Registering a Complaint

Suleika Jaouad is a wonderful author and artist, who has a terrific Substack, The Isolation Journals. Last week, along with Kate Bowler (another favorite of mine), Suleika wrote about the value of complaining. Both Jaouad and Bowler live with cancer, so I daresay those two are totally justified having a beef with the Universe. Complaining, they say, especially railing against something specific, focuses on what makes a daily difference. Is it worth complaining about, say, spilled milk? I’d say no. Just get some paper towels and clean it up. How about the horrible impulses that keep plunging mankind into wars? Of course, but that’s pretty broad.

Suleika and Kate suggest narrowing the scope of our gripes a bit, for maximum stress relief. So I decided to take a shot at it myself.

 

Helloooo, Universe?

 

Anybody there?

 

I’d like to register a complaint.

 

Oh, you’re just an assistant? Then can I speak to the manager, please?

 

She’s at lunch? It’s OK. I’ll wait.

 

Hello, Manager of the Universe? I have a bone or two to pick with you.

 

Why are certain jars and bottles IMPOSSIBLE TO OPEN? I’m talking those skinny glass jars of olives, those sealed-with-cement bottles of seltzer. Is this a joke on us consumers? Are manufacturers worried about the wrong person getting their hands on gherkins, and using them for nefarious purposes? In a birthday cake, maybe? 

 

I have told my computer (often, in vain), to stop inserting AI suggestions into my emails. I don't need Chat GPT to craft my response to a birthday party invitation. I can write “no gherkin cake, please” MYSELF.

 

Our car has an automatic feature that ever so briefly turns off the engine when you stop at a light, or are sitting in traffic for more than a nanosecond. I panic every single time, because I’m positive that the car has broken down. How much energy do you save with this fabulous innovation, anyway? It’s ridiculous. It’s…

 

Hold on.

 

My husband just told me there’s a button you can push on the side of the steering wheel, to disable the shutoff.

 

Never mind.

 

Why do I brush with an electronic toothbrush daily, and floss (periodically), and my dentist still scolds me? Have I missed the latest oral hygiene necessity? Do I need to use sunscreen on my choppers now, or furniture polish? They’re TEETH, for Heaven’s sake. Stop moving the goalposts!

 

And while I’m at it, I really don’t appreciate trying to peel the price sticker off a gift I’m giving, only to have a sticky messy residue remain on the box. Must I leave it on, alerting my recipient to the FINAL SALE cost of the item I’m bestowing?

 

Seriously, though…

 

With the world’s major problems looming ever larger these days, there’s something to be said for complaining about the petty annoyances too. By opening the valve on our inner pressure cookers ever so slightly, we can let off a little steam. And that’s good for everybody.

 

Kvetch on, my friends!

I mean, what are the pickle makers afraid of?
(photo by Polina Tarkilevitch on Pexels)

Why I Can't Just Relax

nope. still not relaxed

Right down there with the ever-flattering comment “You’d be prettier if you smiled” (to which I always want to respond, “Well, you’d be less of a jerk if you kept your mouth shut”), is a question far too often tossed my way: “Why can’t you just relax?” Instead of responding to my questioners one by one, I have decided to answer everybody at once, here and now.

Reason One: I am firmly convinced that my ultra tense super-vigilance is keeping, not only my family, but the whole world, safe. Mind you, this belief is demonstrably false, if you’ve asked my husband and kids, and if you’ve checked the news at any time during the 69 years I’ve been on the planet. Amazingly, my constantly clenched fists and grinding teeth did nothing to make middle school a lovely experience for my offspring, or secure that big film gig for Steve. My High Anxiety has not reversed climate change, ended a single war, or transformed our government into a functioning entity, either. But don’t confuse me with the facts! Let me remain just as I am, a firmly convinced nervous wreck.

 

Reason Two: I’ve TRIED to relax, believe me. Yoga, meditation, mani-pedis, cute kitten videos online--you name it, I’ve given it a whirl. But the relief never lasts long. The nail polish chips. The water in the bubble bath gets cold. And often, what works for others backfires completely with me. Case in point: I went for a massage a few months ago. I don’t love these as a rule, but for some reason was intrigued by the phrase “deep tissue massage” and asked the salon for one of those, please. Soothing, yes? No!! The sadistic massage therapist enthusiastically tore all my tissues (deep and shallow) apart, leaving me whimpering in pain and festooned with bruises. But I showed him. I only left a 30% tip. So there!

 

Reason Three: No one tells ME what to do. Oh, sure, relaxing would no doubt add years, if not decades, to my life, but I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of ordering me around! It’s for my own good, you say? What if I’d rather have things for my own bad? Here’s to freedom of choice!

 

Reason Four: Stress is my thing, my brand, my jam. You know how everyone knows Bobby McFerrin by his happiness and lack of worry? And Lady Gaga by her weird costumes (she certainly changed my view of porterhouse steak forever)? Well, if I had my own Wikipedia entry, the description of me would be all jagged and wiggly, with random **s and # signs and !! points, illustrating my essential nature. What would I be without my stress? I refuse to think about it.

 

If the past 457 words did not answer your question, maybe you should ask me a different one.

Like: why do you always interrupt people? 

Or: why can’t you ride a bike? 

Or: why are you so effortlessly glamorous?

 

Darned if I know.

ah! sweet mystery of life!

Easter Tuesday

painting by Anne Cameron Cutri

Not that I am an amazing, or even adequate, housekeeper, but I do sometimes think of Lent as a time of cleaning (myself) up before a BIG EVENT. My pattern is to start out with a bang, vacuuming up all those Ash Wednesday ashes, paying close attention to the neglected baseboards and ceiling-corner-cobwebs. As the days and weeks tick by, that first rush of energy and enthusiasm is replaced by The Half-Hearted Slog, where I decide to stop dusting altogether--no one will see the top of that bookcase anyway. The kitchen junk drawer I was so keen to organize, is now crammed with even more junk, from other random places in the house. My Lenten prayer practices shoved in a drawer too, un-practiced.

Holy Week is the final push, where my usual church attendance doubles, even triples. I sincerely hope this year I will emerge from this sacred season with a new closeness to God, a new confidence in my faith, a new resolve to tackle the world’s problems (which, btw, I am more excited to tackle that my own personal ones). This is the point in the metaphor where I do my whirling dervish thing, broom in one hand and glass cleaner in the other, madly prepping for Easter, in my home and heart. 

 

Good Friday is the day when I realize that, though I haven’t done nearly enough, it’s time to stop anyway. I’m as presentable as I’m going to be, and the doorbell is ringing. Death will come calling for me some day, as it does for everyone--even for Jesus. I sat in St. Peter’s Lafayette Hill on Friday night, at a beautiful service anchored by two pastors, and by music presented by Sheridan and Ya-Jhu, and their combined congregations’ choirs. At the conclusion, after one by one the candles had been extinguished, we left in darkened silence. I thought of my own mortality in the light of eternity, and I felt, not dread, but a profound sense of peace. 

 

Then came the liminal day (Holy Saturday) of waiting, followed by the Sunday joy of resurrection, of an empty tomb, of hope fulfilled. Yesterday, Easter Monday, was one final pause before the kids went back to school, before normal daily life resumed. 

 

But what about today? Is there such a thing as Easter Tuesday?

 

I believe there is. I think today is much like the Tuesday after Labor Day (for us, the first day of the new school year.) Just as every summer has disrupted our routines, and in some way changed us, so we wake up each Easter Tuesday as different people. Not perfect people; we still have our cobwebs and dust in the corners. But we’ve made it through another Lent, and, if we allow it to happen, we can keep at least some of our own “resurrection” going, on into the rest of our lives. We can hold onto some peace. And joy. And hope. 

 

So Happy Easter Tuesday. And Wednesday. And beyond.

Here's an arrangement by Sheridan, performed by Trio Barclay on their new album "Trinity."