Slanguage Arts

While I’m “hep” to the latest “lingo,” I know to stay in my conversational lane. Aiden has brought the wonderful world of 2025 middle school slang to our household, with vocab including: "bussin’ "(delicious—NOT big orange buses), "rizz" (charisma—like his Nana? Nah), "low-key" (doing something half-heartedly, like homework) and "cringe" (awkward, embarrassing—like Nana saying ANY of this). Oh, and there’s “6 7” (pronounced six seven), which is either NBA star LaMelo Ball’s height, the song “Doot Doot (6 7)” by Skrilla, or something else entirely. I’d feel pretty silly talking this way! I’m seriously only tempted to use “skibidi” because I have a thing for nonsense words, and “skibidi” is literally a “nonsense word.”

 

Instead, I’m studying the more age-appropriate “in” words and phrases to be found on cooking shows and in the New York Times food section. Am I artfully arranging a platter of scrambled eggs, artichokes, beef jerky and blueberry muffins for my guests? That’s an “anything-cuterie board” to you! “Umami” has been around the block a few times, yet still manages to sound both nouveau and pretentious whenever it’s written or uttered. “Umami” is a flavor profile that would describe mushrooms, miso, Parmesan cheese and soy sauce—kinda fermented (one might even say a bit “off”). I am SO tired of this or that gourmet/gourmand pronouncing a dish “full of umami flavors!” Whatever happened to “yummy” or “tasty” or “not half bad”? Scraping the bottom of the barrel (barrel of...sardines, perhaps? How umami!), we come to the words “swicy” (sweet+spicy) and “swalty” (sweet+salty). Who SAYS things like that, without sounding just like Elmer Fudd? 

 

Then there’s fashion! One can look “lit” and “fire” (call 911!) when one is "flexin’" or "drippin’" one’s new “fits” (wearing new clothes). When one improves one’s appearance, that’s a “glow up,” and if the glowing goes well, you’re now “snacc” (attractive, not a bag of Doritos). Sadly, I find just typing these words to be very "cringe." I’m never going to tell a fellow fashionista that she “slays.” No, I will fall back on: “you look elegant, or cute, or like you just left the gym.” That last one is me, by the way, who never goes to the gym, but still always captures that disheveled, even “swalty,” look.

 

I guess my slanguage is still stuck in the 1980s ("Bodacious"? "Radical"? "Gnarly"?) Or not. Maybe I’m more in sync with the 1970s ("Copacetic"? "Dorky"? Bummer?) Not quite. How about the 60s? The 50s? Hmmm. I rarely say “Dullsville,” “Out of Sight,” OR “Groovy.” 

 

It is with a shock that I realize my preferred slang words hearken back to the 1920s and 30s, long before my natal day. “Bingo,” “Fave,” “Snazzy,” and “Gunky,” are all “Boffo” in my book! If that dates me, so be it. I’ll let people think I look “boffo” for a 90 year old.

 

I can’t imagine Dimitri's slanguage as a teen in the 2040s, so I won’t try.

 

Guess I’ll just “23-skibidi.” Toodle-oo!

My peeps, circa 1924 (that's my beautiful Nana on the left)!

Letting Them

Too bad we didn't have any fun at the party 😀

I may be the last living person who has yet to read Mel Robbins’ gigantic bestseller/attitude adjuster Let Them. But I do overhear its wisdom discussed everywhere, to the point that all someone has to say these days are the magic two words “let them” and their companions will immediately nod in enthusiastic recognition of the brilliant Robbins theory. If I understand her thesis correctly, we will be much happier when we accept how little control we have over the other people in our lives. When we “let them” be slobs, rude, or generally obnoxious, and focus on what we CAN control (ourselves and our responses), we unlock the door to inner peace. 

 

This is one of those “why didn’t I think of that, write it in a book, and make a mint?” times, because I have definitely thought of it, and then lazily neglected to do any further research (not even researching where to find a pen and paper to jot it down). And variants of “let them” abound, from my mom’s laissez-faire child rearing methods (“Scribbling in the family Bible in crayon? Wearing the same clothes for two weeks straight? Let them! I’m watching Phil Donahue!”) to this profound observation by Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl: “We have absolutely no control over what happens to us in life, but what we have paramount control over is how we respond to those events.”

 

So yeah, it ain’t an original idea. 

 

But today, I’m flipping the script a bit. I’m figuring out what it would be like to “let them” be …helpful. You see, I handle others’ contributions quite gracelessly on the whole. While I pay lip service to appreciation, “You cleaned the bathroom? How wonderful of you!” deep down I feel both marginalized and insulted (what, you don’t need ME to scrub the toilet? You don’t think I do a good enough job refilling the hand soap dispenser?) 

 

And I go into overdrive at family gatherings at our house. I’m fine (well, OK-ish) when my grown and flown kiddos entertain me in their digs, with food and activities of their choosing. But when we assemble on my turf to celebrate holidays or whatever, I immediately call dibs on making all the most impressive dishes, leaving the dregs for them: “What do you say if I make lamb sausage puffs and lobster dip and roast duck and chocolate mocha cake? If you could just bring some paper napkins, that would be awesome!” 

 

When my sister visited us from Hawaii, in conjunction with a big birthday for Steve, my children insisted on cooking every menu item themselves. I actually “let them.” And you know what? Everything was really delicious. I admired my sons and daughters’ many gifts and talents. And I was able to sit back and relax, glass of wine in hand, free of all the stress surrounding the party preparations. 

 

Just kidding. I was a wreck the whole time. But I DID “let them.” So that counts for something, right?

Probably the most attention our family Bible ever got

Scheduled Maintenance

   

                                                        Not Dave. But you get the idea.

 

We love our mechanic, Dave at Flourtown Gulf. Great guy. He’s never made us feel (too) guilty when we clattered into the station, having long neglected the weird smell when we turned on the ignition, or the illuminated “check engine” light, or the wobbly steering wheel. As a result, we have become quite responsible car owners (at least Steve has). Someday, we may even bring Old Betsy in EARLY for regularly scheduled maintenance!

 

Alas, I treat my body the way I treat my motor vehicle. I ignore all the warning signs, and defer every manner of test and scan until crisis time. My “annual” mammograms become “triennials.” My colonoscopies are several decades apart. Until last year, I was so delayed going to the dentist that I seriously considered just having all my teeth pulled and opting for dentures-in-a-glass instead. 

 

I have to confess that this bodily neglect is nothing new. I grew up in a household where no one did ANYthing on time (or, Heaven forbid, ahead of time). Our pediatrician visits were haphazard at best, as was our dental work (look in my mouth—it’s a graveyard of ancient fillings). So, I had no healthy role models! There! That’s my excuse! 

 

Later, as impoverished young marrieds, Steve and I could only afford “Major Medical” insurance, which meant we were probably covered for, say, a quadruple bypass (after paying a hefty deductible of course), but not for simple physicals. We therefore decided regular checkups were out of budget. Luckily, we were pretty healthy folks, so for years we skated by, mostly sans doctors. 

 

It was only during my five pregnancies that I became a faithful caretaker of my physical container. Why was I so scrupulous about drinking milk and not wine, eating leafy greens, taking naps and walks and seeing the OB precisely on schedule? Because I wasn’t doing it for ME. I was doing it for THE BABY. As soon as said infant was safely out in the world, I rapidly slid back into the old routine of indolence, happy hours and salty snacks, because who cared now? 

 

I have been a pretty good girl when it comes to my mental health, though, only because my onset of bipolar was such a nightmare. To keep a recurrence of mania and depression cycles at bay, I see my psychiatrist on a regular basis, and faithfully take my meds. I truly prioritize my sanity. Yet I somehow don’t make the same “wellbeing” connection when it comes to checking my eyesight and suspicious-looking skin lumps and bumps.  

 

You know what I need? I need a Dave. I need to haul myself into a service bay in his garage once a year for a tune-up (no scolding), and get a lovely inspection sticker to plaster on my forehead. Dave’ll fix what needs fixing quickly and reasonably, so I can get back out on the road for another year.

 

And if anyone says I procrastinate, I can just say, “Tell it to the sticker.”

photo by Ivan Samkov on Pexels

Returning My Wisdom Package

 

photo by Alex Shute on Unsplash

In my yoga class, I am often tasked with finding an inspirational reading for the end of our practice, our "lying prone on the mat" savasana. As my fellow yogis and yoginis relax, yours truly reads this or that literary/spiritual nugget aloud, to ponder during the challenging (always challenging!) days ahead.

 

Last week I shared a terrific poem, "The Wisdom Package," by Hayden Saunier. Hayden is a very talented writer and actress; she and I worked together decades ago, at Emory University Summer Theatre in Atlanta. Nowadays she lives and works in Bucks County, PA, and has won many awards for her poetry. This particular poem describes an exchange between Hayden and her eye doctor during an exam; the doctor congratulates the patient for her “wisdom package”—

 

I laugh and ask him about knees and knuckles,

liver spots and forgetfulness, and to each complaint

he answers: Wisdom! Wisdom! Wisdom!

 

While whimsically written, the message is serious: like them or not, these inevitable physical and mental changes should be embraced. Getting old is, as they say, a privilege not given to everyone. Yay for the wisdom package!

 

So why am I not yay-ing?

 

It’s not as if I was ever in the running for America’s Next Top Model. But time was, I had a certain visual appeal--that is, if you found freckles appealing. I LOVE the Gaelic term for these spots, btw-- pógini gréine (little sun kisses). I moved through the world quickly and surefootedly, I could see clearly, and hear a pin drop, and I never gave my knees a thought. 

 

And I do notice and celebrate the true beauty of the elderly, how those mouth creases attest to years of deep and satisfying laughter, how silver hair softens the face, how a slower and more hesitant step encourages careful contemplation of the world around them. 

 

I fear, though, that I’m heading towards having a visage that looks like it has been folded into an origami crone, frown lines that are much deeper than laugh lines, and coarse, mousy gray hair that only harshens my face. I don’t contemplate the world when I walk these days--I just try to avoid hills, stairs, and stepladders.  Much as I’d love to choose “Helen Mirren” as my once and future look, it’s more likely that I’ll favor Granny Clampett. 

 

I’m trying to find a way to keep the wisdom, and return the packaging. It may be as simple as the Amazon formula. Often, when the wrong item is sent, I receive a refund AND am told to keep the jar of preserves or whatever. It’s just not worth the hassle to Jeff Bezos, who is already spending every waking hour personally shipping stuff to me.

 

So, then, this is my prayer:

 

God grant me the postage to return my bum hips, high cholesterol, poor eyesight and bad teeth

The damaged, dented wrapping of this old body.

Let me exchange it for a newer version of myself.

But Lord, let me keep the wisdom. Amen.

image by geralt on pixabay

Confessions of a Code-Switching Chameleon

  

 

Lately I’ve been reflecting on my behavior—or rather, behaviors. While I do believe I have a strong personality with specific traits, I also have a great capacity to mimic others’. This can be as subtle, and unconscious, as mirroring my conversation partner’s crossed arms, or as obvious, and deliberate, as sliding into their Southern (or Brooklyn) accent when conversing with them. You’ll never truly mistake me for a 12-year-old kid, or a 90 year old Boston matron, but I sure can play one on TV!

 

My delightful combo of bipolar and ADHD makes me both fascinated by the vagaries of my mind, and unable to focus on them for long. While my 500 words worth of attention is still on this subject, I wanted to share reflections on code-switching and The Chameleon Effect. 

 

To the uninformed, code-switching is defined as a conscious change of dialect, or even language, depending on your environment. This was emphasized in Percival Everett’s wonderful novel James. Everett’s Pulitzer-winner tells the story of Jim, the slave companion to Huck Finn. My book club just finished reading and discussing it (I went a step further and re-read the source material, Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.) While the original Jim is certainly a sympathetic character, James paints a much fuller portrait of a brilliant man, secretly self-taught from his white owner’s classic books. This is illustrated by his adeptness at speaking two different ways (illiterate, and highly educated), based on the company and circumstances in which he finds himself. His very life depends on making the “correct” choices. Other examples of code-switching are bilingual folks who can switch between two (or more) languages in a conversation (I’ve seen my daughter-in-law rapidly go from English to Mandarin and back again).

 

The Chameleon Effect is similar, but less studied. Just as our little lizardy friend can’t help changing colors when moving from green leaf to brown tree trunk, human chameleons automatically match the people around them gesture for gesture (brushing hair out of eyes, yawning). 

 

Both are adaptive behaviors with pros and cons—any good politician can make you feel that you both are on the exact same wavelength, right? But there’s a definite risk of losing your identity completely, in your quest to blend seamlessly with your surroundings.

 

And me? Well, I think I have a pretty good sense of myself and my values. I’m confident that I won't betray those, just to fit in. But neither am I one of those bold (dare I say belligerent?) people who trumpet their individuality even as they are clearly being offensive: “I just call it as I see it, like it or lump it!” 

 

So on I’ll colorfully crawl through life, sometimes switching the code, sometimes not. Don’t be shocked to see me at a party down South, “y'all”-ing to beat the band, even as I’m sharing totally New Yawk info. 

 

Popeye declared “I yam what I yam.” 

I say, “I yam, but sometimes I’m a bit of a turnip.”

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