My Day in Esrever (Reverse)

photo by pap on freeimages

Wow. I thought I was “hep” to all the cutting-edge anti-aging tips and tricks. You know: lots of greasy food, no exercise, tons of pancake makeup, zero nighttime sleep. 

Sorry. That’s the President’s routine. My bad.

 

How about: Mediterranean diet, mindfulness meditation, 3-3-3 workout schedule (3 strength training, 3 cardio, 3 rest), devil’s horn hand gesture when passing McDonald’s?

 

More like it.

 

But now along comes the latest longevity hack. To wit: every night, try to remember your day backwards for two minutes. 

 

Piece of cake, right?

 

Not so fast.

 

I gave this a whirl yesterday. Here’s what I recall:

 

Went to sleep.

Turned off light.

Used bathroom (this would recur several times through the night).

Re-read last page of current book.

Read Buzzfeed’s listicle of “26 to watch in ’26.”

Checked phone for critical messages. 

Failed.

Tried to recall yesterday’s last-read page of current book. 

Got into bed with current book.

Noticed sore knees and windedness.

Climbed stairs.

 

Aaaand, that’s all I’ve got.

 

I know there was dinner in there somewhere (prepping, consuming), interacting with family (how was your day? Somebody? Anybody?), closing up shop in my office (blog can wait till tomorrow. Yawn. Or the next day), and looking out the window to confirm that it is a) too dark and b) too cold to take a walk. 

 

But meaningful convos? Memorable actions? 

 

No clue.

 

Listen, this is supposed to be a POSITIVE AND SUPPORTIVE ACTIVITY.

OK, so “reverse remembering” doesn’t fly with me. How about:

 

Sideways recall? You know: I ate pizza—I shouldn’t eat so much pizza—pizza is fattening—I first ate pizza in Ardsley, NY when I was 8—when I was 8 I hadn’t eaten McDonald’s yet, either—I must’ve been one healthy kid!—wait, I had TV dinners every night and Nestle’s Quik for breakfast—never mind.

 

That has some promise, but still.

 

The bottom line is, I want to live forever, with no effort whatsoever, and I spend inordinate amounts of time researching ways for that to be possible. Many precious hours I could be spending learning Navajo, or studying quantum physics, or slathering my face with soybean milk (I met someone in Vietnam who does just that! She is 70 and looks 40!) 

 

Maybe I’m approaching this idea wrong. 

 

What if, instead of remembering backwards, I actually lived my LIFE backwards?

 

Collect Social Security.

Have five kids.

Get married.

Graduate from high school.

Meet Steve.

Not do my homework or study for tests.

Watch TV until my eyeballs fall out.

Eat TV dinners (while watching TV).

Graduate from elementary school.

Learn to read (my current book, or Run, Spot, Run).

“Forget” to brush my teeth.

Stomp my feet and cry at bedtime.

 

And so forth.

 

Where was I?

 

Ah yes.

 

Remembering my day backwards.

 

You know what? No.

 

I’ll just remember it forwards, thank you very much.

 

MUCH easier.

 

Let’s see. I woke up, and…

 

Um…

 

Give me a minute.

 

I’ve come to a conclusion.

 

Living forever is really overrated.

Back to the stroller? No way!

Confessions of an Ultracrepidarian

When I learned the word “ultracrepidarian” and its definition (one who attempts to speak knowledgeably about things they don’t really know/understand) I felt a shock of recognition. So THAT’S what I am! At least sometimes. Prime example: when I first saw this word, I began to bloviate about “ultaCRAParian” and how apt a word it was. Crap? Get it? Of course, I was so wrong. It actually traces its origin to Pliny the Elder's adaptation of the retort that the Greek painter Apelles made to a cobbler who was critiquing Apelles' work, “nē suprā crepidam sūtor jūdicāre” (“let the cobbler not judge above the sandal.”) Yet another example of my pole-vaulting over the truth in service of a simplistic explanation. How…ultracrepidarian of me!!

Looking back, I think I began my career as a mental over-reacher at home, during my weird childhood. There was a period of YEARS when I argued regularly with my dad about the Vietnam War; mind you, neither of us had skin in that game, and all I knew I gleaned from half-listening to Uncle Walter (Cronkite) on TV. But Dad would climb upon his hobbyhorse and I on mine, and we’d rehash the same dubious talking points, over and over. I fancied myself quite the sharp debater (until I participated in an actual debate, that is. Who knew you needed FACTS to back you up?)

 

Later, I feigned expertise in the following areas: 

Art

Music

Theatre

Science

History

Parenting

 

Oh, I always talked a good game, and 90% of the time I convinced my audience (or at least I bored them enough to just start nodding in quasi-agreement, to get the exchange over with). The others proved intractable—but who needed them, anyway? I would scurry back to my rapt cheering section, those who applauded my arguable arguments and conclusions.

 

My sweet hub has undoubtedly found ample cause to refute some of my commentary, but he’s much too nice to contradict me (at least in public). My children are another story. Even before the internet, they could (and did) correct me when I strayed from the path of verity. And now? With the sum total of the world’s brilliance in those shrunken computers we call phones?? Fuggedaboudit! I am debunked before I even have a chance to bunk! 

 

So, to set the record straight:

 

*Mussels and clams that do not open when cooked can still be fully cooked and safe to eat (who knew? Not me!)

*Michelangelo was standing, not lying down, when he painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling (wait, what?)

*“Irregardless” IS a legit word (horrors!)

*Listening to classical music (esp. Mozart) does NOT boost your IQ (it just burnishes your image as a classy sort of person).

 

As I set sail on the good ship 2026, I vow to do my homework, and stop shooting my mouth off. I don’t need to pretend I am an expert on nuclear fission and Taylor Swift’s romantic history. 

 

I can just ask my 9-year-old grandson.

SUCH a romantic history!

Traditionally

Books galore!
photo by Sirius Harrison on Unsplash

Having just completed the merry celebration of my birthday yesterday (and I won’t tell you which one it was, but here’s a hint: next year is three score and ten for me), I’m turning my attention to Christmas Eve. The Day itself is sorted pretty well, a fantasia of food and unwrapping gifts and gathered loved ones. But the Night Before? We go to churches, plural--you read that right, three churches to be precise: the one where Sheridan works, the one where Ya-Jhu works, and the one where I used to work. Supper happens when/if it happens, and it can be rather sketchy, though last year our wonderful son-in-law Gil cooked us a delicious Israeli dinner. 

I’ve had some fun learning about international Christmas Eve traditions, though I don’t plan on doing any of these, at least not literal recreations. But with a little tweaking, maybe we Seyfrieds could embrace:

 

Find the Pickle (Germany): Those daffy Germans hide a pickle ornament on the Christmas tree, and whoever finds it gets a prize, or good luck for the new year. We’re fresh out of pickle tree ornaments, but there is a jar of cornichons in the pantry, so I may festoon our branches with these tiny gherkins. That would be festive, with the bonus of making our living room smell like the corner deli.

 

Christmas Book Flood (Iceland): Then there’s the Jólabókaflóðið; I invite you to say THAT ten times fast. Icelandic revelers gift each other new books on Christmas Eve, and they all cuddle up and read together. I can picture us doing likewise, from Nana on her Kindle, down to little Dimitri with board books he will either throw (perhaps at the Christmas tree pickles), or try to eat (like the Christmas tree pickles themselves). We might make it to five whole minutes of literary bliss before attention wanes!

 

Peace Apples (China): I love this one. It consists of giving and eating apples (which are often elaborately wrapped, and even carved with symbols for “Love”, “Joy” etc.) To simplify, I can just head to Acme, buy a couple pounds of Honeycrisps (on sale this week), stick ‘em in food storage bags and—voila! I can just see the Love and Joy on the kids’ faces now! 

 

Feast of the Seven Fishes (Italy): I actually attempted this culinary challenge years ago, and it was as pricey and time-consuming, as it was unappreciated by my little ones. But now I know better! Here’s my thought for a seven fishes lineup: can of sardines, can of tuna, can of anchovies, can of herring, etc. This has the virtue of being relatively cheap, and also something we can re-gift to Pat and Ashlyn’s cat Atticus if need be!

 

From Wales (Mari Lwyd, where people went from house to house singing and carrying a horse’s skull--really) to Japan (they traditionally eat KFC--really) the world is full of replicable Yuletide rituals. Which one will my gang try this year?

 

Watch this space.

Japanese KFC
photo by Alan Wang on Pexels

Drafty

I’m not one for drafts (weather-related ones and written ones both). To me, they have the same effect. Chilling. Going back, painstakingly, over (and over) an essay would be hellish; truth be told, I’m not that enamored of my work the first time I write it, much less during a second or third version. I vastly prefer to dash off a piece of writing, going back to change it only for egregious grammar mistakes. I NEVER keep copies of my WIPs (works in progress)—they are either promptly completed and sent off to an editor, or deleted. 

Please don’t assume this is a brag. I understand it’s probably a character flaw. It’s easy for me to hide behind my ADHD diagnosis, but it could be I’m just lazy. I rarely re-watch movies or plays, or re-read books (save for a precious few) for the same reason. As soon as I begin Take Two, my internal boredom-o-meter starts running. “Oh, yeah, I remember now. She’s really a resistance fighter disguised as a cloistered nun, and her brother is the high-wire walker who saves the town’s baguette supply by carrying them over the burning bakery. Yada yada.” 

 

I just realized—this may be why I am so enamored of the work of the young Japanese sculptor Tomohiro Inaba. Why I go back and look at his fascinating creations again and again, finding them dynamic and new with each viewing. To the unfamiliar, Inaba makes iron sculptures, many of them animals, with a twist: each one progresses from a tightly crafted likeness, to metal squiggles that seem to fade away into space. I am positive that Inaba works diligently and at length on these masterpieces, but to me their charm is their impression of an energetic first draft. A precisely-rendered head of a deer, followed by a body that isn’t a body at all, but random wiggly metal lines. It’s as if Inaba gets to a certain point, and then says, “and so forth and so on,” leaving the viewer to fill in the blanks. Yes! My kind of creator! 

 

Art critics rave about Tomohiro’s work, extolling the virtues of his use of “negative space.” And I’m sure they’re right, that his are very thoughtful artistic choices which breathe life into otherwise rigid statues. But for me, they resemble an ebullient child’s crayon drawings: created quickly (first draft!), leaving Mommy to intuit the subject matter. A balloon? No. A spaceship? No? It’s your baby brother? Of course! Mommy engages with her tot’s artistic vision in a way that she never could with a finished picture.

 

So maybe there’s a method to my slapdash approach.  My linguistic scribble-scrabble is intentional! My single drafts have a refreshing spontaneity! You can endlessly revisit my stories because YOU are a co-creator of them. 

 

I wouldn’t dream of disturbing this lovely reader-writer dance by revising my stuff! We’re partners, you and I!

 

And if you decide that I’m writing about a baby balloon in space? 

Sure.

isn't this COOL?

The Time Travelers

Hanoi rush hour

Steve and I are home from our epic Southeast Asia adventure! 

At least, I think we are. 

 

We got home on a Friday (Thursday? Saturday?)

 

While many details of this trip remain with me (like hand-feeding bunches of bananas to a hangry elephant), the time frame remains infuriatingly elastic. Intellectually, I was aware that we would be traversing many time zones and the international date line to boot, but physically/emotionally I was blindsided. “Spring ahead, fall back” is bad enough—try losing, then gaining, entire days! 

 

The airline made something of an effort to acclimate us, turning off all the cabin lights and closing the window shades to mimic night, then later serving up some congee—Chinese rice porridge--to encourage us to rise and shine. But it was still a shock to the system, especially our return voyage. I mean, I’m generally eager to put my past day in the rearview mirror (all those pesky missteps of mine!) anyway, and cross fingers for a better morrow. Well, presto! I got my wish while flying east to west across the Pacific Ocean. We embarked from JFK at 1 AM on a Wednesday, and landed, 17 hours later, in Vietnam--which would normally have been still Wednesday, but was instead Thursday. Who needed Wednesday anyway, right? 

 

En route home it felt even weirder—we literally got to experience Friday, November 28^th twice! Luckily, we were airborne the first go-round, and passed out from jet lag most of the second (so maybe we never experienced Friday, November 28^th at all?) And Thanksgiving this year fell by the wayside entirely. Our Turkey Day repast centered on gua bao (steamed buns with pork belly).

 

The whole thing is very Twilight Zone-ish, and I marvel at those who can blithely criss-cross the date line on a regular basis. For me, my body clock was totally screwed up for days and days; this restless sleeper/3 AM riser morphed into a world-class snoozer who was only AWAKE a few hours a day. Steve fared a bit better, but as a whole, our abode embodied the name of the hotel we stayed at in Thailand (it was called, kid-you-not, “Sleepy House”).

 

Thinking of it more, the fact that our calendar is all a-jumble makes perfect sense. Our Asia experience was jam-packed with the exotic and new. Cars there are few and far between (bikes and motorbikes RULE), traffic lights are unusual, and at the Thailand/Myanmar border you have to switch from left-side to right-side of the road driving! The three countries we visited used three quite different spoken languages, but also three distinctive sets of written characters. And when hunger strikes, what beats a hot bowl of noodle soup? In Taipei that would be “niu rou mian," in Chiang Rai it would likely be “khao soi”, and in Hanoi it would, of course, be "phở "(which is also the Vietnamese word for “street,” but that’s for another convo). 

 

On to Christmas decorating!  

Yawn.

And maybe another nap.

Thailand is adorable