Ah, the Good Old Days!

  

 

 

Lend an ear, my young friend, while I sit in my recliner and recall the good old days that I miss so much. A time when all the men wore fedoras (including plague doctors) and the women vacuumed up pearls from the living room carpet. I ask you, where did all that elegance go? 

 

We may not have had the latest technology, but we could communicate just fine through improvised “phones” made from rusted tin cans and lengths of barbed wire. We may not have had bikes to ride, but we did have unicycles made of junkyard tires, that we’d tie together to make one treacherous “vehicle” careening through town. We didn’t follow dangerous internet trends like the Tide Pod Challenge. No, we came up with MUCH MORE dangerous ideas, all by ourselves! Life in those bygone days was pretty rough and tumble, but you know what? We survived! Except for those of us who didn’t.

 

Instead of modern fancy-schmancy colleges, we all attended Ye Olde Schoole of Harde Knockes, learning to construct catapults with which to hurl projectiles over castle walls, in anticipation of lucrative careers as knights. We were so proud, clanking down the street in our shiny suits of chain mail! Can you imagine going through the TSA checkpoint at Newark Airport wearing those today? You would be laughed at for sure. Then probably arrested.

 

My grandchildren are not allowed to hitchhike on the turnpike. They are forbidden to throw lawn darts at one another while jumping on a trampoline. Nor do their overprotective parents permit 2 AM swims in the old abandoned quarry. What a shame. Those poor kids will never experience the thrill of being picked up by a psychopath in a windowless van, the exhilaration of surviving a catastrophic backyard fall while bleeding from dart wounds, and the joy of almost (but not quite) drowning in 30 feet of frigid, inky-black water.  

 

I cherish the memories of my band of buddies roaming freely through our neighborhood, those jolly games of pickup baseball, and the informal mastodon hunts.  We used our bats instead of spears, and believe you me, those prehistoric beasts stayed clobbered! We’d play until it was time for our late-night quarry swim, and no one ever came looking for us. With households averaging 40 kids, only the most doting parent could keep track of everyone. In the interest of simplicity, we were all named Gorg. 

 

Now, in 2026, I am a stranger in a strange land. My skills as a rower on a Viking longship are no longer marketable, and it seems no one wants to hear me play “Babylonian Rhapsody” on my Mespotamian lyre anymore. I’m just whiling away the centuries, waiting for my final journey to Elysium Fields. Or New Jerusalem. Or the Happy Hunting Ground. One of those places.

 

Thanks for listening, kiddo. 

 

Say, how about we go grab some rotten meat that has been heavily spiced to cover the smell? 

Gorg’s treat!

 

Not hungry?

 

That’s OK. More for me.

image by Echonn on Pixabay

Remembered Laughter

Baby C's grin. Mo must've just told a joke.

I laugh a lot. It helps to have quite a few funny friends, and my hubby and kids (and now grandkids) are hilarious too. I’ve also learned to laugh at myself, the best approach to my daily catalogue of mishaps and missteps.

But I had forgotten the unique delight that is laughing with a sibling. Back in the day, my sister Mo would laugh until she literally fell off her chair at something one of us had said (and she was plenty side-splitting on her own). In the 44 years since Maureen’s death, my other sister Carolyn and I have drawn ever closer, largely because of shared funny memories. There’s something about having the same family of origin, that makes for prime humor material. 

 

Who else remembers the wit of Uncles Jack and Gerry (who, had they not been insurance execs, could have gone on the road as a comedy duo)? Who else survived a comically horrific rental house in Marshfield, Massachusetts, as Mom and Dad frantically house-hunted so that we wouldn’t end up living permanently in said rental? Who else embarked on boredom-inspired trudges down Peachtree Industrial Blvd. in blistering Atlanta August heat, ducking into the air-conditioned Robert Hall clothing store, not to buy anything (of course not!) but as a cooling respite en route to our reward—day-glo blue Slurpees at 7-11? Who else found all of this hysterical? Only my siblings.

 

Fast forward to the 1990s, when our life paths really diverged. C and Rob found each other, while Steve and I made a life with our five children in suburban Philly. Even during Carolyn’s seven years in Lewes, DE, we knew we were on borrowed time, proximity-wise. And so it was that we parted ways in September, 2012, when my sister and brother-in-law at last put down roots in Honolulu.

 

Our visits since have been wonderful, but quite sporadic, and as I prepared to travel to Hawaii this month, I wondered if we could still crack each other up.

 

Now, back home again, I recall the crazy experiences C and I shared during this time together in Paradise. Riding with a clueless Uber driver, who relied on us to constantly redirect him, while driving in ever-widening circles away from our destination; our ridiculous plod from a Maui condo billed as “oceanfront,” across a huge, sodden field to reach a teensy strip of windswept beach; our Plein Air art morning in Ala Moana Park--my pathetic watercolor of a nearby tree, her beautiful one (were we even painting the same tree?) We both decided that, instead of joy-killers, these were memory-makers that transformed adventure into entertainment.

 

My sides still ache from laughing, and I’ve been home almost a week. I will never forget this special time with my precious sister, and I vow to pay the chuckles forward, into a world badly in need of cheering up.

 

We all have to get through this life somehow, right?

 

Why not with tears, not of sadness, but of mirth?

One of these was painted by an actual artist. Can you guess which?

Getaway Car

Poor Mr. Magnavox!

Remember when you were a kid, and you’d spend hours inventing stories about the secret lives of inanimate objects? 

You didn’t?

 

Well, Iittle me often lived in a dream world. Not the Barbie kind of make-believe, although I did my share of dolling Babs up for madcap Mattel-esque outings. And weren’t those high heels impossible to fit on her ridiculous arched feet? 

 

But I digress.

 

Actually, my typical imaginary scenarios were—atypical. I was an anxious child, and worried about our refrigerator getting lonely when we were all at Mass (“Hey! Anybody home? The milk is about to spoil! Don’t forget about the hamburger meat on my lower shelf, over by the Gulden’s mustard. That should make a tasty meal, no doubt! Helloooo?”)   

 

Ditto the TV set. When I was in school, it was forced to show endless hours of Mom’s soap operas, when Mr. Magnavox was surely yearning to entertain my sisters and me with the far superior Soupy Sales and Captain Kangaroo. If I could have fit the iron and washing machine in my backpack, I would definitely have schlepped them around. No wonder The Brave Little Toaster struck such a “cord” (appliance humor 😊).

 

By the time I was old enough to drive, I had outgrown those whimsical notions. When my friends were busy naming their first autos (Mary’s Ford Mustang was dubbed, naturally, Sally), I had zero interest in my bright orange Gremlin’s inner life. Oh sure, Mo, C, and I christened it The Great Pumpkin, but that was as far as it went.

 

Well, last Tuesday night, we had a Car in Peril situation. Our Hyundai Elantra was stolen from our driveway. Sheridan noticed it was missing, and soon the police arrived at the house. I’d read about a car theft ring operating in the area, who’d been hot-wiring cars and then selling them on Facebook Marketplace. The kicker: Hyundais are top targets! Undoubtedly because of their classy, BMW-like reputations, NOT because they are relatively cheap, and lacking sophisticated anti-theft devices. Mystery solved, yes?

 

I won’t keep you in suspense. The car and drivers were found a short while later. And it was not a slick bunch of bandits after all; it was a group of stupid teens (one of them was only 13!) out for a joyride. They still managed to drive over 20 miles, though, and really messed up the steering column. 

 

But I have been thinking about the incident from our auto’s POV. Such a boring life, those endless treks back and forth to Shop N Bag, to the post office, to CVS. Then, suddenly—excitement! Thrills and chills! On the lam with daring strangers! Wheee!

 

Traumatic as this was for us, I guess I’m glad our Elantra finally had a Big Adventure without the Seyfrieds. She deserved one wild story to tell her buddies around the old gas pump. But enough! After an unforgettable Grand Theft Hyundai, it’s back to normal for you, little vehicle!

 

Don’t YOU get any ideas, stroller!

steering wheel of misfortune!

To the Maxx

  

                                          Best Flash Mob Ever?

 

These trends are coming and going waaaay too fast nowadays. I mean, I’m still saying “6-7,” which was a cool set of numbers (for the middle school crowd) until quite recently. But now that’s passé, hopelessly “two hours ago.” Selfie sticks? Fidget spinners? Flash mobs? Segways? Taking selfies as you spin your fidget and choreograph a flash mob on your Segway? All capital D Done!! Slow down, insta-world, I want to get off!

 

But here’s one I’m grabbing as it races by: Maxxing. Short for “maximizing”, maxxing is added to certain goals that one should attempt with all one’s might. Goals, squared! There’s Looksmaxxing, where you do whatever is humanly, or cosmetic-surgically, possible to make yourself look out-of-this-world gorgeous. There’s Sportsmaxxing, where you master any number of athletic pursuits, à la Michael Jordan (not Michael B. Jordan! The basketball guy, who for a time played major league baseball as well). 

 

But here’s the maxx that caught my attention: the Nonnamaxx. Yes, it’s a thing! As of April 28, 2026!  Seems the elder female residents of some Blue Zones (including parts of Italy) possess the Key to Eternal Youth (it may be in their apron pocket). As described, the Nonnamaxxer is quite the special gal. She walks constantly, because she lost her Senior Bus Pass. She dresses up for everyday activities, donning a jaunty scarf and heels to ask her neighbor to take out her trash. She makes herself useful, making her own fettuccine, and volunteering with the Italian equivalent of Habitat for Humanity (Casa de Umanità. I think!) She maintains a busy social life, gossipping with her fellow Nonnamaxxers, and eats super healthy. She is a paragon of elderhood, and I’ve never met anyone remotely like her. Especially anyone in their 80s. So I call BS on this particular maxx.

 

Here is MY take on what I’ve labeled “Nanamaxxing.”

 

Nanamaxxer walks…to the bathroom, multiple times every night, because she is super familiar with “bladdermaxx”. She dolls herself up… in zippy tunics and leggings, so she’s all ready should "Dancing With the Stars" come a callin’.  She volunteers…to give up her spot on the local Mah Jongg Pickleball Team. Let her sister seniors have some fun! 

 

She may not be a Jane Fonda clone (face it, is anyone?), but she looks quite a bit like an older Elise Seyfried.

 

Nanamaxxers eat healthy, but they also eat unhealthy. Their average food day might begin with a petite portion of Light and Fit yogurt and berries, and end with a big bowl of Neither Light NOR Fit homemade tiramisu. Ask me how I know.  

 

Nanamaxx practitioners are women of a certain age who keep on living, no matter their limitations.

 

Most importantly, Nanamaxxers are ever-grateful for the precious little ones who made them Nanas in the first place.

 

If you aren’t a Nana, or even Nana-adjacent, never fear. In a week (maxx!) there’ll be a brand new craze, one at which you SURELY can excel.

 

Doomscrollmaxxing Queen? 

Sorry. I am the GOAT already. 

Happy Nanamaxxers!
(photo by Age Symru on Unsplash)

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."