Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Got Your Back


 
Today's choice! Will add backs!


I’m not a big jewelry wearer, but I do love my pierced earrings. There is a small china tray on my dresser holding favorite pairs, and many more reside in a jewelry box. I have little gold earrings with my zodiac sign on them that I have had since my ears were first pierced as a young teen. My most recent pair I was given on Sunday by Julie, who bought them in Tel Aviv. Hammered silver, jade, Chinese coins, drop earrings, hoop earrings and pearl studs: my earring collection evokes memories of the places I’ve traveled, the wonderful people who have gifted me with them.

So losing several individual earrings within the past few months has been deeply distressing. In every case, the fault was my own—I neglected to attach a metal or plastic back to the earring, and it slipped off at some point in my day. The most recent casualty was one of my typewriter key earrings (letter E). I’ve had these for eons and they are true favorites. They’ve been sort of “good vibe” charm—I’ve worn them on Thursdays, my day off and my dedicated writing day. It’s goofy, but wearing them I have felt writerly and productive.  And now, one of them is gone. I have held out hope of recovery (under a chair? In the car?) but as the days pass with no sighting, that hope is dimming.

All by its lonesome


I’m just really annoyed with myself for not safeguarding my accessories better. It takes five seconds to secure the earring back—so why am I neglecting to do that? Am I that lazy, that the act of putting on a vital part of my jewelry selection is one exertion too many? I don’t want to read too much into this, but is it symptomatic of a deeper problem? I am restraining myself from Googling “early onset Alzheimer’s.” What if searching the Shop N Bag parking lot for a lost bauble is the gateway to putting my shoes in the refrigerator and the tomatoes in the washing machine?

After my initial panic and sorrow over these earbob losses, I always end up consoling myself: it’s just stuff, stuff I can most likely re-buy if I want to badly enough. In the present case, I am pretty sure that there is another pair of “E” typewriter key earrings in the universe. And if I purchase them, I will have three! A pair and a spare!

Meanwhile, tomorrow is Thursday, and I will be sitting down at the computer without wearing my magic inspirational earrings. Will I attempt an essay, only to produce pages of gibberish? Should I skip writing entirely until my earlobes are appropriately attired again?

No! I will wear a different set of earrings and I will STILL be able to compose something decent! I will overcome my silly hang-up and forge ahead!


But, dear whichever-earrings-I-select for Thursdays (and every day), I promise you, from now on: I’ve got your backs.


Thursday, May 31, 2018

Labeled


The Ideal Nametag

Thanks to my job, and my membership in various organizations, I regularly sport nametags or other labels. On different occasions, I represent our Lutheran synod, the Naval Academy Parents Association, The American Society of Journalists and Authors.  Sometimes my name is preprinted; other times I am given a marker and the freedom to self-identify. Depending on the circumstances, I tag myself as Elise, Elise Seyfried or Mrs. S (the latter for my younger students, for whom “Seyfried” is just too high a linguistic mountain to climb). Sometimes I wear an adhesive label, which I invariably forget to remove after the activity ends. Why just yesterday, several weeks after our primary election, I walked around all day sporting an “I Voted” sticker on my shirt, which gave the viewer two impressions: 1) I am inordinately proud of having cast a ballot at some time in the past, and 2) I wear my shirts twice without washing them.

A few of my labels

Long, long ago, I held various positions in the kids’ school PTA, including Head of Room Mothers, Fundraising Chair and Assembly Coordinator. I do not recall specific badges for these jobs; however, I do remember being inadvertently labeled prior to an address I once made to the entire parent-teacher organization at Fitzwater Elementary. As I approached the podium, there was a wave of laughter and applause—which would have been fine had I’d said anything ovation-worthy. It was not until (much) later that I discovered the source of the humor: one of my children had festooned the back of my shorts with huge Disney Princess stickers. Ask not for whom the clappers clap; they clap for Ariel and Belle.

Nowadays, I am labeled by my appearance. Each wrinkle and gray hair confirms my membership in the Baby Boom generation. I am also labeled as a white woman, which allots me certain privileges my sisters of color do not have in this country. When I open my mouth, my accent gives me away as a daughter of New York City (try as I vainly did to neutralize it during my acting career).

I have very mixed feelings about labels. In an ideal world, our uniqueness would render any labels unnecessary—how big would a label absolutely defining you have to be? Wouldn’t “Human Being” do the trick? I must say it is sometimes nice to be part of various groups of folks with like interests and passions. However, in this current, ΓΌber-polarized climate, labels bear risks. I could certainly be called a liberal Democrat, for example, but do I really want to be jeered at as a “libtard democrap?” No, thank you!

As I prepare for the next church event, I pull out a huge roll of blank name tags. Some of these will be filled in so sloppily that they’ll be useless for ID purposes (Jane Smf? Bill Derlllllgg?) But I hope to see another label similar to one a little child wrote this winter.


 Instead of his name, he simply drew a heart.


Thursday, May 24, 2018

Eataly

Tripe Sandwich! Several meals on a bun!
Viva Cicchetti!

From photos of our recent trip to Italy, the casual observer might conclude that Steve and I did absolutely nothing but eat. But that is not (strictly) true.

We took lots of pix of various art treasures in Rome and Florence. Our usual museum habit is to notice, not just David, and The Pieta, and The Birth of Venus, but also some of the weirder artistic offerings of eras gone by. Therefore, we have in our collection of photographs a bizarre painting of children put into a pickle barrel, an Adoration of the Magi that includes the art patron who had commissioned the work, standing around adoring Baby Jesus. There were the MANY arrows sticking out of poor Saint Sebastian, and the large but placid lion curled up at the feet of Saint Jerome. We traipsed from one gallery to the next, until it was all a blur of oil on canvas. But my point is—these photos prove that there were distinct moments between meals!

We also lit candles in cathedrals, attended classical concerts, climbed towers in Lucca and rode in vaporetti (water buses) in Venice. At no time during these various activities were we eating!

However, most of the rest of the time, we were.

I thought I did not adore Italian cuisine, largely because I have a thing about tomato sauce coating everything. I’ve consumed way too many sub-par pizzas and mushy bowls of linguine in the US. Indeed, before the trip, I wondered how our meals would stack up compared to what we had consumed in Barcelona and Paris on our last journey together.

Well, pictures, as they say, don’t lie. For every one snapshot of an historic building or beautiful garden, we have five of us stuffing our faces.  Spicy tripe sandwiches from a street cart! Cicchetti (the Venetian equivalent of tapas) featuring scallops in their shells, robiola cheese and fig jam on toast, and huge, succulent marinated prawns! Salami and other cured meats drizzled with local honey! Lucca’s specialty, ravioli in browned sage butter! And the gelati! No matter how full we were, we always made room for several scoops of stracciatella, panna cotta, zabaglione and darkest chocolate flavors of frozen awesomeness. 

We couldn’t bring much home in the food department, alas…not much more than some amazing biscotti from the bakery next to our Airbnb in Florence. But perhaps that is just as well…we aren’t getting nearly the amount of exercise that we did abroad, to burn those calories (I went from walking nine miles every day, right back to my old, slothful, four block drive to work).

I almost dread my next visit to an Italian restaurant stateside, because I know it couldn’t possibly compare. Which means, of course, we have to go back! Let’s see, if I stick to yogurt for the next year or two, I might be ready to tackle another incredible, candied orange-studded cannoli from Paticceria Ballarin…


Not that we remember the food in Italy most. Not at all.


Ho-hum. Another inedible meal in Rome:-)