64 is the new 63

Nana the "Movie Star"

It has not escaped my notice that, on December 22, I will turn 64. While I am excited that there's a Beatles song about me, the depiction of that age by the Fab Four (”Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?”) rankles a bit. I’ll have you know that my family still needs me! Largely because I’m the main one who still feeds THEM! I am NDY (Not Decrepit Yet) and won’t stand for any remarks to the contrary!

But approaching this age brings me to reflect upon loved ones when THEY were 64. My in-laws, Leona and Phil, were 64 when Stevo and I started dating. I remember Mom Seyfried snoring softly on the Barcalounger every night down in Valdosta, GA “watching” TV, her lineup of pill bottles and her preference for polyester pantsuits. I loved her, but definitely thought of her as rather elderly. When my own mom was my current age, she was living in Atlanta with my dad, who would pass away a mere three years later. I had three of my five kids at that point, with Patrick on the way.  I thought of Joanie then as a very fun gal, but never one who would be mistaken for Farrah Fawcett, even without your glasses. 

Which brings us a generation back, to my grandmothers. Grandma Berrigan lived to be 99, a milestone I fervently hope I won’t reach--at least not the way poor Grandma did, after more than a dozen years of mental decline. So when the Beatles would have serenaded her, it was 1959. ’59 was a rather unremarkable year, unless you count statehood for Alaska and Hawaii, and the debut of the Barbie doll (unrelated events as far as I know). Again, to little me, Grandma was already in her dotage, not registering that she was still sharp as the proverbial tack, and the full-time caregiver to my Uncle Don, who had Down Syndrome. 

Nana Cunningham was a year younger than her grandma counterpart, and a thousand times more glamourous. She retained the gorgeous face of her youth (when she was a ringer for the movie star Myrna Loy), and, with a hairdresser’s help, lovely blonde hair. Nana’s sixties were spent largely during the 1960’s themselves, but no miniskirts or love beads for Nan! After retirement from teaching music in NYC schools, she spent her days doing crossword puzzles, lunching with friends, and volunteering at Lots for Little. Old lady stuff, thought I.

They are all in Heaven now, and here I am, still stubbornly earthbound. If you asked Aiden and Peter to describe me (and I beg you, don’t) I am guessing they’d mention my wrinkles, and that I fall asleep "watching" TV (my homage to Leona!) The word they most likely wouldn’t use is “young," and that’s OK. Because I’m not, not anymore. But there’s still much of life to live, and I look forward to it all.

Especially Social Security and Medicare. Whoopee!!

With my in-laws

Here's the Pitch!

 

Sheridan on the Mound

Never thought of myself as an athlete (good thing, because no one else ever thought of me as an athlete either). I really identified with Tony Fauci when he threw out the first pitch at the Nationals’ opening game, not because I have ANY science cred whatsoever, but because he did a terrible job. I felt briefly heartened, as you do when you discover that a celebrity has a weak spot (did you know Sandra Bullock can’t swim?), and thus is demoted to the human level YOU inhabit. But then I read that the Good Doctor captained his high school basketball team. Never mind. 

As much as I appreciate any expression of physical prowess, which is not very much, I have a great respect for pitchers. They are on the spot, every single inning of every single game. All focus is on them, and the pressure is tremendous. Sheridan had a brief, but stellar, career as a middle school pitcher for the Sandy Run team. Even at age 13, Sher was always Joe Cool, hurling his fastballs and change ups, retiring batter after batter, somehow managing to ignore all the shouting and screaming parents in the stands. Looking back, I wonder if this is where he honed his relaxed and confident music performance attitude. I can’t think of anything that would faze him on stage, even if the audience suddenly started yelling “Strike him out, you bum!” in mid-sonata. 

But there is one type of pitching which I can say I do fairly well. It involves no bats or balls. I pitch story ideas to magazine and newspaper editors, and so far my record is pretty good. In my kind of pitching, you must strongly and clearly (yet succinctly) sell your concept. But also give enough detail. But not too much. I challenge myself to come up with just the right word combo to make the publication’s rep want to assign me the piece. I have developed great relationships with certain editors, and have a good sense of the types of articles that appeal to them. Others are more blue sky, but I’ve disciplined myself to try anyway, even if I’m not the perfect fit. I once successfully sold a piece on Easter to a Jewish website, and for awhile I was cranking out articles for Coldwell Banker Real Estate (me, who doesn’t know her twin from her rancher). Of course, I’ve had failures, such as my rejected pitch to Money magazine (why they didn’t want a piece about my fiscal calamities astounds me), but generally I’ve had more hits than misses.

On the mound or at the keyboard, all pitchers share certain qualities. We all use tools we have developed, whether it be powerful throwing arms or a boatload o’ modifiers. We all risk appearing foolish. We all work hard to win the game (baseball or publishing). And we persevere through disappointment. 

In extra innings this morning (tenth pitch to The New York Times). This girl is outta here!

Eight articles accepted so far...just pitched them again...

FOMO

 

When I was young, I lived in a rather acronym-free world. Oh, there was UNICEF (which used to confuse me with their cardboard trick-or-treat boxes. For a long time I thought the nickels and dimes I collected on Halloween were to purchase Milky Way candy bars for hungry children in third-world countries.) I faithfully watched CBS, NBC and ABC, never dreaming there would someday be more than that trio of TV stations.  For the most part, though, my life was all spelled out.

While the acronym has a long history (the Greek letters spelling fish, IKHTHYS, stood for Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior), it didn’t enter popular culture in a meaningful way for centuries. But then, in 1844, there was an article in that delightful publication The Christian’s Monthly Magazine and Universal Review that used the abbreviation SPQR (Latin for the “Senate and People of Rome,” of course! That’s one I myself use on a daily basis!) Still, we weren’t all going around LOLing, or calling Ike and Mamie POTUS and FLOTUS, for Heaven’s sake!

Then along came  21^st century communication, dragging me with it, kicking and screaming. Suddenly we all became too lazy to type, or even utter, complete thoughts. And so it was that I learned FOMO, the perfect acronym for my life until very recently. I was consumed by the Fear of Missing Out, whether it be the season finale of Downton Abbey, or the gala holiday party everyone else in the neighborhood seemed to have been invited to. Due to our terribly limited finances when our kids were little, we missed out on Broadway premieres and restaurant openings galore. I do believe, however, we were among the first to line up when Proctor and Gamble unveiled the new, even-more-absorbent Ultra Pampers. Sadly, the only extra absorbency we noticed was the way our paychecks were extra-quickly absorbed by the purchase of these Super Diapers. 

Some aspects of life I have never had F of MO on. That would include the Wide World of Sports in all its forms, tedious school board meetings, and the Tide Pod Challenge. No regrets Missing Out on pet ownership; indeed, every cat and dog on earth can spot my antipathy miles away, so we mutually agree it’s for the best. Nor am I afraid that I’ve missed out on certain hairstyles and fashion trends, because I know they’ll ALL come back eventually, probably even beehives and culottes. 

63 year old me has outgrown her FOMO when it comes to popular song, Keto and the latest Hollywood gossip. I am glued to the current news cycle only because it is such a catastrophe—when things calm down I imagine I will relax my hyper-awareness, and once again forget the names of my state legislators. 

The world is missing out on so much these days, right? So let’s not worry about it!  It’s pointless to fear that other people are in the know, or having all the fun.

Because trust me. They aren’t. 

Let It Go

Today is the tenth day of the tenth month of the Year Which Will Live in Infamy. Time to celebrate the fact that 2020, that runaway train of disease and disruption, will soon be grinding to a halt. Remember when “20/20” just conjured up pleasant images of TV icons Barbara Walters and Hugh Downs? No more!

Not quite what I was expecting...

 

I was reading about the significance of October 10^th, and came across some sage advice from ascension guide and quantum shaman Laura Brown. And by the way, I’ve always wanted to be identified by words like that (“cupcake guru and grandchild whisperer Elise Seyfried”). I have no idea what ascension guides and quantum shamans are, but I already thought more highly of Ms. Brown before reading her comments! 

Anyway, Laura notes that the numeral 1 symbolizes  “new beginnings”, and 0 stands for “the infinite open space where miracles can literally generate out of thin air.” Put ‘em together (1 and 0) and you’ve got one rosy forecast for the day! But, she cautions, to unleash the potential of this October Saturday, we need to DO certain things. One that she suggests is to make a “reverse manifestation” list. This is the opposite of a bucket list, or a list of resolutions, or, obviously, a grocery list. With a reverse manifestation list, you write down everything you do NOT want in your life, things/habits/people you need to let go of. The idea is, that by scribbling all this unwanted stuff down, you are releasing it into the universe, and setting yourself free. 

So here goes:

I am letting go of my need to interrupt. I’ve gotten much better in general, but still do this more or less constantly with Steve. Watching the debates, it struck me anew that this is a horrible, horrible habit. However, I do say that if Stevo would just spit out his sentences a tad quicker I wouldn’t be so tempted to fill his every pause. Perhaps “talking too slowly” could be on HIS reverse manifestation list! I will be sure and suggest this to him!

I am saying goodbye to running. For years I have tried to become a runner (a jogger at least), and have felt terribly guilty that I still cannot hit a mile without wanting to throw up from exertion. Let Rose and Julie do their 5Ks and half-marathons!  I am a "stroller," and that is good enough for me.

Farewell to people who are completely unreasonable. I am always happy to engage in back and forths on issues. There comes a point, though, that these folks need to come around to my side--in other words, to be reasonable! With some people it’s been years and they’re still not agreeing with me! Time to say buh-bye!

I release my ironing board. I’ve learned at last that everything wrinkles three minutes after you put it on, right? So what’s the point?

I’m just getting warmed up and I already feel cosmically lighter! Miraculously Happy 10/10 to All!

Nightmare on Apel Avenue

 

Mister Hat and Friends (Fiends?)

Getting a jump on Halloween around here, gang! 

And no, I’m not (just) talking about the relentless parade of hellish events and realities we’ve all dealt with the past six months. 

I’m talking about living in a house with two imaginative little guys, both of whom LOVE everything about Halloween. By my reckoning, we still have 28 days to go, right? But they have already decided on their costumes (Aiden will be a giant eyeball, and Peter will be Mo Willems' pigeon). And for a couple of children who have been out of school since March, and who have very infrequent contact with other kids (and they don’t watch commercial TV), the boys are amazingly well versed in the creepy, from skeletons to goblins to mummies. Aiden just arrived in my home office with his latest artistic masterwork: a very detailed drawing of the home of someone named Mister Hat who is, in fact, just an empty hat (no face, no body). The picture includes a witch on a broomstick, and several creatures that appear to be below ground. “They’re dead,” Aiden told me cheerfully.

Now, lest you think we’re raising the Addams Family, I hasten to reassure you that Aiden and Peter really are the most pleasant and peaceable pair of boys you could ever meet. Apart from their gleeful (and sanctioned) slaughter of the spotted lanternflies in the yard, they'd never hurt any creature. Most of their fascination with the spooky comes from repeated views of Curious George’s Halloween video, a pretty tame affair featuring the lovable monkey’s Harvest Time hijinks. They have recently graduated to The BFG and a few other, edgier films, but we haven’t introduced them to Freddy Krueger, nor to Jason in Friday the 13^th. We don’t read them scary books (because even scary children’s books are enough to frighten me greatly). 

This will be a drastically different All Hallows’ Eve, in keeping with the Theme of 2020, which has been: “You Think This is Bad? Just Wait Till Tomorrow!” In our town of Oreland, trick or treating has been strongly discouraged. I don’t imagine bobbing for apples in the time of COVID is the best idea either. Ya-Jhu, the kids’ clever Mama, who really enjoys Halloween, is instead devising a little tour of our house, which will be decorated with cobwebs (I’ve got those ready to go as always:-). In each darkened room one of us grownups will be in costume, manning a table with ghostly games and candy treats for our small resident ghouls. The whole shebang will be brief I’m sure, and so to bed.

But I am heartened by the boys’ incredible resilience throughout this pandemic. They never ask to go anywhere or do anything off limits, and seem truly happy with our neighborhood as their temporary universe. I have no doubt they will have a ball on October 31^st with whatever slightly spooky fun we cook up. 

A lesson for their cranky, impatient Nana for sure.