Tuesday, April 29, 2025

Chicken Jockeys!

  




I’m a veteran children’s theatre performer, quite familiar with the tradition of audience participation. As Peter Pan, I urged my young viewers to clap their hands to keep Tinkerbell from dying (yeah, it is a little dark). But these were kids, for goodness’ sake!

 

I expected that adults would be able to watch a show with quiet enjoyment. To my surprise, even years ago, we noticed that some patrons of our dinner theatre performances seemed to forget they were not home watching The Odd Couple on TV. One night I nearly stepped in someone’s plate of cheesecake, deposited on the edge of the stage during Act II.

 

Of course, there have been a few cult favorites like Rocky Horror Picture Show, where folks dressed up as the movie’s characters, and recited the lines aloud. But mostly, one could attend a movie musical with no danger of one’s seatmate bursting into an off-key rendition of “Seasons of Love.” By and large, audience members left the performing to the professionals, and all was well.

 

What’s happening? At the movies, grownups act like fidgety five-year-olds. They idly scroll on their phones, they chit chat. Those who pay no attention make sure to destroy the concentration of those of us trying to focus. 

 

Things are not much better on Broadway. Here the financial stakes are much higher. A Hamilton ticket costs almost as much as a dozen eggs! Doesn’t seem to matter, though, even when a superstar like Patti LuPone stops the show to berate a rude patron. The offender looks around, shrugs, then resumes conversing. Inexplicably, there is always a universal standing ovation when the curtain comes down. Good play or dud, the crowd roars like they’re at a football game. This spectacle is less a sign of appreciation, and more an obnoxious lung exercise. 

 

There is a tendency to blame COVID for the sharp decline in public etiquette, but come on—we can’t just keep pinning EVERYTHING on the pandemic, can we? No, I think its likelier that it’s a combo of a shrinking attention span, and a growing sense of entitlement in our culture during the past few decades.

 

So it was with trepidation that I took Aiden and Peter to see A Minecraft Movie last week. I’d heard some lines might inspire a vocal response. I hoped those moments would be few. Instead, after the prizefight scene (chicken with baby zombie on its back vs. Jason Momoa) (don’t ask), one child took the glad cry of “chicken jockey!” as his cue to keep screaming it for the last 40 minutes of the film. Oh, he had his mom with him, but no attempt was made to shush him. Even as we exited, the cherub kept yelling “chicken jockey!” through the lobby and out the door. 

 

I sincerely hope that kid continued shrieking night and day, for the next week, driving his parents absolutely nuts, and that they finally saw the light. 

 

All’s fair in love, war, and teaching good manners. 






Tuesday, April 22, 2025

For the Plot

  

one of my precious few adventures--zip-lining in Costa Rica

As a writer (and reader), I’m much more intrigued by character development than clever plot twists. Even if the protagonist has been chased by a violent mob, and is clinging by fingernails to a 20th floor window ledge, I want to know more about what this terrifying predicament is doing to their psyche, than how/if they will be rescued. 

 

But even I acknowledge that something has to happen in the story (maybe several somethings), so I dutifully sprinkle a happening or two into my tales. 

 

So, it seems, it is with my own personal life. Stuff occurs, but there are long stretches when nothing much (at least nothing dramatic) does. I look back through my trusty planner and entire weeks feature the following notations: yoga (Wednesday), essay due to magazine (Friday). Maybe a dentist appointment or oil change for the car. What else of interest has transpired? No adventures great or small. Tried a new recipe maybe. Took a neighborhood walk. Nothing whatsoever that would inspire a breathless fan to turn the page (or even continue reading).

 

Recently I heard about a popular catchphrase, though, and it speaks to my current situation. The phrase? “For the plot” as in, do something, anything (learn to parasail, enroll in clown college) just because it’ll make your life more interesting. This also applies to the preferred attitude about unexpected calamities. Basement flooded? Goldfish go belly up? Accounts hacked? All good, because it’s all for the plot!

 

My next step, though, is to determine just what KIND of book I’m plotting here. Cozy mystery? Then I should adopt a cat, take up counted cross-stitch, and discover random bodies in the neighbor’s garden. Romance novel? A bit limited, as I remain happily married, but maybe I could set up a single friend with one of the many (haha) broodingly handsome men of my acquaintance, and then arrange for her to betray him, or be betrayed by him (whichever!) before their satisfying happily-ever-after. Madcap comedy? Joyriding in a “borrowed” country club golf cart, accidentally baking cookies with hot pepper flakes instead of chocolate chips, switching identities with one of my daughters (Wacky Wednesday), and so on.

 

This all sounds completely exhausting.

 

Here is a much more manageable version of my memoir:

 

Wake up, and spend the next two hours analyzing my dream about lizards and Luciano Pavarotti. Wash face, and brood about the new pimple on my nose. Think back on all my previous blemishes, starting at age 10. Drink my coffee, and ponder why anyone on earth ever thought Sanka was a good idea. Applaud myself for my impressive character development: I am phobic about reptilian opera singers, also weirdly obsessed with my skin flaws, and I think I’m a superior being just because I drink Starbucks—fascinating pages of self-examination, and I’ve done basically nothing!

 

So the next time someone tries to goad me into some ridiculous action “for the plot,” I’ll push them into a patch of poison ivy. 

 

For the plot, of course.



Moi as Bertha Blair the maid, in our plot-filled high school melodrama "Curse You, Jack Dalton"













Tuesday, April 15, 2025

The Empress of Ice Cream


Yaj and her boys eating ice cream in Taiwan


Let be be finale of seem/ The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.

                                  —Wallace Stevens


 

As a soi-disant essayist, I crank out my little 500-worders every week.  I don’t kid myself that any of these essayettes will someday resurface in any anthology, but I do go for diverting, sometimes humorous, occasionally enlightening pieces. Take this week’s topic: ice cream. My ambitious goal was to trace the history of the frozen treat, and end with my current obsession-- creating unusual flavors with my new ice cream maker. But as I began my research, I bumped smack into Anne Fadiman’s delightful essay collection which features—of course—a wonderful piece about ice cream’s history, and its place in her life. Oh well. 

 

So, those wishing to debate ice cream’s country of origin (Renaissance Italy? Ancient Greece?), and learn about famous fans (is it true that Thomas Jefferson’s “Louisiana Purchase” was actually a gallon of pralines n’ cream he bought down in NOLA's French Vanilla Quarter?) must look elsewhere. I will dial back my scope, and instead share just a personal reflection.

 

My earliest ice creamy memories include: 

 

The Good Humor truck, which in fine weather took up residence on Stuyvesant Oval in my Manhattan neighborhood. I loved the classic chocolate dipped ice cream bar; Mom inexplicably went for toasted almond (YUCK!) Fast forward to childhood summers at the Jersey Shore, and my serendipitous discovery of lemon custard ice cream. I adored it at first slurp, and assumed it would always be available to me. However, I would search for decades in vain for this elusive taste sensation. 

 

In 9th grade I went through a long stretch of not eating much of anything—except a daily pint of Neapolitan, which I’d buy and consume on the way home from high school. Heard of “ice cream headaches?” Mine were Olympic sized; the weeks would go by with only chicken broth and the occasional hard-boiled egg joining the Breyer’s as my total diet. When I finally came to my senses, I avoided ice cream for years, because it brought back memories of a dreadful time in my life.

 

I’m back in the fold now, thanks to our summer fave, King’s Ice Cream Shop in Lewes, DE, and occasional off-season forays into Ben-and-Jerryland. But I never tried making my own until very recently, and it’s been a game changer. The boys and I take turns coming up with ideas for flavors. The guys go for the classics, whereas Nana is lured by recipes for lavender-honey, orange-fig, saffron-rose and the like. 

 

It all came full circle when Peter requested...lemon custard! Suddenly I was eight years old, loving that little cup of citrusy heaven in a Point Pleasant, NJ, ice creamery. It tasted exactly as I remembered, completely delicious.

 

Wallace Stevens’ poem “The Emperor of Ice Cream” describes a wake, during which ice cream is being churned for the mourners. His point is that we should treasure the fleeting pleasures which make up our reality, before it’s too late. Sweet moments? Life is full of them, friends.

 

And that’s the scoop. 



photo by Hybrid Storytellers on Unsplash







 

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday, April 8, 2025

Going Once, Going Twice

  



First (and last?) time I saw Paris

 

I think it’s probably accurate to estimate that I have entered the fourth and final quarter of My Game of Life. So, with the finish line on the horizon, I’m evaluating my journeys—not just the trip from smooth to wrinkly skin, or the jaunt from childhood to grandmotherdom, either. I’m talking literal journeys—my travels in the world over the decades. Where have I been? Where am I going? (wait, I sound like James Stockdale! Remember his strange opener in the 1992 vice presidential debate: “Who am I? Why am I here?” Btw, poor Stockdale got a bum rap for what was most likely a pair of rhetoricals, not actual confusion. No, I know where I’ve traveled, and the list is not all that long.)

 

I have spent time in every state east of the Mississippi. Heading west, I’ve experienced Chicago and Minneapolis winter (surprise! Cold and snowy!), eaten Texas chili, Indian frybread tacos on a South Dakota reservation, and Dungeness crab on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. But while I have been to Hawaii and Alaska, I’ve never been to Idaho or Oklahoma. How will I feel on my deathbed, realizing it’s too late to do anything in Vegas that would stay in Vegas?

 

Similar gaps appear abroad. I’ve only been to two of the seven continents. Narrowing focus to Europe, my sad total is nine countries. At this point, while we do have an Asia trek on the calendar and, very optimistically, Africa in 2027 (Morocco for our 50th anniversary), I most likely will never see the pyramids, or penguins in the wild. Even if health and moolah hold out, there is just too much planet and not enough time.

 

Among my friends are some true world travelers, whose country tally runs to 30 or more. Usually, they experience a place once, and well, and then move along to another. These are the same annoyingly perfect types who saved adequately for retirement, and do not have to choose between Greece and groceries. 

 

Then there are the folks who prefer to re-visit the same few spots over and over (Ireland! Italy! Disney!)  They return to favorite Galway pubs and Florence museums and Magic Kingdom rides. If they had a billion bucks (maybe the people in the preceding paragraph could loan it to them), they’d still travel like homing pigeons. For them, familiarity breeds content. 

 

I see both sides, and actually am ON both sides in a way (I have summered at the Delaware Shore for the past 43 years). Apart from that habitual locale, though, I think I’d prefer to add more new places to my story for as long as I’m able. That may mean London was a once and done for me, ditto Vienna, Prague and Rome. Sorry, amazing cities, you’ve had your turns; I need to check Taipei, Bangkok and Marrakesh off the bucket list! 

 

I’m going to be a speaker next year at a conference in Iowa. SO excited! I haven’t been there before!


Beautiful downtown Des Moines, here I come!






Tuesday, April 1, 2025

Local Dialect(ic)





our last college grad (Julie, 2018); I'm smiling through my tears...

This week I celebrate finally learning the name of something I’ve been living with forever (no, not Steve, I THINK I have my hubby's name down). I’m talking about the way I can--and do—often feel two contradictory emotions at the same time. The word is “dialectic.” 

Here are some dialectics...


"I love you and I'm upset with you." Now that I think of it, this DOES apply to me and Steve. Love him a lot! Often very upset with him!

 

"I want to stay the same, and I want to change": Example--I want to be 30 lbs. thinner by summer, and I also want to continue down the rich and caloric culinary road I’ve been traveling. Corollary: I do not want to take a weight-loss drug, because I’d prefer the hard-but-satisfying work of slimming down on my own--but I really DON'T want to actually do that work. Therefore, I will no doubt stay the same this summer. But I won’t be happy about it.

 

"I am capable and I need support": The M.O. of every toddler on earth (also known as “Me do it myself!!!” followed by torrents of tears when Mama doesn’t immediately come to Me’s rescue.) In the grownup world, this translates to: “Why didn’t you automatically sense that I needed help, and why didn’t you subtly provide said help without undermining my capability?” (see above: Steve love/upset with).

 

"I am so happy for you, my grown-up kids! I hate that you’re leaving the nest and embarking on your own lives!”  I truly am both. I am equal parts proud and devastated when my offspring launch.

 

“I’m relieved to have retired from my job. I wish I still got complimented for what’s going on at work.” I observe my successor at church, and have no regrets that I am no longer scurrying around madly, as she now does, every Sunday morning. But I’d love to still be lauded for every single good thing that happens there.

 

“I love a very clean house, and I will go to zero effort to keep my house clean.” Lacking funds for a housecleaner, I’ll just leave this dialectic right there. Over by the junk piles.

 

Mixed emotions? More like “throw all those emotions in the Cuisinart and turn it on high speed.”

 

From whence did “dialectic” spring? Credit for the original concept goes to pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus, famous for that meme about never stepping in the same river twice (accompanied by a photo of--wait for it--a river). Heraclitus posits that the universe is one big messy glob of opposites that are constantly bumping into each other (sorry for getting technical). According to Socrates years later, we need to argue/have a dialogue about our differing POVs to get to the truth nugget (not to be confused with the chicken nugget. Because the Socratic method is not for the chicken-hearted.) 


There you have it. 

 

Agree? Disagree? Agree to disagree?

 

All of the above?


How very dialectical of you!








 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 




Tuesday, March 25, 2025

Artistic Licensing

  

photo by Aibek Skakov on Pexels

 

If you have ever asked yourself: “What artistic genius designed the iconic logo for Chupa Chups lollipops?” --I have solved the mystery! It was none other than Señor Melting Clocks himself, Salvador Dali, who was approached by the Spanish confectioner in 1969. The jazzy result has graced their sweets wrappers ever since. “Chupa” translates as “suck” in Catalan, but I think they missed a great opportunity to name them “Dali’s Lollys.” 

 

It got me thinking, an always dangerous pursuit. If the greatest artists of all time decided to cash in on branding, what would they likely choose? Never fear; I’ve come up with can’t miss matchings of men and merch!! Such as…

 

Monet (Manet) Market Funds

 

A money market is a mutual fund that invests in short-term, high-quality securities. A “Monet” Market (sometimes pronounced “Manet”) is designed for investors in posters, coffee mugs and refrigerator magnets featuring “Water Lilies” (or “Le Déjeuner sur l'Herbe”). Short term indeed, as coffee mugs break, posters tear, and magnets fall under fridges!

 

 

Van Gogh Automobile Dealership

 

If you want to buy a van, you have one prime criterion. That thing has to GO, amirite? Van-Go, get it? Picture a dealership where, on any given day (or starry night), you can purchase a big honking vehicle with no money (Monet?) down and a very attractive APR over five years. Making a bold expressway statement doesn’t have to cost an arm, leg OR ear!

 

Da Vinci (Code) Remedy

 

Feeling kinda stuffy? Were you not able to taste your last supper? Well, has Leo got the cold (or, as you say it now, “code”) remedy for you! It’s a sinus-clearing blend of linseed oil and gel medium. You’ll be back to smelling the beautifully painted roses in no time! And apparently the Great One was also a perfumier, so feel free to dab a little on your wrist!

 

Vermeer Beer

 

In the mood for a Flemish bevvy? Try this stunning brew! The bottles are adorned with colorful and meaningful labels, including “Girl with a Pearl Earring” “The Milkmaid,” and “The Wine Glass” (renamed as “Girl with a Can of Beer,” “The Beermaid” and “The Beer Glass.”) Also available as a lite beer with a tip of the hat to another Dutch master: “Skinny Rubens.” 

 

Picasso Lottery Game

 

Pick(asso) your numbers and take a chance! Picasso combines the thrill of throwing your money (Monet?) away, with the fun of creating your own lotto masterpiece, Pablo style. Each ticket is imprinted with a picture of a body part. The more tickets you buy, the weirder the combinations! Ever dreamed of a face with five eyes, three noses, and a leg (NO ear!)? Tape those losing tix together and voila! You've got yourself a masterwork!

 

Sadly, these artistic giants are all dead, so they’ll never reap the financial benefits of these clever tie-ins. But good news! YOU get to keep all the Monet for yourself, so go ahead and start up a famously-named startup! 

 

I call dibs on Jackson Pollock Seafood.



"Sunflowers" mug photo by Van3ssa on Pixabay