Tuesday, March 26, 2024

The Pregnant Pause That Refreshes




photo by Tim Wildsmith on Unsplash

Reading Scripture, I am struck by the word “Selah,” that appears sometimes during a psalm. Is “Selah” a secret code? The name of David’s copy editor? Another word for “Amen”? Or “Hooray! Nicely written!” Is it just a nonsense word written once accidentally, and then repeated out of ignorance (like the story of the woman always cutting down the ham for her roasting pan because her grandma had had a small pan)?

Turns out, most Bible scholars believe that “Selah” means “pause,” and was likely an instruction to the reader (singer, back in the day) to take a break at that point. Just think! Even in ancient times people had to be reminded to slow down once in a while. 

 

How about the famous Coca Cola slogan “The pause that refreshes?” Used for 40 years, this catchy phrase encapsulated the thirst-quenching aspect of the popular beverage, and also that slight caffeine jolt which propelled the happy imbiber on with the day. I hope the ad person who came up with this gem was well compensated! Maybe with a lifetime supply of Coke (capital C😊)!

 

Then there’s the term “pregnant pause.” I love this one, because I imagine someone stopping to think--for nine whole months. But really, it’s defined as a pause filled with meaning. (“Do you love me?” Bob asked Becky. There was a pregnant pause. “Nope!” she finally responded.) I sometimes made use of a “pregnant pause” onstage to add drama to my soliloquies (though actually they were to cover, until I remembered my next line.)

 

I was talking with an author friend recently about that charming phenomenon called “writer’s block.” This brain freeze can occur at any point in a writing career, and it is NO fun. No matter how much you’ve written, you suddenly feel incapable of scribbling another word. Your supply of super ideas is totally depleted (and even the so-so ideas have left the building). Realistically, the afflicted writer knows that this is a temporary issue. Someday the log jam will break, and the words will flow once more. But the block, while it lasts, is terrifying. 

 

We’ve both experienced writer’s block, this friend and me, and while we talked, it came to me that we should think of these times as “pauses,” and not “blocks.” Just catching our creative breaths, a refreshing break in the action. Since we both have children, I thought we might frame these as not just pauses but “pregnant” pauses. We remember that, while it seems we are just getting fatter, expectant moms are also doing the very important work of growing babies. When the time is right, we deliver. Could we think of writer’s block that way? A necessary interval, during which we can feed our inspiration with reading and nature walks and conversation? 

 

I haven’t written a humor piece in months. But I’m not panicking! My pregnant pause will end someday, and I’ll produce another bouncing baby comedy essay!

 

Meanwhile, I’m off to grab a Coke.

 

Selah.


Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels




Tuesday, March 19, 2024

Gig Economics



photo by Erik McLean on Unsplash


Lately I’ve been hearing more and more about the “gig economy.” At first I thought the term referred to bargain bands (“Tonight’s economy performance by The Tightwads will consist of one song. There is a two-drink minimum. Enjoy!”) But I soon learned that the gigs (also known as side hustles) refer to the extra jobs folks are taking to help make ends meet nowadays. We have orthopedic surgeons moonlighting as Lyft drivers! Tech CEOs picking up bonus cash as Instacart shoppers! Kardashians delivering pizzas! 

Oh wait. I guess those folks are doing just fine without second jobs, aren’t they?

 

But for the rest of us, it’s very tempting to work side gigs to pay those pesky bills. Mind you, this is actually just a re-brand of something that’s been going on forever—actors waiting tables, waiters picking up acting jobs, etc. You’d think after all this time that there’d be a few more options, though…I mean, not everyone can (or should) Door Dash. 

 

Never fear! I spent the past 20 minutes deep in thought, and have come up with an exhaustive and exhausting list of part-time pursuits that aren’t yet, but should be, real things. I figure, if enough of us are interested, somebody (not me) might create these wonderful opportunities for getting ahead/or at least not falling farther behind! Here we go:

 

DRIVING TEST TAKER: I’m a FINE driver, but I struggled some to pass the test back in the day. That grumpy DMV employee made me so nervous that I almost hit an orange cone (or three) before we left the parking lot. I would have paid $$$ if someone could have taken the test in my stead, passed with flying colors, and then just handed me the license! Win/win! 

 

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION STAND-IN: MY 50th is coming up in the fall, and I am doing my darnedest to look like only it’s my 10th. But alas, all the diet and exercise on earth won’t turn back the clock quite that far. Solution? Hire a 28-year-old who looks just enough like me to fool my more gullible classmates! I’d be happy to spend time prepping her about the classic Terry Jacks song “Seasons in the Sun,” and Watergate.

 

PATIENT PLAYMATE FOR YOUNG CHILDREN: When my brood was small, while I loved them dearly, I dreaded playing Legos with them—not to mention the endless loop of knock-knock jokes and games of “Uncle Wiggly.” I didn’t need a babysitter (I wasn’t GOING anywhere), I just needed someone who really enjoyed (or pretended convincingly to enjoy) kiddie playtime now and then. 

 

There are so many other possibilities…


SORTA "DENTIST" WHO MAKES HOUSE CALLS AND NEVER FINDS A CAVITY


PERFECT EXCUSER FOR MISSING WORK (“Hello, Boss? I’m Elise’s dead grandpa and she needs to be at the cemetery today!”)


SMALL TALKER AT PARTIES (gigger who would connect via earbud and then whisper clever conversational topics and bons mots). 

 

C’mon gang! Let’s put on our thinking caps and make those side hustles FUN!





Tuesday, March 12, 2024

The Secret Ingredient



AKA the show with the beef jerky sticks




There’s a running gag in our production of Puss in Boots (written by Stevo) that always delights the audiences. The special stew that Puss the Cat serves the King so that his master can win the princess's hand, contains a secret ingredient: “honey-coated, licorice-flavored beef jerky sticks.”

 

Our young audiences may roar with laughter, but for me, I fail to see the humor. Because I have a reputation for seeking out some pretty unusual seasonings for my own dishes. Mind you, I don’t invent these concoctions (I remain pretty recipe-bound, even after all these years). But when I peruse cookbooks or culinary websites or blogs, I MAY decide to make a Mexican street corn salad, but I DEFINITELY will whip up the version that calls for tajin (a lime-spice blend). This will, of course, necessitate ordering a bottle of the stuff which, after its maiden voyage, will languish in the back of the cabinet for years past its use-by date. The same fate has befallen everything from tamarind paste to wood-ear mushrooms to galangal (which I think is an unusual Thai seasoning…it’s so old now that I’m afraid to open the container). 

 

This weird predilection goes way back. As a young child, I would avidly read my Nana Cunningham’s Gourmet magazines, and my Grandma Berrigan’s old recipe books. Neither of these wonderful women were fancy cooks (in Nana’s case, she wasn’t even an OK cook), so I don’t know why these publications found their way into their homes. But I would scan the instructions for roast wild boar and candied violets (not in the same dish!) and daydream about serving these items to cheers from the assembled diners in my imaginary dwelling some future day. 

 

Practically speaking, I have no business shelling out so much moolah for stuff that most dishes could easily do without—especially when the stuff has such limited usefulness. Rose recently made preserved lemons for an appetizer recipe, which turned out wonderfully—but left her with a large amount of extra lemons. She asked me if I had any ideas about what to do with them, so I typed “recipes using preserved lemon” into the old Google search bar. Wonder of wonders! There are, if not a ton, at least SOME other dishes where one is encouraged to toss in a P.L.!

 

This successful foray was a lightbulb moment for me: I too can Google oddball ingredients I’ve bought! I too can discover other ways to use them up before they expire! It’s been a seismic shift in my thinking. Now, before ordering achote powder or naranja agria (sour orange juice) to add to my bulging pantry, I go through said pantry first. I pull out, say, the ras el hanout. Can I marinate chicken in this? Stir it into biscuit dough? Maybe!


Looking forward to world travels with all the money I’ll be saving. I’ll surely bring home suitcases full of local specialties (maybe even honey-coated licorice-flavored beef jerky sticks). 

Old habits die hard. 


a tiny sampling of my odd food purchases (I wasn't kidding!)





Monday, March 4, 2024

Owl Be Seeing You


Awwww. (Owlet photo by Jesse Cason on Unsplash)

I didn’t hear much about Flaco the Coop-Flown Owl, until the poor bird met his tragic end. For those similarly unaware, about a year ago, Flaco, a rare Eurasian Eagle Owl living in captivity in the Central Park Zoo in Manhattan, was suddenly liberated by a vandal who shredded his enclosure. 


What followed was a gritty Streets of New York story—the spunky and resourceful Flaco, making his way in the big bad city. Crowds would gather whenever there was an owl-sighting. There were cheers when he learned to hunt and catch prey (NYC rats, what else?) For a solid year, Flaco flew free, amid hopes that he could survive long-term in the “wild.”

 

Alas, our majestic feathered friend was no match for the urban landscape. Flaco was killed flying into the side of a building. That dramatic demise could be the subject of a folk song (“The Owl That Almost Could”), right? Where are Peter, Paul and Mary when you need them?

 

Flaco’s story brings up some questions. Is it inhumane to cage wild creatures in zoos? Are we destroying their animal instincts? Flaco never asked to be a celebrity; he was just doing his best to stay alive in very difficult circumstances. What did this owl, the very symbol of wisdom after all, think of the humans who gaped and gawked and snapped photos as he flew from tree to tree? Since he’s dead, plus we don’t speak owl, we will never know. 

 

I am a big owl fan, though I rarely spot them in nature—I’m much more likely to see a Temple (University) Owl, than the actual bird. Even back in the old days when I was a rather nocturnal young adult, I never saw one IRL. Of course, I was much more Disco Denizen than Nature Girl, so unless an owl decided to sneak into the bar with a fake ID, the odds of our paths crossing were low. 

 

I do know that owls fly without making a peep, their massive wings gliding along, utterly silent, in order to surprise their prey. I do know that their heads can swivel almost completely around (they have fixed eye sockets, and have to turn to see things). 


A recent thrill for me was a woods walk I took near Seattle at dusk, with Evan and some of his friends. We spied TWO huge and beautiful white owls, in two different trees, and then spent a good 10 minutes gaping and gawking (as humans tend to do). We were waiting for their moment of flight, and were not disappointed when at last they alit, soaring soundlessly through the air. 

 

The debate about zoos and other man-made habitats rages on. While modern zoos make much more of an effort to give the animals space, they are still trapped. But they are also protected from harm (Flaco’s “liberator” notwithstanding). 

 

All I know is, I’m glad that, for one brief shining year, Flaco the Owl had a glorious taste of freedom. 




Tuesday, February 27, 2024

Rings On (and Off) Our Fingers


Sher and Yaj's wedding day (photo by Carolyn Majewski)


My darling husband made a confession when he recently returned home from an out-of-town film shoot, and honestly? Had he not mentioned this I have no clue when I would have noticed (eagle eye that I am most definitely not): Steve lost his wedding ring. Apparently he had taken it off while performing (his character in the movie was unattached), and stowed it for safekeeping in his wallet. At some point, getting gas, or coffee, or something, the ring had fallen out. It’s gone for good, and poor Stevo was quite upset. 

As it is, I have no right to criticize him. For I, too, am a ring-loser. Several times over, in fact. The first ring that disappeared was my beloved Nana’s. It was beautiful, and I have no idea why anyone would have entrusted 13-year-old me with it upon Nana’s death in 1970…me, who couldn’t keep track of her homework, “borrowed” clothing items, or anything else. I do recall the pang I felt when a panicked search yielded zilch (I have precious few mementos from my grandmother), but it wasn’t pang enough to keep me from repeat performances. 

 

Years later, my engagement ring was on-and-off my finger with regularity—sometimes the dramatic climax of an argument (and there were a few!), sometimes the absent-minded result of removing it to wash dishes. It always found its way back to me, until the fateful day I was vacuuming the living room. Suddenly I glanced down, and the little diamond (all S. could afford back in the day) had fallen out of its setting. I spotted it on the floor before it was suctioned up. I learned a very valuable lesson that day: never vacuum again.

 

The diamond languished in a baggie in a drawer for ages. I obviously wasn’t motivated enough to get it reset. Finally, I offered it to Sheridan to give to Ya-Jhu. He had it reset, and it has a sparkly new life with Yaj. It hasn’t been misplaced once in their 13 years together, and I’m positive it’s quite safe. 


Nowadays, my hands sport just a plain gold band on one finger, and on another, a ring belonging to my late sister Mo. I wouldn’t be shocked if these rings were also lost at some point, because that seems to be the way I roll, jewelry-wise. It does bother me, though, that in this one area I am just like my careless Mom. Joanie lost EVERYTHING—expensive bracelets, sweaters, Dad’s paychecks before they could be deposited—once, she accidentally threw away a large wrought-iron wall hanging! That, my friends, is not easy to do!

 

Gotta tell you, Steve’s sad feelings about this vanished symbol of our sacred union meant as much, if not more, to me than the silly ring itself. A ring, I reassured him, is very replaceable, and I’m sure it WILL be replaced. He, and our enduring love, are irreplaceable. 

 

Whatever else I lose track of in this life, let me never forget that.


Our 40th anniversary (2017)








Tuesday, February 20, 2024

A Shambolic Shambala


Himalayas and Tibetan Prayer Flags
(photo by Hannah Luo on Pexels)



Remember the ad for Calgon Bath Oil with the tagline: “Calgon, take me away”? Alas, my bath products rarely respond when I address them, and even if my body wash could speak, I doubt it would lead me to a fabulous island escape.   

Yet an escape is just what I’m after in these very trying times. I envy folks who have picked up stakes and decamped to the south of France or sunny Spain. Oh, sure, they have to contend with language barriers, finding affordable dwelling places, jobs, etc. But I’d endure those challenges and much more, as long as I am far from the dysfunction and lunacy of modern society!! There is dysfunction and lunacy everywhere, you say? Perhaps. But then again… 

There must be an unspoiled corner of the world, somewhere, right? A charmed locale, perhaps on a high mountain, where kindness and goodness reign supreme, and where groceries have actually gone down in price. Tibetan Buddhists call such a magical, mystical place “Shambala” (which author James Hilton wrote as “Shangri-la” in his book, Lost Horizon). There, the sun always shines, there’s a decent healthcare system, and everyone is happyhappyhappy. Shambala is a veritable Heaven on earth. Too bad it doesn’t actually exist.   

Further perusing Ye Olde Dictionary, I came across the word “shambolic,” which sounds awfully darned close to that Buddhist word for paradise, doesn’t it? However, shambolic means “chaotic, messy, and disorganized,” a far cry from the Calgonesque serenity I pictured. It occurs to me that, even if there was a Shambala, and even if I could book a one-way ticket, I would undoubtedly lug along my shambolic ways. Like the European settlers who arrived on our shores bearing the thoughtful gifts of liquor and smallpox for the native peoples who had no tolerance for either, I fear that my arrival would be nothing but bad news for the Shambalans.   

Alas, I carry my burdensome flaws and mistakes with me through life, much as I try to shed them. A change of address would most likely not change ME much. As they say, “wherever you go, there you are.”   

So where is this better world? And how do we keep from screwing it up?  

I just learned about something called ADP (adaptable high beams). These are car headlights designed to precisely illuminate the road ahead at night, without causing the glare that blinds oncoming drivers. Not yet available for most vehicles, at some future point they will be the standard. In other words, our autos’ beams will light up only what we ourselves need to see to drive safely. No one else will be bothered or endangered by our too-bright “brights.” They’ll have their own.  

What if we stopped forcing our “light” on our fellow travelers? What if we trusted our brothers and sisters with their light, their unique journeys? What if the way forward is bright, because of our differences, not in spite of them?   

Welcome to our Shambolic Shambala. Messy. Chaotic. Beautiful. Right here.






Tuesday, February 13, 2024

Slippery Slope



Martha Stewart, eat your heart out!


Many people’s pandemic stories (at least the tales of those of us lucky enough to escape COVID—those who got sick, of course, have the REAL stories) contain certain tropes. These include: Not Touching the Mail for Days, Cleaning the Groceries, Taking Daily Neighborhood Walks, Getting a Dog, Having Tons of Zoom Meetings, Putting on the Pandemic 15 (lbs) and Undertaking Home Improvements. Of these, the only one I missed was “Getting a Dog,” but then, both Rose and Julie adopted rescue pups, so I think I get partial credit. 

Now, nearly four years in, I have stopped doing most of the above activities—I grab my mail as soon as it arrives, plop my un-sanitized bags of food on the counter, Zoom as little as possible, and have cut back sharply on those walks (which may explain why my Pandemic 15 linger). But we are still Undertaking Home Improvements and One Improvement is Leading to the Next, and the Next, ad nauseum. 

 

First, in the summer of 2020, Steve re-finished our back deck, which of course led to new patio furniture and a fire pit. We were ready to have company—outdoors and socially distanced! Mission accomplished? Not so fast!! The interior of our abode was also crying out for attention. The family room paneling, once off-white, had aged to an ugly off-off-greyish-brownish. A new coat of paint worked wonders! But then the living room looked awfully sad by comparison, so it got painted too—which highlighted (highlit?) the shabby, shabby furniture. Out with my mom’s ancient sofa! Begone worn-out wing chairs! In with all brand-new stuff! 

 

Which, naturally, made our poor little kitchen hang its range hood in shame. Arguably the heart of our home, the kitchen had gone un-enhanced for decades (unless you count the appliances that broke and HAD to be replaced). So, just before the holidays, we launched the next phase of Operation Beautify. Luckily, some of my writing income had been set aside for this project, so we hired a professional painter to do the walls and cabinets, and another company to lay the wood laminate floor. It now looks so snazzy (we even have color-coordinated drawer knobs!) that I often just walk in and stand there, staring in wonder and joy at its loveliness. 

 

But then I mosey out to the dining room, where the big wooden table, its finish long worn away, stained with coffee mug rings and traces of magic marker (it’s also the arts and crafts table) sits in silent rebuke. Even the boys are taking notice, and almost nightly now, they mention our dingy eating surface and the urgent need to “fix it.” So that’s next on the agenda.

 

Where does it end? I’m hearing rumbles of discontent from the furniture in the upstairs bedrooms, and angry rattling from our extremely old windows. And I know, once we finally finish the re-do, the deck will start sagging again…

 

It’s a slippery slope, and we’re slipping all. the. way. down. 


                                     Peter and his Baba, down a slippery slope

Tuesday, February 6, 2024

Very Wordy


What do you see?
(Photo by Wolf Zimmermann on Unsplash)


I’m nothing if not randomly ambitious-- my goals are all over the place. While I am consistent in my sports aspirations (zero), I vacillate among these: seeing Thailand (where Rose lived for a year in her teens), baking a perfect croissant (Rose, who has done so, also my inspiration here), backing up my computer files more often, blowing up a balloon (don’t ask), singing again (my once-decent singing voice deserted me long ago), and keeping a houseplant alive for more than a week. See? Pretty scattershot.

Latest ambition? Increasing my Word Power, because, according to Reader’s Digest, It Pays to Do So! To that noble end, I subscribe to several daily emails that each feature a vocab Word o’ the Day. I never know what verbiage will be offered up for my elucidation. Oftentimes, the word is one I either a) already use all the time b) sometimes use or c) at least know how to spell. Those are the times I congratulate me, for utilizing such jewels as malapropism(using the wrong word, i.e. monotonous instead of monogamous), dilatory (slow, delayed) and sibilate (hissing sound). Fun fact: in childhood, I was in speech therapy for a “sibilate s” –otherwise known as a lisp. Fun FACT, mind you—mine was not a fun CHILDHOOD. 

 

But there are some doozies, and I’m challenged to casually toss them into my everyday speech. How does one work mickle (a large amount) and sensu lato (in the broad sense) into your average sentence without coming across as an insufferable snob? “Frankly, sensu lato, I have written mickle since my retirement.” Would you opt to continue a convo with this person? I think not! Therefore, I tend to use the more out-there words sparingly. My buddy Aiden, who enjoys finding out the Daily Word at breakfast every morning, is a big fan of the adjective anfractious (meandering, circuitous), but I think he loves it because it sounds just a teensy bit like a curse word, to a fourth grader “Oh, yeah? Well, you’re just a big anfractious!”

 

I am especially tickled when I finally learn the name of something I was actively wondering about. Who among us hasn’t looked up at the sky on a cloudy day and seen cumulus or nimbus clouds with shapes that reminded them of something or someone? Well, the word for that phenomenon is, according to Merriam-Webster, pareidolia (the tendency to perceive a specific, often meaningful image in a random or ambiguous visual pattern. The scientific explanation for some people is pareidolia, or the human ability to see shapes or make pictures out of randomness. Think of the Rorschach inkblot test.)

 

"Pareidolia" also applies to that slice of toast said to resemble the Virgin Mary (Hail Marmalade!) and that tree stump in the woods, featuring the grumpy puss of Uncle Joe. Pareidolia, friends. IYKYK.

 

Today’s word? Bokeh (referring to the out-of-focus parts of a photo image.) EVERY ONE of my blurry photos? Bokeh-full! Not my incompetent camera work, nope! Artistic choice!



Aiden's recent orchestra concert--I THINK he's in there somewhere


Tuesday, January 30, 2024

In the Fun House

 

Picture facing THAT--and the ball throwers were teenagers!
(photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels)


I recently asked myself, “E, when was the last time you had FUN?” 

 

I gotta tell you, E was stumped. First of all, define fun, right? When I think of my funnest times, I think of watching standup comedy and reading funny books and enjoying funny movies…hmmm, I guess those are not very participatory. Common understandings of “fun” are more along the lines of “running barefoot in the rain,” or “sticking your hands in the air on a roller coaster” or “playing dodge ball on a mission trip” (I actually did this last one, and fun is the last word I’d use to describe this sadistic youth group game, played by hurling a ball at full speed towards someone’s stomach or head).

 

I can’t very well continue down the road of life having zero fun, right? So, I checked and Eureka! I discovered the burgeoning consulting business known as “fun coaching.” Seems folks are paying the big bucks to hire someone who will reconnect them (and/or their office team) with simple childhood joys. Imagine paying a “coach” to teach adults to blow bubbles, to skip rope, to romp! According to my research, one can spend an average of $125 a session (4 sessions minimum!) to re-learn playdoh pummeling, hopscotch, and finger painting. The websites wax rhapsodic about our neglected need to belly laugh, to play with abandon, to channel our inner toddlers.

 

My visual image of these shenanigans? The HR department, clad in office casual, reduced to clapping their hands delightedly as a Jack-in-the-Box pops up. Yippee! 

 

I suppose, for some, “fun” is an alien concept that must be carefully taught, and maybe hiring a fun coach is the way to go. But I think if you have to study fun, you’re missing the whole point—much like repeatedly pinching someone to teach them how to be sad (which might work in a “pinch”—sorry!—if you were applying to be a professional mourner). “Fun” is, I feel, completely subjective (some of the church youth seemed to really enjoy throwing balls at me. Go figure.)

 

Just in case I’m missing out, though, I’m planning to hire my own personal “fun coach." My ideal teacher is 11 months old, spends large chunks of the day chuckling manically over absolutely nothing, and delights in smearing mashed potato in their hair. This happy kid would inspire by example, and would never expect a 67-year-old woman to join in the jolly potato hair massage. No, my fun coach would totally support me doing what I already DO for fun--writing essays, mindlessly surfing the internet, and eating the elaborate, highly caloric desserts I bake, ostensibly for the other people in the house, but really for me. 

 

Best of all, I could probably get away with paying my coach in Peppa Pig stickers.

 

Meanwhile, I’ll get tons of enjoyment watching those trendy “fun coaching” companies gradually fade away, as we all return to our natural feelings of impatience, anger and fear. Back to normal!


Fun Coach Patrick