Pebbling

  

Our culture stresses that it’s the grand gestures that really prove love (especially romantic love). I mean, would The Bachelor woo and win his prize by rolling up in a rusty 1997 Toyota Corolla, then splitting the cost of a Mickey D’s Extra Value meal? I think not! I remember the days when marriage proposals were not professionally filmed (for us, it was a gradual, “well, I guess we’re getting married…”), and wedding price tags didn’t rival a four-year Ivy League degree. Nowadays, if a teen wants a chance to score a date for the school dance, they’ll need to hire a mariachi band, secure a billboard in Times Square, and rent an airplane to fly a clever “promposal” banner over Miami Beach. The stakes are high, high, high!

 

And yet…it’s actually the little things, the tiny, under-the-radar thoughtfulnesses, that matter most. This goes for friendship, as well as courtship. For example, Steve’s endearing habit of bringing me a first cup of morning coffee in bed for the past 48 years, reminds me daily that I am loved. The cherished friends who reach out to me every year on the anniversary of my sister Mo’s death without fail, who remember my favorite songs, who read my books and essays. This stuff is priceless. 

 

Turns out, there’s a new term for all of this: pebbling. Huh? 

 

Scientists have been observing the behavior of Adélie and Gentoo penguins. These dapper denizens of Antarctica are known to give gifts of small, smooth stones to one another, to facilitate the building of nests. “Here!” one penguin offers another (in fluent Penguinese) “Have a pebble! Have two!” And so, together, they fashion, not just homes for future offspring, but a relationship as well. 

 

“Pebbling” in the human world now refers to any small, kind gestures that show we care for one another. For some, pebbling just comes naturally: those hand-writers of thank you notes, those givers of unscented candles (because they remember their friend hates scented ones), those bakers of someone’s favorite cookies. Others struggle to pebble (myself included). We are the bumbling buddies who send belated thank you texts; we’re the givers of ultra-fragrant “Tropical Gardenia Garden” candles to the possibly allergic recipient, and the bakers of oatmeal raisin cookies for the neighbor who likely enjoys neither oats nor raisins. 

 

For all of us, “pebbling” symbolizes making an effort, and reminds us that those efforts don’t have to be big, to count. I’m delighted that this simple message is gaining traction. Whatever the size of our bank accounts, we can be thoughtful and generous. We don’t need to gift friends and sweethearts with first-class tickets to Paris (although I personally would not be offended by this gesture! Just saying!) We can show up in each others’ lives with cups of coffee, or herbs from the garden, or emailed links to articles of interest. 

 

Let’s be like those wise waddlers Adélie and Gentoo.

 

Let’s pebble.**

**Note: giving of actual pebbles not recommended. Unless you’re a penguin.

Seasons of Blog (700th Post Today!)

 

350,000 words I have written, it's

700 mini-essays counting today

They’re not all winners, but I’m still kinda proud that

I’ve had so much on many subjects to say…

 

And that, my friends, is where my lame riff on Rent’s signature song “Seasons of Love” mercifully ends. You can stop putting my lyrics to the tune in your heads now. 

 

There aren’t many other things I’ve accomplished 700 times. Brushing teeth, I guess (at least! At least!) Cooking dinners. Telling my dear children “I love you” and “I’m not your maid." It’s a pretty short list. 

 

It's hard to believe now, but I was SUCH a quitter, back in the day. You name the sport, I quickly ditched it. Diets galore. Running challenges aplenty. My ADHD accounts for some of this, I’m sure. Daily Bible reading/meditation/tai chi? Boorrring! And for a long while I got away with doing very little, because we moved so many times in my youth (4 elementary schools! 3 high schools!) Who was going to follow up when I never turned in the summer reading book report (I’d decamped from NY to Georgia by then)?

 

It wasn’t until committing to having, and then raising, kids, that I came face-to-face with something I couldn’t easily quit. It’s good that young parents-to-be rarely calculate what’s actually involved (“525,600 Diapers,” also known as "Seasons of Poo”), or we’d be at Population Zero. But seriously, momhood gave me confidence that I was capable of following through on something meaningful.

 

It was like flipping a motivational switch. Now, I was compulsively continuing various streaks: Years as a room mother! Decades as a church worker! When I launched “Working Title” in November, 2011, it was with my clear expectation that I would thence blog until croaking, readers or no. Indeed, I envision myself on my deathbed someday, planning a post and wheezing, “Somebody plug in my computer!” (or whatever futuristic device we writers are hunting and pecking on at that point). It’ll be just my luck that my grief-stricken offspring will hear (and honor) my request as “Somebody unplug my ventilator!” 

 

There’s an innate optimism underpinning my ongoing scribbling. I write to leave something behind for the world. I don’t delude myself that my work will ever be taught at Yale, but maybe a random reader one distant day will stumble upon an essay of mine and think, “Seyfried. Hmm. I wonder if she was related to Amanda.” I can only hope.

 

700 weeks from now, we’ll be heralding December, 2038. Several of my kids will be in their fifties. So will Amanda Seyfried. There will be many more new things to experience and think about, and write about. Lord knows (Lord does know, right?) where--or even if--if I’ll be then. But in any event, my somewhat prodigious literary output--blog included--will hopefully survive, to inspire, amuse and/or have no effect at all on generations to come. 

 

That is, if I can just remember to back up my files. 

Me, circa 2011, at an early book signing. Your cue: "You haven't changed a bit!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Irish Exit

 

buh-bye! (photo by Dmitry Zlovolsky on Pexels)

 

 

I HATE goodbyes at the end of gatherings. For eons, I was trapped in the etiquette loop:

 

“Thanks for a lovely evening!” 

“You’re SO welcome.” 

“Dinner was delicious!”

“I’m glad. Not everyone likes pickled Brussels sprouts.”

 “You certainly made converts of us!”

“Thank YOU for bringing that delicate orchid plant!”

“We figured you’d be the only friends who could keep it alive!”

“We’ll do our best!”

“Make sure you feed it some pickled Brussels sprouts!”

“Of course…huh?”

“Joke!”

“Ah. Well, take care!” 

“You too!”

 

By now it’s after midnight and you still haven’t retrieved your coat. Surely this ritual is equally painful for host and guest, no?

 

So, I was delighted to learn about the Irish exit. This masterful approach to leave-taking involves a literal disappearing act. At some point, you just fade away, subtly slipping out the door. No prolonged farewells. No attenuated chitchat at the end of an already chitchat-full evening. Poof! You are suddenly gone, leaving behind a happy memory and a labor-intensive hostess gift.

 

Note: the Irish exit is only acceptable when you are not the sole guest…ideally, there are several folks in attendance, and you can gracefully ease your way out undetected. If it’s just you for dinner? Sorry, buddy, you’re stuck.

 

Why Irish? One theory is that, during the Great Potato Famine, many Irish had to emigrate to the US without time for proper farewells. Others point to the Irish resistance to showy displays of emotion, or to the stereotypical Irishman or gal who has had a bit too much to drink and just wants to get home. 

 

But it isn’t only Irish. This quick, silent adios is also known in England as “French leave,” in France as “English goodbye” and in Germany as “Polish exit.” In other words, it’s often used while throwing shade at another nationality. 

 

I confess that, in the past, I always made the effort to seek out my host/hostess, even at a crowded shindig. But nowadays I’m more and more inclined to twenty-three skidoo, rationalizing that no one will really miss me anyway, not with a mob also wending its way towards the vestibule. 

 

It’s going well so far. I’m learning to make like Casper and de-materialize when the witching hour strikes. The trick is to remember to grab your things before drifting off. A couple of times, I’ve had to shamefacedly ring the doorbell to retrieve my phone, car keys, snow boots, etc.  At that point, face-to-face with the party giver, there’s only one thing to do:

 

“Thanks so much for helping me find my wallet! I have no idea how it got into your dishwasher!”

“No worries! I didn’t even notice you had left!”

“Our sitter called. Gracie’s not feeling well.”

“Oh goodness! Hope your daughter feels better!”

“Um, it’s Gracie, our dog sitter.”

“I didn’t know you had a dog!”

“We’re planning ahead for when we get one.”

 

 

And so on, forever and ever, Amen. 

 

I’m learning to live without my snow boots. Not worth it.