Cancelling My Plans

Yay?

 “Snow Day!!” I recall my reaction to those words back in my childhood. As I heard the school closing number of my district come up on the radio (remember those?), I’d rejoice. A day to loll about in jammies, drinking hot cocoa! To cavort in the brisk, snow-blanketed outdoors, sledding and skating and building many a jolly snowperson! Curl up with a good book! Bake cookies! Oh, mine were grand plans!

 

But that excitement rapidly devolved into crashing boredom. Too cold to go outside, for cavorting or any other purposes, no cocoa and no cookie fixings in the pantry. By 1 PM, as I sat tuned to “As The World Turns” while idly scanning yet another tabloid tale about Liz Taylor’s wedding #12, I was yearning for the lively school days of diagramming sentences and winning spelling bees. Even being picked last for kickball was suddenly appealing. 

 

I grew into a conflicted adult, who delighted in a full calendar of coming events, but delighted even more when she could cross those events off that calendar, unattended. That downtown concert I’d so eagerly anticipated? Traffic! Parking issues! Crowded venue! Sitting next to a cougher! BEING that cougher! So stressful, and such a huge relief when the featured artist had to cancel! Oh, joy—now I could sit around all evening doing…absolutely nothing. Yawn. Wish I was at a concert or something!

 

At work, I envied stay at home moms no end—until I spent any time as one. Answering to a boss? Or catering to Boss Baby? Much as I loved my kiddos (and, often, my job) it was a rare day when I could honestly say that I didn’t wish I was elsewhere. 

 

And now I have at last reached the advanced age where I have automatic permission to flake out on plans. Disco dancing (is that still a thing?) is a giant NO for me, ditto anything involving physical activity of any kind, including stairs. I used to tsk-tsk to see Steve’s mom dozing off in her recliner; these days, I long to be a recliner-bound snoozer myself. And I could get away with it now, because at age 69, I believe I’ve earned the right to be completely idle. When I hear of senior cruises and lecture series and Zumba classes, I think: “You busy busy old people are spoiling retirement for the rest of us! Slow down, for Heaven’s sake, and take a nap!”

 

But then I get my wish, and, as my family bustles off and I am left alone in the peace and quiet, all I want is to run after their car and beg to go along. 

 

There must be a way to live serenely in the present moment, content with whatever is on my docket. I think about this during my daily meditation time, when I’m supposed to not be thinking at all, I think.  

 

Meanwhile, on this January snow day, the grass is still greener. 

 

Or whiter, as the case may be.

I gotta get out of here!

Fear of Falling

Sister Mo and me--safe in our playpen!

My youngest grandson, Dimitri, is 16 months old. His daily routine involves climbing anything and everything, and falling down at least as often as he succeeds. I realize baby tumbles are most often not as serious as they look (witness Mitri bouncing happily back up within nanoseconds of a flop). But it’s still pretty impressive, that physical agility and resilience.  

I don’t remember being 16 months old myself, of course. But I do clearly recall every significant fall of my youth--down Grandma Berrigan’s basement stairs, out of the apple tree in our Ardsley, NY backyard, getting knocked down by New Jersey shore ocean waves multiple times. In 9^th grade, trying to walk downhill to high school one morning and hitting a patch of black ice—painful wipeout leading to a chiropractor. 

 

As I aged, my athletic prowess never progressed much. For example, I didn’t learn to catch a thrown ball until I was in a play in my early 20s, and had to do it as part of the show. In the “staying upright” department, I didn’t fare much better. Exhibit A: my famous “Wizard of Oz” onstage incident when Dorothy (moi) fell on the Yellow Brick Road and broke her wrist. 

 

Expectant mothers in their last trimesters tend to have the grace of elephants (which is patently unfair to elephants). Our center of gravity has majorly shifted, and also we cannot see our feet. I took some slips over my five pregnancies, but was always careful to shield my child-filled tummy from contact with the floor. When I was expecting Julie (#5), I was cleaning the shower stall and lost my balance. Stomach safe, but tailbone cracked. 

 

All of which leads me to my current situation. I am 69 years old, and I have become TERRIFIED of falling. Back in the day, my mom fell and broke her hip—and died exactly one year later. Need I say more? Seriously, though, my phobia is really out of control. My hiking days (not that there were many of those) are definitely over. I take the stairs in the house as slowly and gingerly as a 100 year old. I envision my collection of bones as super-brittle, ready to shatter at the mere mention of slippage.  I live with six other family members, or I’d be on the phone today, purchasing a Life Alert device. Somehow my hubby, at 76, is still as spry as a mountain goat. 

 

What to do? Well, I stopped wearing high heels 15 years ago, so that’s a tiny help. Otherwise? I don’t yet use a walker, and installing one of those stairlift thingies may be a tad premature. Unfortunately, the way I solved my night-driving issues (I just stopped driving after dark entirely) is not practical in this instance. 

 

I guess I could decide that I’m better off never walking again, and conduct the remainder of my life from the safety of my comfy chair. But that’d be a bit ridiculous. 

 

Wouldn’t it be?

How Public Was My Domain!

the Boopster herself!

I can’t speak for my fellow scribes, but for me, the list of masterworks that have entered the public domain as of January 1^st is very exciting! For decades now, I’ve longed to publish spoofs of The Secret of the Old Clock (the first Nancy Drew mystery), the WWI classic All Quiet on the Western Front, and Leroy Anderson’s bouncy “Sleigh Ride." Now I can, and it’s all perfectly legal!! 

 

My only question is—do I tackle the gems separately, or together? One by one would make the most sense. So, of course, I vote for a mashup. What do you think of:

 

Our Town is (the dance, also the city) Charleston

 

Betty Boop stars in this touching drama of an unflappable young flapper and her love interest, struggling Hungarian composer Bela Bartok, dreaming of fame and fortune in a small New England town located in coastal South Carolina. Buster Keaton plays the Stage Manager.

 

No? 

 

Then how about:

 

I’m Just Wild about Winston (Subtitle: The Man Who Never Gave In. Never, Never Never)

 

Thrilling musical biopic about Churchill, directed by Frank Capra. Original score by Ira and George Gershwin includes such tuneful tunes as “Embraceable Statesman” and “I’ve Got a Crush on the British Empire.” Toe-tapping history at its finest.

 

Or maybe…

 

The Little Engine that Could Commit Murder in the Vicarage.

 

The unlikely creative pairing of Watty Piper and Agatha Christie have inspired me to come up with the best children’s book of the year. Tiny tots everywhere will delight as the scrappy little train repeats, over and over and over, “I think I can!” while plotting the demise of unpopular village magistrate Colonel Protheroe. Can the engine do it? You’ll learn the answer tonight at bedtime!

 

There are, to be sure, still lots of juicy works that aren’t yet fair game. “Achy Breaky Heart,” for example. From Justin to Kelly. The entire Colleen Hoover oeuvre. I’ll need to wait a spell to mock Ben Affleck’s “Gigli” and the earwormy song “Baby Shark” (but seriously, aren’t they both self-parodies anyway?)

 

However, I take solace from the fact that I can, with impunity, pilfer the entire canons of Shakespeare and Sophocles, movie classics such as The Saphead and Our Modern Maidens, and the 1929 song “Turn On the Heat," with my VERY favorite lyrics “If you are good/my little radiator/it’s understood/you’ll get a gumdrop later.” How clever!

 

While I chafe at the restrictions on using recent copyrighted works, I’m certainly glad they apply to my own writings. I’d be furious if, say, some lazy imitator played around with my wonderful op-ed for The Independent, “Kim Kardashian and Pete Davidson Are Over--Or Are They?” I mean, talk about evergreen stuff! 

 

Lately, some of my writer friends are discovering that their pieces are being used (without permission) to train A.I. I hurriedly Googled my own essays and guess what? NO one is using anything!!!! 

 

Hey! What’s the matter with MY work, Chat GPT? Not good enough to pirate?

 

I’m insulted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!