis majors, Federer holds 8 Wimbledon singles titles and Nadal two. Novak Djokovic, another tennis titan, is trying to reclaim his place among the greats but battling the most difficult opponent of all in recent years: himself. Two Americans, veteran big server John Isner, and unseeded unknown Mackenzie McDonald also will play on the big stage on Manic Monday.
And so sports fans, as The Red Man used to call his friends in cyberspace, Pretty and I will be on pins and needles starting at 7 am tomorrow as we cheer for our favorites from the bleacher seats at Casita de Cardinal. Time and tennis march on.
So that’s the antenna? I asked Daddy as we stared at the man on our roof. That’s it, Sheila Rae. Looks like something from outer space, doesn’t it? Rex, our lemon-spotted pointer puppy, was running circles around the house and barking at the men who were installing the antenna. The fellow on the ground holding the ladder glanced nervously between Rex and the man above.
Hurry up, Perry. I can’t hold this thing forever, Homer Bookman called to his brother. We’ve got to install another one before dark. And it’s all the way to Shiro. So get a move on.
Hey, Homer, Daddy said. What are all those wires hanging down from that contraption? Are you sure this thing’s gonna work?
You bet, Glenn, Homer said as he helped Perry climb down. Can’t say I really know what the wires are for. They somehow grab the pictures and sound out of the air, and then they go to the box with the little screen. Bingo! You’ve got yourself a genuine television set complete with all the bells and whistles. Yes sir, you’ve bought the airwaves of the future. When people gather round to watch a program, they’ll say Glenn Morris is more than a school man. He’s a man who marches to a different drummer and is a forward thinker. He gives his family the very best that money can buy. In this year of our Lord 1953 the Morris family leads the good people of Richards, Texas to experience the unknown. Don’t forget to say you made this important purchase at Bookman’s Appliances, he added.
Well, let’s give it a try, Perry said.
You’re certainly a salesman, Homer. No doubt about it, Daddy said, laughing. Daddy led me and Homer and Perry Bookman inside the house to our living room where the new brown box with the tiny screen sat. It was almost as tall as I was and had several knobs. Homer gave Daddy and me a lesson on their uses. We were definitely impressed.
Go ahead and turn it on, Homer instructed. It won’t bite. Daddy bent down and turned the first knob. We all stared expectantly. Magically, the small screen came to life with an unusual stationary design in the center: a black and white triangle in a circle with some black lines down the side.
That’s the test pattern, Perry offered. It’s what you see when there’s nothing on a channel. It’s pretty great, isn’t it? We all nodded as we gazed intently at the miracle before us. Television. Like radio with a picture. Like having a movie in your own home. We were surely blessed to have this wonder in our midst. Everyone beamed with happiness.
Well, Glenn, just sign here and it’s all yours, Homer said. Daddy signed the paper and shook their hands. I had no inkling at the time that my world was about to expand. The box with the screen would entertain, inform and inspire my own imagination. The only child had a new best friend.
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Dude, you better hurry up. It’s almost time for Groucho Marx, I called to my grandmother from the living room. I was in my favorite spot, sitting on the floor directly in front of the television. It was Thursday night and the quiz show “You Bet Your Life” was about to begin. Dude came in and took her customary place on the sofa in the back of the room. She had her Pond’s cleansing cream that she used every night to remove her makeup while we watched our shows.
Groucho! Dude and I shouted in unison with the TV audience as George Fenneman, the show’s announcer, began his introduction with “Now, here he is. The one, the only ________!” From our living room, we helped the audience fill in the blank. Groucho himself was nattily attired in a suit with a bow tie and professorial eyeglasses. The smoke from his omnipresent cigar filled the screen as he gave us the rules of the show. Maximum winning potential of $10,000, which was small potatoes for quiz shows even in the 1950s. Say the secret word and get another $100. The papier-mache duck dropped down to reveal tonight’s secret word: Turkey.
That’s a good one, Dude said. Groucha will have fun with that. She called Groucho “Groucha,” and I tried for a long time to correct her, but finally gave up. We loved the secret word jokes he played on his contestants. Tonight’s contender was going to become one of my favorites. She was a beautiful woman named Sylvia from Los Angeles. Groucho loved the attractive women and spent a longer time getting to know them than he did the men. Tonight’s interview revealed Sylvia had a husband named Jerry who worked nights for the utility company. You’d be amazed what you can do when your husband works nights, Sylvia said. She smiled at Groucho in a suggestive manner. You might be amazed, he quipped, but I wouldn’t. The audience roared with laughter, and so did Dude and me. Sylvia didn’t win or say the secret word, but she did give Groucho her phone number.
I wanted to be Groucho. Not handsome like George Fenneman, but so funny even the married women flirted shamelessly with him. I saw myself with the cigar and moustache. Not at all a bad look.
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Saturday mornings meant westerns for Daddy and me. The Lone Ranger rides again. The Cisco Kid and Pancho, the lovable sidekick, who made Cisco shake with laughter. Cisco seemed to be overly preoccupied with the angle of his sombrero, but he was crazy about Pancho. The Range Rider. The Adventures of Kit Carson. Sky King and his niece, Penny. What was that airplane about anyway? And why did Penny go everywhere with her uncle? Gene Autry the singing cowboy.
And of course our personal favorite Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys. We loved Roy and Trigger, his golden palomino steed. We tolerated Dale Evans, Queen of the West, and her main ride Buttermilk because Roy obviously thought so highly of her. We wished for a dog like Bullet, his German Shepherd, who could have been a big help herding cows at our farm. We laughed at the antics of Pat Brady and his jeep Nellybelle, who were always in trouble, and at Gabby Hayes with his original bear look. We knew all the songs of the Sons of the Pioneers and loudly sang along with them in the theater of our own living room. I was Roy Rogers. I rescued damsels in distress. I thwarted cattle rustlers.
I captured bank robbers. I sang “Don’t Fence Me In” and meant it. I warbled“A Gay Ranchero” before gay was anything other than happy. When Roy and Dale were guest stars at the Houston Fat Stock Show and Rodeo, Daddy took me to see them in person. I wasn’t a fan of rodeos, but I endured the bronco riding, calf roping, barrel racing and unfunny rodeo clowns to see Roy and Dale. Then, in the darkness of the gigantic Houston coliseum, Daddy helped me make my way down the stairs from our seats to climb onto the arena railings as the spotlights searched the blackness for their entrance.
What a spectacle it was! Roy and Dale rode Trigger and Buttermilk into the center of the ring to the music of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” blaring across the Coliseum. Their outfits were dazzling. Diamond-studded. Large silver belt buckles gleamed as the lights reflected off them. They wore matching cowboy hats with amber beads and white leather fringe against black cotton shirts. Lots of fringe. Leather black-and-white cowboy boots with flowers down the side that glowed in their stirrups as they rode. It was breathtaking pageantry to this eight-year-old Roy Rogers wannabe. They sang and talked and roped and sang some more, and the grand finale was their signature “Happy Trails to You” as they rode around the arena railing, shaking hands with each tiny cowpoke who had made the trek from their seats to hang on through the show and wait for their personal touch. I was mesmerized. I saw myself riding Trigger around the country and wearing that glittering cowboy outfit. I could make the hat and boots work, too. Not at all a bad look. Little cowgirls everywhere would love me.
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“Say, kids, what time is it?” It’s Howdy Doody time!
Television after school evolved from Buffalo Bob and the Howdy Doody gang that admonished us to be good little boys and girls while we drank lots of chocolate Ovaltine, to Dick Clark and “American Bandstand” which encouraged us to “rock around the clock.” Somewhere in between, we became Mouseketeers with our very own roll call and special head gear. The Hardy Boys and Spin and Marty were my teenage heroes, and I fell hopelessly in love with Annette Funicello. I could hardly pronounce her last name, but what did it matter? She was Eye-talian and so exotic. She was perky, too – in all the right places. If I could find out where she lived, I thought, I would fly there in one of those Sky King airplanes. I would take Penny, too. Then if Annette declared her love for Tommy Kirk or Frankie Avalon was undying, I’d still have the effervescent Penny. Delicious. I ordered the Mickey Mouse ears from the Mickey Mouse Club, since that was the look Annette obviously liked. Not at all a bad look. Say goodbye to Tommy and Frankie, Annette.
Penny of Sky King
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Turn off that TV, Daddy finally said one afternoon in early autumn. Let’s go outside to play basketball. I put the goal up for you so we could spend some time working on your game. Guess what? One of the biggest mistakes I ever made was buying that television all those years ago. Things haven’t been the same since. He was right on target. My emotional attachment to television did stand the test of time. The first one I purchased for myself was a small color portable in 1967 when I got my first adult job in Houston after graduating from college. It was one of a very few possessions I took with me the following year when I drove to Seattle, Washington to get as far away from the piney woods of east Texas as I geographically could without crossing a major body of water, like an ocean. I wanted to see if I could live my own life without fear of running into one of my Houston relatives wherever I went. I was twenty-two years old.
In an unfortunate turn of events, I had to trade my beloved color portable RCA television for a month’s rent while there. I had spent the rent money on a marathon telephone conversation with a girlfriend from college who was in Hawaii training for the Peace Corps. I tried all night long to get her to abandon serving her country and come live with me. She declined. The telephone company contacted me at work the next day, told me I had exceeded my credit with them, and payment was due immediately. My landlady had coveted my color TV, and I learned a great life lesson in economics: the law of supply and demand plus lust equals no TV.
The loss of the television was as devastating as the loss of the girl.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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