Local Dialect(ic)

our last college grad (Julie, 2018); I'm smiling through my tears...

This week I celebrate finally learning the name of something I’ve been living with forever (no, not Steve, I THINK I have my hubby's name down). I’m talking about the way I can--and do—often feel two contradictory emotions at the same time. The word is “dialectic.” 

Here are some dialectics...

"I love you and I'm upset with you." Now that I think of it, this DOES apply to me and Steve. Love him a lot! Often very upset with him!

 

"I want to stay the same, and I want to change": Example--I want to be 30 lbs. thinner by summer, and I also want to continue down the rich and caloric culinary road I’ve been traveling. Corollary: I do not want to take a weight-loss drug, because I’d prefer the hard-but-satisfying work of slimming down on my own--but I really DON'T want to actually do that work. Therefore, I will no doubt stay the same this summer. But I won’t be happy about it.

 

"I am capable and I need support": The M.O. of every toddler on earth (also known as “Me do it myself!!!” followed by torrents of tears when Mama doesn’t immediately come to Me’s rescue.) In the grownup world, this translates to: “Why didn’t you automatically sense that I needed help, and why didn’t you subtly provide said help without undermining my capability?” (see above: Steve love/upset with).

 

"I am so happy for you, my grown-up kids! I hate that you’re leaving the nest and embarking on your own lives!”  I truly am both. I am equal parts proud and devastated when my offspring launch.

 

“I’m relieved to have retired from my job. I wish I still got complimented for what’s going on at work.” I observe my successor at church, and have no regrets that I am no longer scurrying around madly, as she now does, every Sunday morning. But I’d love to still be lauded for every single good thing that happens there.

 

“I love a very clean house, and I will go to zero effort to keep my house clean.” Lacking funds for a housecleaner, I’ll just leave this dialectic right there. Over by the junk piles.

 

Mixed emotions? More like “throw all those emotions in the Cuisinart and turn it on high speed.”

 

From whence did “dialectic” spring? Credit for the original concept goes to pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus, famous for that meme about never stepping in the same river twice (accompanied by a photo of--wait for it--a river). Heraclitus posits that the universe is one big messy glob of opposites that are constantly bumping into each other (sorry for getting technical). According to Socrates years later, we need to argue/have a dialogue about our differing POVs to get to the truth nugget (not to be confused with the chicken nugget. Because the Socratic method is not for the chicken-hearted.) 

There you have it. 

 

Agree? Disagree? Agree to disagree?

 

All of the above?

How very dialectical of you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Artistic Licensing

  

photo by Aibek Skakov on Pexels

 

If you have ever asked yourself: “What artistic genius designed the iconic logo for Chupa Chups lollipops?” --I have solved the mystery! It was none other than Señor Melting Clocks himself, Salvador Dali, who was approached by the Spanish confectioner in 1969. The jazzy result has graced their sweets wrappers ever since. “Chupa” translates as “suck” in Catalan, but I think they missed a great opportunity to name them “Dali’s Lollys.” 

 

It got me thinking, an always dangerous pursuit. If the greatest artists of all time decided to cash in on branding, what would they likely choose? Never fear; I’ve come up with can’t miss matchings of men and merch!! Such as…

 

Monet (Manet) Market Funds

 

A money market is a mutual fund that invests in short-term, high-quality securities. A “Monet” Market (sometimes pronounced “Manet”) is designed for investors in posters, coffee mugs and refrigerator magnets featuring “Water Lilies” (or “Le Déjeuner sur l'Herbe”). Short term indeed, as coffee mugs break, posters tear, and magnets fall under fridges!

 

 

Van Gogh Automobile Dealership

 

If you want to buy a van, you have one prime criterion. That thing has to GO, amirite? Van-Go, get it? Picture a dealership where, on any given day (or starry night), you can purchase a big honking vehicle with no money (Monet?) down and a very attractive APR over five years. Making a bold expressway statement doesn’t have to cost an arm, leg OR ear!

 

Da Vinci (Code) Remedy

 

Feeling kinda stuffy? Were you not able to taste your last supper? Well, has Leo got the cold (or, as you say it now, “code”) remedy for you! It’s a sinus-clearing blend of linseed oil and gel medium. You’ll be back to smelling the beautifully painted roses in no time! And apparently the Great One was also a perfumier, so feel free to dab a little on your wrist!

 

Vermeer Beer

 

In the mood for a Flemish bevvy? Try this stunning brew! The bottles are adorned with colorful and meaningful labels, including “Girl with a Pearl Earring” “The Milkmaid,” and “The Wine Glass” (renamed as “Girl with a Can of Beer,” “The Beermaid” and “The Beer Glass.”) Also available as a lite beer with a tip of the hat to another Dutch master: “Skinny Rubens.” 

 

Picasso Lottery Game

 

Pick(asso) your numbers and take a chance! Picasso combines the thrill of throwing your money (Monet?) away, with the fun of creating your own lotto masterpiece, Pablo style. Each ticket is imprinted with a picture of a body part. The more tickets you buy, the weirder the combinations! Ever dreamed of a face with five eyes, three noses, and a leg (NO ear!)? Tape those losing tix together and voila! You've got yourself a masterwork!

 

Sadly, these artistic giants are all dead, so they’ll never reap the financial benefits of these clever tie-ins. But good news! YOU get to keep all the Monet for yourself, so go ahead and start up a famously-named startup! 

 

I call dibs on Jackson Pollock Seafood.

"Sunflowers" mug photo by Van3ssa on Pixabay

The Ticketmaster

   

We saw Pope Francis (from afar)! See Ticket to Heaven, below

 

 

Steve and I are heading up to NYC for a special performance by comedian Mike Birbiglia this Friday. Julie, Gil, Rose and Amrit are joining us, and I took a moment to look for our tickets online (I’d bought all six and been reimbursed.) Horrors! Nary a trace of a purchase! But I knew I’d secured the tix way back in October! I combed through my American Express statements and theatre emails, looking for attachments. Finally, I called the theatre itself. “Oh, I see your six tickets!” said the box office person. “You bought them on Ticketmaster. Go to their website.” When I did, wonder of wonders, there they were. But there’s no way to print them out. They exist on the Ticketmaster app on my iPhone. So now I’ll worry all week that there’ll be a tech glitch and we won’t be able to get in.

 

I feel that way about tickets of all types. Though the world has moved on from paper, and everybody just shows their phones now at the airport gate and concert venue, I feel TONS better with a physical ticket in hand. They are incontrovertible proof that I belong wherever it is I’m going, and they make dandy souvenirs as well. I love looking at the little bright green Funland ride tickets in winter, daydreaming about the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk and the fun our kids and grandkids have had on the carousel and Sea Dragon. In a genius bit of marketing, the tickets never expire; I’ve been known to surrender limp, gray, and smudged tix from several years ago, and they still give us access to the many joys of Funland. 

 

I'm not a supermarket deli counter regular, but I do notice that the old-school ticket machine is still there, the little slips informing the customers that they are #77 in line. The last time I took a deli ticket, I was pleased to see that they were already at #76. Alas, the 76er was a nightmare orderer, “I’ll have ¼ pound provolone, sliced thin. No, that’s too thin. I want a ¼ pound of turkey breast. Is it smoked? I want PLAIN turkey and make it lean! Now I want a small tub of coleslaw. No, medium! No, small! No…” At that point I decided I didn’t want roast beef badly enough to wait another month, and walked away.

 

Other ticket observations:

 

Never bought a lottery ticket. It’s simpler to just set fire to a $20. 

 

I love skip-the-line tix for museums when we travel—especially the envious looks we get sailing past the long, straggly queue for the Uffizi or Musée d’Orsay.

 

Wish there was such a thing as a Ticket to Heaven that I could pre-book. I’d pay any price, and even clean up my behavior, if I knew St. Peter would be there to wave me right through the Pearly Gates. Afterlife Insurance!

 

With my luck, though, it’d only be available on my iPhone, which of course I left back on earth.

Everyone Will Be Famous For 10 Seconds

Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.

                                                            --Andy Warhol

The celebrity A-list sure is a firehose of ever-changing names and faces these days! Time was, we could gradually absorb our Anne Hathaways and our Meg Ryans, our Sandra Bullocks and our Tom Cruises and our George Clooneys. These dazzling folks achieved eventual fame and fortune, with even our grandmas aware of their advancing careers. 

But this bunch! They rapidly reign in TikTokville, in the far-reaches of the Indie Movieverse. They are the musical guests on SNL that I Google, even as I am watching them and trying to make sense of their performances. I don’t kid myself—we’re never going back to a simpler time, when David Cassidy’s puss was plastered over all the teen mags, and everybody loved Farrah Fawcett. But there has to be a way to stem the tide, or at least take a pause and acquaint ourselves with the new pop culture supernovas.

 

Happily, there are a few evergreens—people who’ve been famous for decades and show no signs of disappearing. I’m talking to you, Tay Tay and Gaga (is it me, or do they sound like Baby’s First Words?) I feel confident that Madonna will continue to record albums and appear at New York Fashion Week, with her diamond-encrusted walker and 60-year-old boy toy.

 

But let’s get learning! In the refreshing spirit of enlightenment, I’m pleased to introduce you to some of the Big Guns of Today. Have this blog post handy, and refresh your memory as needed—keeping in mind that, by the time you finish reading this, at least 50 new stars will have emerged on the scene, with an equal number fading into obscurity. It’s a hard-knock life, Megan Thee Stallion!

 

LUKAS GAGE: At age 29 the “eminence grise” of the group, Old Man Gage has appeared in Euphoria,You, and The White Lotus. He began his career doing wart-removal ads. This is one wart who has definitely made his mark!

 

TATE MC RAE: Singer, songwriter and dancer, McRae first attracted notice during her appearance on the hit Canadian TV show So You Think You Can Dance, Eh? She will no doubt continue to gain popularity as more and more of us relocate to Calgary.

 

DUA LIPA: The British/Albanian singer, model and entrepreneur we’ve all been waiting for.  Lipa (Dua?) is known for her husky voice, blending disco, pop and club music. Her hit “IDGAF” won her a British Grammy (note: I believe IDGAF stands for “I Dig Our Great Air Force.” Right??)

 

NOAH BECK: A former soccer player with the Portland Pilots, young Beck’s renown comes from his quirky dances and skits on TikTok, which have earned him 34 MILLION followers. I bet that number even beats the audience for Jeopardy!! 

TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET: American/French actor, Timmy broke out with his star turn in Call Me By Your Name, which earned him both Oscar and Golden Globe noms. But his greatest honor? He is (as of this writing) Kylie Jenner’s boyfriend.

 

You’re all set! Go forth and banter with your Gen Z offspring!

Quiz time! Lukas? Noah? Timothée? David Cassidy?

Baby Magic

That's my guy!

Pardon me for basking. We Seyfrieds are currently enjoying bathing in the golden glow of Babyland. These are the magical months post-newborn and pre-toddler, when Dimitri is not as fragile as he was, nor as mobile as he will be. He still sleeps a lot, and is a super sport about being passed around to various doting grownups. He’s starting to play with toys and eat rice cereal and smile huge, drooly smiles.    

His presence is such a blessing, and a constant reminder of innocence and joy. Of course, he’s not the only infant to ever have bestowed such a gift—in their turns, Aiden and Peter were similar small wonders, as were Sheridan, Evan, Rose, Patrick and Julie, as before them were Steve with his sibs, and me with mine. I look at old photos, and it’s clear the Baby Magic extends back many generations.  

Mom, Uncle Gerry and Uncle Jack

I think about these precious little ones so very often nowadays, and I cry for the world they are inheriting. How could we adults have so botched things? Is it fair to expect Dimitri to right this sinking ship? The most poignant aspect of my musings? I must watch my third grandson in real time, every day, living his small, oh so important life with us, totally oblivious to the seriously scary future he is facing. He marvels at the bright colors on his quilt, chortles with glee when Steve (“Pa”) makes funny faces and sounds, and examines his toes as if they were the eighth wonder of the world (which, for him, they are). The world’s worries are totally unknown to him.  

Guess it’s good that we have a while yet before his emancipation. Think about the animal kingdom—the baby birds pushed from their nests, the tiny sea turtles hatched and left to make their perilous way alone to the ocean. I understand that this brief time of parental protection is the norm in nature, but it still feels abrupt and a bit unfair. If I were a Momma Rabbit, you can bet I wouldn’t hop away from my furry little offspring until they were at least teenagers. I would be the ultimate Helicopter Kittycat Mom, hovering endlessly around my mewing brood.   

Deep down, though, I realize there’s a lesson to be learned here. We parents will not always be there, and encouraging independence is both necessary and positive. There’s no such thing as a giraffe who lives in the basement playing video games for decades. Animal moms and dads make themselves redundant eventually, gracefully making way for the next generation to assert itself.   

And so we will let Dimitri grow up. We will cheer his walking and talking and ball-throwing and yes, even his tantrums. He deserves a chance to become fully himself, and our job is to gradually loosen the ties that bind him to us.   

Meanwhile, though, we will relish our beautiful sojourn with the current Mayor of Babyland. He holds the Fisher-Price plastic keys to our hearts.

Basket Making

photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

If pressed, I'll say “basketball is my sport.” This gives me some street cred, and assures my listeners that I actually HAVE a sport, thus allowing me to identify as American. Because we all have at least one sport, no? The need for fandom is inherent in our USA genes. I recall reading about the colonial passion for baste-the-bear and stilt walking, and can just picture George W. (the original one) tossing his powdered wig in the air during a swell bandy ball match. 

 

Here's what I like about basketball: even I can follow it. It moves quickly, but the players are very tall, and the court is finite. There are only a couple of things you can do to score, and only a couple of points awarded for those things. As my favorite comedian Gary Gulman muses, it’s also the only sport where, if a player so much as touches another player, the game stops instantly, and the offended one gets several unimpeded shots before two silent teams. “Think about what you did!” is the implied scolding. 

 

Whereas football is—fuggedaboudit. Wildly overhyped, horribly violent, I can't keep track of where the darned ball is. And the rules? Downs, field goals, various yard lines! And with all the stops and starts it takes HOURS. I remember watching Patrick, our only homegrown high school footballer, and slowly perishing from boredom between plays. There was one super obnoxious parent in the stands with us, who kept up an incessant, shouted commentary--with a cowbell!!—and I was so miserable that I welcomed the diversion!!

 

Baseball is something I really feel I should like better than I do, given my pedigree. My Grandpa Berrigan played minor league ball for the Bronx Giants, and my memories of him in his latter years largely revolve around his rabid enthusiasm for televised playoff games on his black-and-white set. Heck, Sheridan was even a star pitcher! (Sher wasn’t major league, nor minor league—he was middle school league, but still…) To me the game’s pace is glacial; even with the much vaunted speed-up innovations, it’s about as thrilling as watching paint dry. 

 

Aiden and Peter love to shoot hoops up at the neighborhood court, and their style of play is perfect for me. “Great shot, honey!” is always appropriate to shout, whether they make it or not. And if things get a bit dull, there’s the inevitable ball that escapes the playground and rolls downhill towards the street. Luckily, traffic is usually light and drivers are cautious, but there’s still that pulse-quickening moment as Mr. Basketball bounces onto the road. Bonus: after the daring rescue, I feel totally justified in saying, “OK, guys, time to go home!” 

Several years ago, I had the rare, delightful experience of making a few baskets myself. Sometimes I think of trying again, but why ruin a perfect memory? I’d rather cheer for LeBron and Steph occasionally, qualifying me to assert that, if I need one, basketball is, indeed, my sport.

 

Aiden and Gil on the court

Limelighting

Sarah Bernhardt

We’ve all heard about so and so or such and such being “in the limelight,” as in “currently famous/celebrated.” Sounds like an exciting place to be, right (never having been there myself)? 

Hate to break it to you, friends, but an examination of the word’s origin tells a different story. It seems that, back in the 1860s and 1870s, actors on theatre stages would be spotlit in a curious way. Thanks to inventor-with-the-coolest name-ever Goldsworthy Gurney, a pipe filled with hydrogen and oxygen would be blown towards a lump of quicklime (calcium oxide). The contact would create a flame that gave off a bright light, “limelight”, and so actors both famous (Sarah Bernhardt) and infamous (John Wilkes Booth) alike were illuminated for their rapt audiences. 

 

Only one little issue, though. The process was extremely dangerous. One can imagine the peril of flames near fabric curtains, wooden stage floors, even the costumes of the day. By the 1890s, limelight had been replaced by electric arc lighting. But the phrase continues to be widely used, perhaps because “Meryl Streep has often been in the electric arc lighting” is a tad clunky. 

 

I was struck by the idea that being in the limelight meant a) being in a dangerous situation AND b) being in something that is extremely fleeting. And there are countless instances of performers whose time in the limelight was fraught with sadness—the child stars whose “stage parents” or agents exploited them, the gifted actors lost to addiction or suicide when the pressures of fame became too great, etc. 

 

We know this, but so many of us seek the limelight anyway. We can handle it, we think. It won’t change who we are deep down. This is true for politicians, as well as singers and dancers. I myself am guilty—I write, not just because I love it, but because I crave even a tiny little bit of renown. Not for me the reclusive scribe life; Emily Dickinson, whose writings were mostly discovered after her death, pops to mind. Poor Em! She could have enjoyed making the late night talk-show rounds! Or how about Keats, Melville, Plath, Orwell, Thoreau? None of them were much recognized in life—were they around today, I’m sure they’d have been just tickled to make the New York Times bestseller list (though it’s unlikely they’d unseat Colleen Hoover). Do I wish I was Colleen Hoover? I think she’s a mediocre writer, and I’m also extremely jealous of her rocket-ship to fortune from her self-published beginnings.

 

So of COURSE I wish I was Colleen Hoover! It’s all about the limelight! Dangers and brevity are OK by me if I can stand in that bright spot. I have several family members possessing talents that far eclipse mine—an actor/director husband, an artist sister, two composers (son and daughter-in-law). I marvel at their modesty, and wish I too was a fraction as humble.

 

But not as much as I wish I was Colleen Hoover. 

Or Meryl Streep. 

Sigh.