Ooh la Labubu

 

 

"Art Monsters" Labubus at the Louvre

Ever have a feeling your life is missing something? A mysterious "extra" that would elevate your very existence? What if I told you that you could BUY that “something”? Wouldn’t it be worth a fortune? Of course it would!

 

Luckily, happiness costs much less than that. Your ticket to fulfillment, according to Pop Mart, starts at a rock-bottom $20, though prices soar into the stratosphere from there, especially for "secret edition" items. I’m talkin’ bout Labubus, of course. Yup, those furry creatures with devilish grins that, we are told, are what our paltry, humdrum lives have been lacking.

Launched in 2015, Labubus are modeled on the Monsters book series by Hong Kong artist Kasing Lung. Lung, who moved to the Netherlands as a child, was charmed by Nordic folklore, especially elves. He created “mischievous creatures” who, though always well-intentioned, often cause chaos. In 2019, the Asian toy giant Pop Mart began selling them, using the clever marketing strategy of the ”blind box,” and the rest is adorably fuzzy history. 

 

The concept of the “blind box” is nothing new, as those of us who used to buy Cracker Jacks solely for the toy surprise inside understand (I know no one who ever actually enjoyed EATING a Cracker Jack, myself included). An unopened pack of baseball cards offers the same thrill. Have you acquired a Mickey Mantle? Or just a Gordon Seyfried (no relation) (I think), a pitcher who, in 12 seasons, played in a whopping five MLB games?  It’s a bit of taking a chance, rolling the dice, succumbing to the allure of the unknown, that is within us all. One purchases, THEN one discovers that which one has purchased! So you don’t know if your Labubu will be pink or green or orange, if it will sport a tiny motorcycle helmet, a princess crown, or wings. It’s a glorious moment when you, the buyer, realize you’ve shelled out a king’s ransom for a plush toy with a face that could give you nightmares! 

 

And don’t take their popularity from me. Ask Rhianna! Ask K-Pop sensation Lisa of Blackpink! Ask Dua Lipa! All of these megawatt stars have been seen with Labubus hooked to their handbags. There are even Labubus dressed as Mona Lisa and The Girl with a Pearl Earring, sold at the Louvre. Kid you not. 

 

I am personally not tempted. This is not my first toy rodeo. I remember the rare Princes Di Beanie Baby, which we were PROMISED would one day skyrocket in value. Still waiting. Fool me once, shame on you, TY. Fool me twice, shame on me. Thankfully Sher and Yaj are not rushing out to buy blind boxes for under the Christmas tree. 

 

However, I guess I do see the appeal. In this world of uncertainty and angst, what’s one more mystery? And also, doesn’t “well-meaning creatures who often cause chaos” describe most of us humans? Labubus, like ‘em or not, are here to stay.

 

Until the next crazy fad comes along, that is. 

Julie and friend Laura pose with some Beanies, circa 2000

Memory Palace

  

This week marks the 20^th anniversary of my first manic episode (that I can identify as such). Just as my mind can often recall specific moments of trauma perfectly, so it can bring back the time surrounding them (no idea how that works). 

 

For instance, I recall exactly which book on my bookshelf I was looking at when the 1981 phone call came that my sister Mo had died in a car accident. But I also remember everything I did the day BEFORE, including buying a pair of shoes at a store in Suburban Square, Ardmore, PA, and what I'd cooked for dinner (baked chicken breasts with herbed breadcrumbs). Obviously, I had no idea that tragedy was in the immediate future. Weird, right? 

 

And 11 years earlier, I was in Atlanta when I heard my beloved  Nana Cunningham had passed away in New York;  I played a recording of “Evening Prayer” from Hansel and Gretel (Nana, a wonderful pianist, often played a transcription of this). I also remember that my high school had just, the previous day, OK’d the wearing of pants (not blue jeans) to school for girls. 

 

Same is true of this strange, sad anniversary. The day in late August, 2005 that I became manic, we were at our summer rental house in Lewes, DE, and suddenly I was talking a mile a minute and feeling a rush of wild excitement (over absolutely nothing, by the way). But I also remember the day BEFORE, taking my mom for a haircut at a Hair Cuttery in a nearby shopping center—what I was wearing, the weather, everything. 

 

It would take a solid year of mental illness and eventual treatment, for me to begin to see daylight. I do NOT remember the moment I first felt better, however. It’s as if the brain is wired to bring back sorrow, much more readily than joy. 

 

Not to say I have forgotten my wedding day, or the births of my children--I haven’t--but those memories lack the crystal clarity of breaking my arm (onstage, during a performance of The Wizard of Oz in South Jersey), and every second of my (mercifully brief) encounter with an intruder in my family room when I was a teenager. 

 

There is a very old method of improving memory that dates back to the ancient Greeks, and is popular again. Nowadays, it’s known as The Memory Palace, and it involves connecting specific locations to what you want to remember. Need apples and aluminum foil at the grocery store? Picture apples dancing along your kitchen counter, and foil-covered telephone poles as you drive to the market. 

I find the concept intriguing, and wonder if it could be used to strengthen happy memories, and weaken bad ones. I don’t want to erase the tough times, because I want to experience all of life. But I’d love to look at the dust jacket of The Thorn Birds, or hear “Evening Prayer,” without painful flashbacks. 

 

Bring on the dancing apples, please.

photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels

 

 

 

 

 

Me Do it Myself!

  

She do it HERSELF!
(Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash)

 

Forget the Founding Fathers’ 1776 document! Here is the true Declaration of Independence:

“Me do it MYSELF!” 

This stirring sentence, delivered at top volume, unites all human beings of the toddler persuasion, and why not? Doesn’t everyone yearn to tie their own tiny sneakers, cut their own meat, put together their own four-piece puzzle? Of course!

“MDIM” reminds the grownups that the speaker is a fully functional, capable individual. And if said individual takes forfreakingever to accomplish these tasks, who cares? Preschool/grocery shopping/a rational bedtime can just wait!

 

My five offspring each embraced this battle cry as soon as they could form sentences. I, their grownup, tried hard to emulate Berry Brazelton, Penelope Leach and other champions of gentle parenting. Through gritted teeth, I’d respond, “Of course you can, darling! I was only going to point out that you’re trying to put your shorts on backwards, inside out, and by cramming both legs into one leg opening, that’s all! But, carry on, my precious!”

 

The kiddos indeed learned to do a great deal of life by themselves. Eventually, they were so darned capable that they no longer had to say “MDIM” much at all. And when they arrived, Aiden and Peter followed suit. I have every expectation that little Dimitri will similarly assert his freedom from annoying adult interference. 

 

Even later (very later) in life, though, I’m still struggling with when, how, if, to accept help. Part of it is my ADHD: it’s hard to follow instructions, especially those given orally, and with thinly veiled exasperation. Take technology, for example (please!) After three decades of computerizing, I still have to stop and “process” (get it?) when it comes to clicking and dragging files, taking screenshots, and creating the simplest of videos. But I’d infinitely rather struggle alone than ask Sheridan, once again, how to do this or that. He is the most patient of souls, but I know deep down he thinks his mom is a moron. 

 

When it comes to travel planning, my me-do-it-myself goes into high gear. During my church career, I successfully planned and executed 18 mission trips to such places as Guatemala, Alaska and even…Queens, NY! When my writing finally brought in enough cash for personal foreign travel, I happily plunged into every detail of mapping out our trips to Paris, Barcelona, Rome, etc. etc. Sure, the results weren’t 100% perfect, but I proved that I DID NOT NEED A GUIDED TOUR! I figured out connecting flights and confusing menus and safe neighborhoods to stay, all by myself!

 

Now, "MDIM" faces the biggest challenge yet—two weeks in Southeast Asia in November. So far, I have been late applying for visas (Vietnam) and entry documents (Thailand) and booked a visit to an elephant sanctuary many hours from our hotel, only to learn that the best elephant experience was only 20 minutes away. And I’m just getting started!

 

If we never make it back to the USA, it’s OK. The important thing is: Me did it MYSELF.

Thai elephant! We'll find you!

(Photo by Thanakorn Natwong on Pexels)

Dinner @ Nonna's

photo by Davey Gravey on Unsplash

Confession: I did NOT have a “Nonna.” My grandmas were reluctant cooks at best (Grandma Berrigan) and actively horrible cooks (Nana Cunningham) at worst. And my kids’ Nana (my mom Joanie) was worse still. So if I was ever inspired to, say, dedicate a restaurant to the cuisine of these lovely ladies, I’d immediately reconsider. It's hard to imagine a hangry crowd paying top dollar for Hostess Twinkies, Swanson’s Salisbury Steak, and incinerated green bean casserole.  

But I know many of you (especially those of Italian descent) did have both beloved and culinarily gifted grandmothers. And so, Nonnas, the movie I watched last weekend with Steve, might resonate. You could picture your own dear Nonna, slaving away in a commercial kitchen to prepare and serve her specialties from the Old Country. 

 

Not to give away the restaurant (for those of you with it in your Netflix queue): Nonnas is based on a true story, about an average Joe who wanted to honor his deceased Mama by opening a dining spot in Staten Island, using her cherished recipes. Complications aplenty ensue, all rapidly ironed out, but bottom line, he (Vince Vaughn, who appears uncomfortable with the proceedings) enlists a quartet of oldsters to be the eatery's chefs. There is great need for the willing suspension of disbelief immediately, because one of these gals is Susan Sarandon. I mean, come on! The rest of the posse consists of Talia Shire, Brenda Vaccaro and Lorraine Bracco, all capital M Movie Stars who have consented to being glammed down a bit. None of them can believably make world-class gravy (tomato sauce). I’d buy them joining forces to open a spa instead, or launch People magazine.

 

Seen through the smudged lens of my own experience, this is Theatre of the Absurd, because none of my feminine forebears would EVER vote to prep meals under pressure and for scant recompense; the ladies in the film are sweetly surprised when they get their little paychecks. Where, I ask, are the burnt offerings which were so central to my family’s kitchen lore? In this version of things: pastas galore, delectable desserts, lots of vino, and blissfully happy patrons at meal’s end. In mine? A couple of hours after our “repast,” we’d be hunting and pecking for something (anything) to quell our gnawing hunger. And we’d be refunding disgruntled patrons’ moolah to beat the band.

 

I’m delighted Nonnas is out in the world, and it really was a very nice diversion from the horrifying daily menu of political news. I do propose a Nonnas Two, however, for those of us with “different” grandmas. In my sequel, the Nons are quite annoyed that CUSTOMERS are arriving, because Oprah is still on! They will jolly well have to wait! And eat what they are served! And be darned grateful there’s food on the table at all! 

 

Anyhoo, enjoy Nonnas, a heaping helping of cinematic tiramisu. And if you recognize your own Nonna there—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

What's in a Name?

Ark full of boringly named critters

We have SO many chances in life to name things. Towards the beginning, God tasked Adam with naming the animals. I maintain that the Lord goofed mightily by not tasking Eve instead. Women just do this kind of thing better. Wouldn’t “fluffball” have been superior to “kitten”? Or “black tie guy” for penguin? But no, we got: “dog.” Thanks, Adam!

Think about it, though. We have a sacred responsibility to name our children, for example. Do we really comprehend the lifelong effects on the monickers we bestow? Talkin’ to YOU, mom of Lady Gaga Smith! Several of my personal offspring changed their names (granted, they decided to use their first/middle names instead--which I took as a rebuke of my name-ordering skills). As for me, I could have changed my middle name MANY TIMES over the decades. In my youth, I yearned to be glamorous Elise Veronica, instead of the plebian Elise Ann, but as of today I still sign “Elise Ann” on all manner of legal docs. A sad surrender.

 

Beyond scarring our kids for life, we also get to name our pets. We name our new businesses. We name our music compositions and essays and inventions. The upper crusty among us name our homes--and our summer homes too, which for many of us are the exact same edifices as our winter homes! The quirkier of us even name their cars (one of my high school friends dubbed her Mustang “Sally,” and I confess that my bright orange Gremlin was widely known as “The Great Pumpkin.”)

 

But let’s not stop there. There’s a whole world of ho-hummery out there, just waiting for zippy new names.

 

My inspiration for this post is Janet Trefethen of Trefethen Winery in Napa (and you gotta love a winery producing an excellent red blend called ”Dragon’s Tooth”). Anyhoo, Janet is getting on there (she’s vintage! Vintage!) and she suggested naming a retirement community on her property...Noble Rot ("botrytis vinifera," look it up). Think she's joking, but love that! 

 

Who needs another Green Farms Valley Seaside Mountain Estates or The Rich Retirees Residence at Springfield? A little originality, please! Were I to randomly be tasked by the Lord, or a real estate developer, with naming the multitude of 55+ residences popping up all over as we Boomers get old simultaneously, I'd accept! 

 

Here are a few thoughts:

 

Epilogue (for writers)

Curtain Call (for actors)

Coda (for musicians)

Final Buzzer (for sports folk)

The Last Hurrah (for fans of the Spencer Tracy movie about an old Boston pol)

Cocoon (for fans of the Ron Howard movie about seniors who stumble upon a fountain of youth)

Forever 91 (for those nostalgic about fast fashion in shopping malls)

Bestselling author Bill (Wm) Shakespeare once penned, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.” I beg to differ. Can you imagine gifting your sweetheart with two dozen red…stinkblossoms? She wouldn’t be your sweetheart for long!

 

Name on, my friends!

Stinkblossoms? Aww, you shouldn't have!

High (Flying) Anxiety

Photo from CDC on Unsplash

Didja hear that shoe removal is no longer required when going through airport security? Now, mind you, it has been, shall we say, a teensy overreaction to the one and only incident involving a would-be shoe bomber 20 years ago, but we all bought into the fear that someone’s beat-up Keds might harbor an explosive device, so off came our shoes! In recent years, those with TSA clearance did NOT need to free their tootsies (which to me rendered the whole exercise useless—what, a possible shoe bomber COULDN'T have TSA clearance?) But I do look forward to one less step (get it?) in the air travel process.

It did get me thinking of regulations and rituals around the flight experience. We’re still stuck on the 3.4 oz of liquid in carry-ons (though that too might change soon). I remember returning home from our mission trip to New Orleans, and one of the youth had purchased a can of alligator meat as a souvenir. Guess what? Canned gator counts as a liquid (I guess because of the way it’s preserved?) Josh was so sad as the agent rather gleefully threw the can away.

 

We still have to sit through the presentation about the lights in the aisles and the slide and the inflatable seat cushions, even though we’d all instantly perish in the event of a crash into the sea anyway. And I am positive I’d put the oxygen mask on my kid before my own, ensuring we’d both pass out. Just not well-equipped for emergency decisions, that’s me.

 

I have been grateful for improved airline safety over the years, though now we are backpedaling on that by firing 99% of the air traffic controllers. Soon the flight attendant will start assigning the window seat people the task of watching out for other planes about to hit us. 

 

And, not to sound all Andy Rooney, but whatever happened to our FOOD on the plane? I have never flown anything but economy, yet vividly recall actual hot meals served, even on flights between New York and Atlanta. True, they weren’t the tastiest, but they were at least a small perk. Recently, I flew nonstop from Philly to Seattle. WE GOT NOTHING. Not even those horrendous Biscoff cookies! And the beverage cart made one, breathtakingly brief, appearance. But that was OK, I was too distracted by the pain in my legs from being doubled up in my seat, to worry about nourishment! Extra leg room now costs…extra! It won’t be long before they start charging to sit down (we’ll all be standing like on the subway, holding onto overhead straps during turbulence.)

 

Believe me, I am grateful that the Wright Brothers figured all this out. We’re headed to Southeast Asia in the fall, and I have no idea how else we’d get there (swimming not an option; I can’t swim). And I do appreciate that one item, a prior staple, has largely disappeared.

 

Anyone miss barf bags? I didn’t think so.

Come Back, Words!

You know me. At least I hope you do.  I’m all about language—new words, clever words, rhyming words. Slang words. Words with unusual origins. As a writer, those are vital items in my toolkit. Without offbeat words and phrases, I would be reduced to using a sad, second grade vocab, endlessly repeating “like no one has ever seen before” and “'Sir’, he said, tears rolling down his cheeks.” Naming no names.

 

Sometimes it’s a challenge to incorporate these $64 words into a sentence without appearing pretentious (or just incomprehensible). But I’m ever up for a challenge! So, when I happened upon this list of “Ancient English Words That Deserve a Comeback,” well…I decided to do my best to revive these linguistic treasures! I happen to be working on a new essay, fertile ground for sowing an arcane word or six. Feeling suddenly scripturient! Let me know what you think, gentle readers! Here we go…

 

 

I’ll always remember my Grandfather as a world-class lunter. After he grew old, when he gave up smoking for health reasons, he still carried a pipe with him, often to a pub, where he and his retired buds gathered to twattle and brabble. How merry were they!  After long careers plying various trades, they were all crambazzled, even though most of them had been inclined to fudgel. In these, their twilight years, Gramps and friends frequently experienced clinomania and lethologica—sometimes both at once! They’d lay abed, trying to recall the word “bed.” Their irritated spouses would get them going for the day with a bucket of water dumped on their heads. This curglaff was enough to move them kitchenward, where they’d grab some yesterfang. Often, the yesterfang was meant for the next night’s dinner, so the Grandmas would groke at the menfolk as they shoveled in the vittles.

 

Knowing their better halves were really irked, they would snudge towards the door, and the pub, and sweet freedom. Pipe or no, they would all lunt. Champion lunters were they! The upstanding citizens and the barely standing, the quomodocquinquizers and snollygosters, all the old chums would head pubward, where they would sit by the window and bask in the apricity, or sit by the fire and gruefel, while quaffing a spirited beverage. And lunting. Always lunting. And in the wee hours, as they parted, Gramps and company would do a final bit of twattling and brabbling, and promise to meet again overmorrow. Or even the day before overmorrow. Which I guess would be… tomorrow. Right? 

 

You gotta admit, these grand old words do an amazing job of spicing up what would otherwise have been a dull-as-dishwater tale of lazy old men smoking and drinking in a bar! True, ye ancient dictionary would be required to translate, but it would be worth it!

 

So join me, won’t you? Let’s not give up on these gems! Let’s have a little respair!

 

Just be careful who you call a snollygoster. Or a fudgeler. I hear they can be nasty.

Gramps and his lunting friends 
(photo from LSE library)

 

Trophy Therapy

  

 DR. J: Thank you all for coming today. Let’s begin with Emmy.

 

EMMY: I just don’t feel as special as I used to. Back in the day with only three TV networks, there wasn’t that much going on. But now! 109 awards! What the heck?

 

OSCAR: Emmy, I hear you. Or at least I would if I had noticeable ears! Design flaw!

 

EMMY: There are also SO many of YOU given out, Oscar. It’s always been like that! Who can forget “Best Juvenile Award” (Shirley Temple, naturally), and “Best Title Writing” (for the silents). The Academy Award means nothing!

 

OSCAR: Was that an insult? I couldn’t hear! 

 

TONY: May I chime in? Just because I only appeal to high-brow theatregoers, doesn’t mean I’m unimportant!

 

DR. J: Tony, what would you like to contribute?

 

TONY: I hate my designI Oscar and Emmy look like people! I look like a big coin with some squiggles on it!

 

DR. J: I believe they’re the masks of comedy and tragedy.

 

TONY: Could’ve fooled me!

 

DR. J: Let’s hear from our sports trophies. What do you say, Heisman?

 

HEISMAN: Yo.

 

DR. J: Nicely put. Stanley?

 

STANLEY: Tony, you think YOUR design is weird? I look like a demented wedding cake. Whose bright idea was it to put EVERY player’s name on me? I’m HUGE! 

 

OSCAR: What am I missing?

 

EMMY: Nothing important, Oscar. Just some stupid sports talk.

 

HEISMAN: Whaddaya mean, stupid? I happen to be real smart!

 

STANLEY: Me too! And heavy! 35 pounds!

 

HEISMAN: I merely wish the stiff-armed pose of my figure had not come to represent keeping someone at a distance (“doing a Heisman”), not to mention the infamous Heisman Curse, which refers to the fact that winning college players tend to play on teams that lose their subsequent bowl games.

 

DR. J: Surprisingly eloquent, Heisman!

 

HEISMAN: Yeah, I surprised me, too.

 

(Trophies share a hearty laugh, all but OSCAR)

 

OSCAR: Darn my lack of perceptible ears! 

 

DR. J: OK, let me sum this up. You each have a different gripe, and you feel powerless to change things. Emmy: Too many. Oscar: Hard of hearing. Tony: Ugly award. Stanley: Too big. Heisman: Negative connotations. 

 

ALL but OSCAR: Exactly!

 

DR. J: Surely SOME trophy must be happy with their lot!

 

CLARET JUG: That would be me! I’m the oldest and most distinguished trophy, and there’s only one of me. The British Open golf winners get replicas, while I loll about in comfort and luxury at Saint Andrew's in Scotland. 

 

EMMY: Well, la-di-la.

 

TONY: Snobby much?

 

HESIMAN: Yo.

 

STANLEY: Lucky duck! I wish everyone would leave ME alone! 

 

DR. J: Uniting against a common enemy! What a wonderful solution to your depression! Thank you, Claret Jug, for being so incredibly obnoxious! 

 

CLARET JUG: A pleasure!

 

DR. J: Thank you, everyone, for being here! 

 

(The trophies leave, all but OSCAR).

 

Dr J: Oscar? We’re done!

 

(OSCAR doesn’t move.)

 

DR. J: OK, buddy. (Picks up OSCAR. Looks around) I’d like to thank the Academy… (exits)