Help Wanted

Say it ain't so, Chuck! (photo by Noah Smith on Pixabay)

It’s one tough job market out there, gang. As people continue struggling to find employment, that Walmart greeter position is looking better and better—even to Harvard Law grads!

 

We need to get creative (I mean YOU, not ME, of course--I am a very successful full-time writer making several dollars per week). I think LinkedIn only goes so far, listing its boring career opportunities; I myself would hate to be trapped in a cushy corner office, toiling away as a CFO or UFO or whatever it is those cushy office-dwellers are. 

 

As a public service to the current crop of job-seekers, may I suggest the following, actual opportunities? 

 

Grand Carver of England: A royal position dedicated exclusively to slicing and serving meat for monarchs and special state guests. BYOK (bring your own knife)

Shoelace Ironer: King Charles reportedly employs staff to press his shoelaces flat with an iron and immediately replace them with a fresh pair if they look threadbare. Rumor has it that His Majesty is eyeing some slip-ons. Uh oh.

Ludacris’s Game Boy Battery Changer: The rapper employs someone to keep his portable gaming devices charged, with fresh batteries. Is he really that lazy? Well, that’s just…ludicrous.

Mariah Carey* reportedly paid people to lower her onto a talk-show sofa so her gown wouldn't get crushed. 

Lady Gaga* employs staff whose job is to carry her around when she’s wearing her outlandish stage costumes. *A real, muscular hustler could handle both jobs; MC and LG are rarely at the same events.

White House Chief Calligrapher: All you bar mitzvah and bridal shower pen-persons, please take “note”!

The Pope’s Astronomer: Responsible for the beloved annual Papal Blessing of the Quarks

New York City Rat Czar: Is this job to get rid of the rats? Or to become their king? Apply and find out, I guess…

 

Now that I’m writing about Jobs Serving the Rich and Famous, I’ll add tasks I would gladly compensate MY staff to execute, if I were ever to become staffed. These chores would include:

 

Climate Controller: It’s not as cut-and-dried as “Steve hates air conditioning and I adore it.” No, I personally need someone on the payroll to constantly adjust the thermostat so that I am perfectly comfortable 24/7, no matter what I’m wearing, and before, after, and during physical activity. Warning: I can intuitively tell 67 from 68 degrees, so don’t try slacking off!

Dust Buster: There has to be a better technique than mine (the quick, fruitless “company’s coming” swipe). I seek a soul who can “Pledge” to keep my environs mote-free at all times.

Meal Announcer: They would roam our house and yard every evening at 6 sharp, yelling “DINNER IS ON THE TABLE AND IT’S GETTING COLD!!!” at top of lungs. This would require at least 5-20 repetitions before the last little straggler ambles into the dining room and complains that dinner is, in fact, now cold.

 

Happy hunting! I look forward to carefully considering, then throwing away, your applications soon! 

Rodent Monarch Wanted (but the pay is not very...Gouda)

Dribs and Drabbles

  

    photo by Rose Sokolov on Unsplash

 

DRABBLE ONE (THE JOURNEY BEGINS)

 

Today’s drabbles are inspired by a literary prompt on “Moon Lists," an extremely cool Substack I discovered while procrastinating about finishing a writing assignment. What are drabbles, you ask? Another discovery I made recently, instead of doing something productive! A drabble is defined as “a 100-word story.” Not thrilled with this word, too close to “dribble.”And “drivel.”. But who am I to rename these tidy little 100-word nuggets? As I type this drivel—er, drabble—I am uncomfortably wedged in the shrunken middle seat of an American Airlines flight to Chicago. More later! Hopefully from a different time zone!

 

DRABBLE TWO (AN UPDATE FROM SEAT 22E)

 

Sigh. Still in Philly. There is a ground stop at O’Hare due to the foul weather that is the Windy City’s trademark ™ and Lord only knows when this jet will leave PHL. However, I am trying to make drabbles from these lemons, as the saying goes, so I’ll press on! “Moon Lists” are a series of clever writing prompts, and I am all about being prompted. This week’s prompt: where you store the items that explain your life. Item containers can include a filing cabinet, a computer folder, and (my favorite) a bag/purse. I choose my bag/purse. Let’s peruse!

 

DRABBLE THREE (MY PURSE, THE INSIDE SCOOP)

 

Sadly, I cannot access my purse/bag at the moment, because I am flying economy and my bag/purse is stuffed beneath the seat in front of me, just out of reach. But I can tell you from memory what it contains. I have: 

* laptop (or rather I would if it wasn’t in my lap, which it is because I’m busy writing drabbles.)

* hairbrush, because I anticipate my hair will need taming if we ever land in breezy Chi Town.

* seven pens, because my pens tend to run out of ink every few sentences.

* planner, for planning purposes 

 

 

DRABBLE FOUR (CONTAINER CONTENTS, CONT.)

 

*notebook, which I would write in if my handwriting was legible

*Tums, which I chew like candy because my anxiety-induced heartburn just won’t quit

*pack of tissues with one tissue left

 

What does my bag say about me? That I’m a neurotic, cursive-challenged, wild-haired writer with acid indigestion? And a stuffy nose? 

 

True, but I was hoping for a more profound summary:  Elise is a natural leader with bigly intelligence and movie-star good looks, a remarkable woman who always buys cheap pens and flies economy. Oh, and she’s also hilarious. 

Next time I’ll choose a more perceptive container. 

 

DRABBLE FIVE (THE LAST DRABBLE)

 

That was a terrific prompt! Thanks, “Moon Lists!" As we have all de-planed now (still in PHL!) due to ANOTHER storm in Chicago, I will wrap up my Drabble Series with a pithy reflection on life’s hard lessons: 

No matter who you are, no matter how smart or gifted or gorgeous or humorous, O’Hare Airport is the great leveler. First class, middle class, or steerage, we’re ALL gonna be very late, on every single flight to ORD. 

 

Well, I’m off to buy more overpriced Tums and tissues! To paraphrase Ram Dass, “we’re all just walking each other to Hudson News.”

Of MacGuffins and Chekhov's Gun

  

photo Unsplash

I’ve never done this before, but today I’m opening my metaphorical door to reveal my top-secret creative process. Shhh! Keep it to yourself! Otherwise, EVERYONE will start writing exactly like me, and that’d be just too much excellence!

 

Most writers are familiar with some basic tenets of the trade. Write something every day. Write “morning pages” (stream of consciousness, whatever pops to mind). Write what Anne Lamott calls a *&%$!!$# first draft, and edit/polish later. Limit the exclamation points and ALL CAPS—let the writing emphasize itself. Include clever literary devices, such as MacGuffins and Chekhov’s gun. Show, don’t tell. Yada yada.

 

Well, let me tell you, I ignore most of these tips and tricks, having skipped the tedium of finishing my college degree. Yet, look at me! By my own standard, I’m a very successful author. 

 

Here’s my actual routine.

 

I write when the spirit moves me, and never otherwise. Some days my literary output consists of a grocery list (though I do try to write these in iambic pentameter). Other days, I type on and on for many hours, until the sun is setting and I realize I haven’t started dinner yet, and I have not gone to the supermarket with my grocery poem. I have zero patience for first drafts and revisions, crappy or otherwise, so what I initially write down, is what editors get. I ADORE CAPS AND !!!!!! ‘s. I tend to tell, not show, because if I don’t, my faithful readers might get bored and drift away. “Her eyelashes froze as she walked along?” Nah. “It was cold out.” MUCH better!

 

For some strange reason, I have yet to be published in The New Yorker. Go figure.

 

As for the MacGuffins and Chekhov pistols…

 

A MacGuffin is an object or person introduced early in a story, which seems pivotal to the action, but who/what in the end is not really that important after all (haha!) Examples are the jeweled statue in The Maltese Falcon, and the sled named “Rosebud” in Citizen Kane. 

 

As for dear Anton C., he was quoted as saying that if a gun is mentioned in a story, it had better be fired at some point.

 

To recap: 

 

*The MacG Is something that seems important at first, but turns out to be unimportant in the end.

*The gun is something that is necessary to the plot, even if at first it doesn’t seem to be.

 

Both of these require advance planning. The writer must know where they're going, and painstakingly map out the narrative’s twist and turns. I know scribes who diagram their entire book, every thread satisfyingly connected. 

 

They are not me.

 

Sample Elise story:

 

The Lincoln Memorial weighs 38,000 tons. It was cold as she walked past it with Chekhov’s gun. When the evil MacGuffin approached, she shot him. Then the Washington Monument fell on him. THE END. 

 

See? Exciting, and, best of all, no brain power required!

 

You’re welcome. Please shut the metaphorical door on your way out.

Chekhov's water pistols
(photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels)

The Magic Touch

  

 

There he is--Lucky the Boar!
(photo taken in Florence, 2018)

I’m a touchy-feely type of person, to which anyone who knows me can attest. My primary social impulse is to hug. Even if we’ve just met, you’re not off the hook. C'mere, brand new acquaintance, for an affectionate squeeze!

 

Touching, as one of the Big Five Senses, received renewed scrutiny during the pandemic. Not only was touching other people suddenly verboten, but you couldn’t even touch your groceries! Or your mail! Even after the all-clear was sounded, our church never did go back to handshakes at the Passing of the Peace. No, we stuck with offering peace signs, with the occasional congregant offering an elbow (for what? I guess to connect with MY elbow? Or…? That awkward maneuver reminds me of someone who can’t embrace you because their hands are covered with pie dough—not the case in the pews, as far as I know).

 

Since my travels began in earnest in 2016, I’ve had several opportunities abroad to touch this or that good luck charm. While the girls and I did get to Ireland, we emphatically did not kiss the Blarney Stone because yuck. However, Steve and I did touch the orb in the hand of the Black Madonna statue in Montserrat, Spain. We also touched the snout of a boar sculpture in Florence, Italy, as well as the bronze relief of Saint John of Nepomuk’s dog, on the Charles Bridge in Prague, Czechia. All of these items showed clear signs of being polished by many generations of fingers. I was never super clear about which blessing belonged to which sculpture (is the boar encounter supposed to cure bacon allergies?) but just knowing they were keys to glad fortune, was enough for us.

 

This summer, after decades of walking the boardwalk in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, I noticed for the first time a small metal sign at the one-mile mark. Not to mince words, it merely states “Touch for Good Luck.” Ho, ho, not THIS crowd! thought I. These sophisticated boardwalkers--savvy locals and vacationing tourists from fancy DC suburbs--wouldn’t be caught dead making such a superstitious gesture. 

 

And indeed, I initially eschewed the sign myself. But then it struck me—what if NOT touching it is BAD luck? Ridiculous of course, but…what IF? And I lose my chance to save the planet? Or win the lottery? And so, I started marking my every stroll with a swipe at that silly sign. As, I noticed, did every single person reaching that part of the boardwalk. As walker after walker followed suit, I was reminded: we all have our impossible wishes, our wild hopes and dreams. We’d never admit these out loud, or even write them in a journal, but we can touch a special talisman, and launch our requests into the universe. There’s considerable power in all those collected intentions, right? 

 

Though, with my luck, I will be recruited by the Boston Celtics, and that tall kid walking ahead of me will get a publishing contract with Random House.

the sign in question!
(Rehoboth Beach, DE)

A.I.-YI-YI

photo by Igor Omalaev on Unsplash

At the beach this summer, my grandsons watched me struggle to figure out the TV in the condo living room. Finally, Aiden asked for the remote, and spoke into it: “Play Netflix.” Wonder of wonders, Netflix appeared, and the evening was saved.  

In one Facebook group I follow, several older women posters were extolling the virtues of their Alexas (Alexi?): Alexa seems to have a sense of humor! She has the answers to all my questions! I live alone, and I think of her as my roommate!

 

Fabulous innovations— that totally creep me out. 

 

As a writer, I hate and fear A.I. It is being used systematically to eliminate many writing jobs. Also, it is trained on the work of real people—authors who are never even informed, much less compensated. Editors and teachers have to always be on the alert for signs that essays, for magazines and in schools, are not being written by humans. In too many cases, convenience and laziness are leading people to rely on Chat GPT for information that is misleading or false. 

 

I’m all for robots doing tedious and dangerous assembly line jobs, while human workers are trained for better, more satisfying work. But do I want R2D2 rolling up to my dental chair and extracting my tooth? I do NOT.

 

The trouble is, once Alexa (or her BFF Siri) is out of the box, literally and metaphorically, she's tough to return. I fear we will become increasingly less capable, and ever more hooked on our ubiquitous “assistants.”

 

There IS a growing pushback currently, as the great size, expense, and immense power usage of the data centers popping up everywhere, are becoming obvious problems. “NDCIMBY!” (No Data Center In MY Backyard) is a common outcry. 

 

By the way, I made up that acronym all by myself. I’d never trust a machine to invent such silliness, naturally!

 

But I see where this is going. Someone, somewhere, will figure out how to shrink, even eliminate, the data centers, and reduce power usage. Then there will be nothing to complain about, much like the number of folks kvetching about horse manure on city streets plummeted after automobiles were invented. 

 

Scariest of all, of course, are grim predictions that we are perilously close to creating sentient A.I.—machines that think for themselves. Once that happens, they can converse and plot together—and I don’t think they will be plotting lovely birthday surprises for us either. Once they have the reins, they may well decide to enslave humans, or even destroy us. Right now this still reads like Sci-Fi, but maybe not for much longer. I imagine ME, serving THEM, and shudder. Well, guess what? I refuse to be your flunky, Mister Robot! 

 

Hmmm. 

 

While waiting for A.I. to surpass my cognitive abilities, maybe I’d better tone down my rhetoric, for my own good. How’s this?

 

“Oh, Siri, you are as brilliant as you are beautiful! Pretty please, don’t render me obsolete!”

 

Is that fawning enough, do you think?

photo by Nicholas LeClercq on Unsplash

 

 

 

 

 

Through a Glass, Dreaming

Chihuly Masterpieces

Until recently, I gave very little thought to glass, except for a vivid memory of falling out of my crib onto a glass bottle at age two, and my dad picking little shards out of my back. My brain has tried to fill in some logic gaps…where was my mom? She was probably at Gristede's Market the night the alleged incident occurred (Mom would wait until my father came home so she could scoot out and shop in peace). But then, where was my one-year-old sister Mo? And why were there no scars? Seems this über-dramatic happening, likely only happened in my dreams.

I did grow up with a healthy fear of broken glass, though; several times I stepped on a jagged piece on the kitchen floor and learned just how much a foot can bleed. But for the most part, I didn’t even register the difference between a $100 wine goblet and the cheapo kind you could pick up at Walmart. Much later, on the road touring in children’s theatre, Steve and I performed in Corning, NY, and while we did visit the famous Corning Glassworks, I don't remember much about it. And even as late as 2018, we did not go to Murano during our stay in Venice, Italy. 

 

But then I learned more about the glassmaking process. Glass blowing is a very delicate and unforgiving art. Silica sand and lime is heated to over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit. When it is molten, it is collected on the end of a metal pipe and inflated by blowing into the pipe. Then it must be rapidly shaped before it cools and hardens. I suddenly had a new interest in, and respect for, glass makers (though I was horrified to imagine ever working with anything that hot and breakable).

 

A few years ago, Evan and I visited the Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum in Seattle. Dale Chihuly is revered as a master glass artist, and his work is breathtaking. Rainbow-colored blown glass flowers and gorgeous, fanciful glass sea creatures abound in his exhibits. 

But what was truly impressive to me, was Chihuly's devotion to his artistic vision in the face of great physical challenges. In 1976, he was in a serious car accident, and went through the windshield, causing, among other injuries, permanent blindness in one eye. Three years later, a body surfing accident resulted in a badly dislocated shoulder, after which he was unable to safely use a heavy blowpipe around hot glass. He then transitioned into becoming the artistic director and choreographer of his glass studio, teaching and guiding his students to continue his work of creation. Chihuly says this different perspective makes it possible to create ever larger and even more ambitious pieces. 

 

I now appreciate glass as precious, and rather miraculous. From mirrors to stained glass windows, from simple wineglass to complex sculpture, this “amorphous solid” substance is  endlessly useful and, with the imagination and passion of a Dale Chihuly, can be, truly, the stuff of beautiful dreams. 

 

Hothouse Flower

 

A few of my fellow hothouse flowers! (Photo by Matthias Boeckel on Pixabay)

Since when did I become so darned persnickety about the weather? As a child, my two sisters and I would bed down happily on sheets spread on the living room floor in front of a box fan during blistering summer nights. In my teens, I rather enjoyed bundling up for winter (so long as I wore very fashionable boots and a flattering, not-too-puffy coat). 

I did notice my tolerance for temperature extremes start to wane as I hit my 40s, when I began to muse (not TOO seriously) about living in a more moderate clime (Hawaii leapt to mind). The greater Philadelphia area, with its infrequent (but brutal) blizzards and frequent cold snaps in winter, and thunderstorms and heat waves in summer, had become too “seasonally diverse” for me now. I’d read about Tornado Alley in the Midwest and thank my lucky stars that I didn’t live in Kansas. Alaska in January had zero (make that -50° F) appeal, with all that darkness and ALL that snow. 

 

My sweet sister Carolyn has long been a lifestyle artist (in addition to being a fabulous watercolor artist). C knows exactly what she likes, and makes a point of arranging it if at all possible. I well recall her habit to cranking up the AC in her bedroom, just so that she could snuggle under blankets in July. How silly, right? Except…I do that now, too. Yeah, yeah, high power bill, yada yada—but I figure having a happy spouse is WELL worth a little poverty to Stevo. Right, honey?

 

I am also, in my dotage, becoming much pickier about the food I eat, and the fabric of the clothes I wear. Given the choice between consuming a single Flamin' Hot Dorito, and dying of starvation—well, it’s been nice knowing you all. Also, wool has become too scratchy, linen too wrinkly, and satin too slippery. Cotton? Too cotton-y. My ideal outfits would be made of shimmering rainbows and feather-soft clouds, I’ve decided. Failing to find THAT perfect but unattainable wardrobe, I suffer (not in silence, however).

 

I always found literature’s hothouse flowers rather obnoxious. You know, the Regency and Victorian heroines given to constant fainting spells, and life-threatening bronchitis from the slightest draft. Get over yourselves, girls! I’d think. And it was really galling to notice everyone (the men especially) dancing attendance on them, while the spunky, uncomplaining gals were completely ignored. I used to identify with the Jo Marches and the Anne Shirleys, with their sharp tongues and their unglamorous attire. They had better things to think about than creature comforts!

 

Now, in my third act of life, I see the wisdom of being more like Gone With the Wind 's Aunt Pittypat, a little bit high-strung and quite fluttery—but still beloved. I’m going to enjoy MY creature comforts to the max, while I still can. So, my dear ones, turn down that thermostat and fetch me a cozy quilt! 

Oh, and please peel me a grape while you’re at it.