Vesper Flights

I have long been drawn to the patterns of morning and evening prayer common in convents and monasteries. Of course, this does not mean I actually DO this habitually. I am usually muttering prayers sporadically throughout my day—desperate prayers after listening to the news, prayers as technology malfunctions and deadlines approach. I’d love to say I kneel at my bedside just before sleep, but my knees are shot, and I’m also too tired to think of anything to say to God. 

I have attended some vespers services over the years, which made my discovery of a lovely New York Times essay about “vesper flights” even more delightful. It seems that swifts fly in the evening straight up, out of sight and above the clouds. They gather and hover together, half-sleeping (most birds can do this, sleep while in the air). Scientists have discovered that they are doing more than snoozing. They are orienting themselves, ascertaining the weather and exactly where they are in relation to the earth and sky. They can see the stars. They can see down as well. And they make decisions about future activity based on the collective understanding of all the birds in the group.

The author, Helen Macdonald, suggests that we might do well to imitate the swifts: traveling lightly, periodically taking a long view of our lives and our world, and referring to collective wisdom when making our choices. It is so easy to get bogged down in the trenches of living, so easy to lose track of where we are and where we are heading. Especially nowadays, our minute-by-minute adjustments to the pandemic make it so difficult to have perspective on our place in the universe. It can feel impossible to rise above our worries and fears.

Bu there’s magic in the vesper flights, when suddenly the bird’s calls can no longer be heard, and they utterly disappear. I think of the disciples witnessing Jesus’ ascension: all at once, He disappeared into the heavens. Where was He? Was He gone for good? But Christ had promised that His spirit would remain with them. Just as the swifts vanish, but remain, during their vesper flights, we have faith that the Lord still is, even though we no longer see Him. 

And maybe, when we gather in prayer, we are flying too. We are winging our way up, past all the world’s troubles, to a place of safety and peace. And if we believe that we will live with God after death, it makes sense that we can experience little ascensions before that. So let’s learn from our mysterious friends the swifts. May we drop our burdens and move lightly through life, regularly reorienting ourselves to where we are and where we are going. May we lean on one another, and make choices that help one another. May we make those vesper flights, together, until the time comes when at last we shed our physical selves, and our immortal souls soar forever into eternity.

                      From Sergei Rachmaninoff's "All Night Vigil" (Vespers, op. 37)

Don't Look Back

Baby Julie! I think! 

As a mom, I spend a decent amount of time remembering my kids’ childhoods. Or at least, trying to piece events together from archaeological evidence--my periodic digs through old photos, school papers and drawings, receipts with someone’s (Rose’s? Evan’s?) adorable sayings scribbled on them. And like archaeologists, a lot of the time my findings are inconclusive and subject to revision (wish I could carbon-date some of this stuff). Alas, my offspring seem equally fuzzy on details…darn it! I was counting on THEM to recall whose third grade teacher was whose! 

As a writer, I’m also often in a reflective mood, turning world happenings over in my mind, trying to make some sense of it all. There are periods in history that fascinate me: the Dust Bowl, for instance (as a “relaxed” housekeeper I wonder how long it would have taken me to realize that more than the usual amount of dust was settling over everything), and Elizabethan England (I’m assuming that, in lieu of taking time to bathe, everyone just studied how to say everything in iambic pentameter). What was life like in an ancient Greek city-state? Aboard a Viking ship (the original, not the luxe Viking River Cruises)? I wonder…

But there are certain “looks back” that are just too painful to contemplate for long. My sister Mo’s fatal car accident. My mom’s difficult last years, which coincided with the worst of my mental illness. When I think of these, I get the same sensation as when I poke around at a sore tooth with my tongue. Hurts like heck and does no good whatsoever. I truly understand that I, that we collectively, should never forget the horrors of the Holocaust or the tragedy of Vietnam, lest mankind make the same mistakes again (as mankind is so prone to do). But some memories have a terrible price, in terms of unmanageable emotional distress. 

And, while we’re too close now to know, I’m wondering if the pandemic is something I’ll look back on a lot when it finally ends, or becomes endemic, or whatever happens. I re-read the various pieces I wrote, starting very early on (March, 2020), when I was brave and optimistic (we’ll get through this together! We’re caring for each other!) and then in later months, as things dragged on and on, it was pep talk time, with wishful thinking thrown in. (Sure, we’re torn apart as a country by this, but we can do better! We will do better!)

At this point, I’ve run out of words to describe the havoc and suffering and sorrow COVID-19 has caused. I’ll be 65 next week, and I don’t want to re-live the past two years for the rest of my life. Personally I know that health issues and the loss of family and friends are in my future anyway, and I want to, need to, find and focus on the joys that remain.

And so, masked, distanced, and, hopefully, wiser, I’ll be looking ahead. And not back. 

Movie Mania

Remember the  Stone Age, when you snagged that bulky videotape of Grease II (from Blockbuster, of course) and then didn’t watch it until you had accrued at least $15 in late fees? I recall the eventual death throes of that video rental behemoth, when suddenly all late fees were suspended! Forever! Just come back, please!!!!! The money I have saved ever since, has funded a prime spot in Meadowoodbrookaire 55+ Retirement Community someday! Actually, the money I have saved must be under the sofa cushions somewhere. 

Our ways of watching movies have evolved, no doubt about it. In my early childhood there was the occasional trek to Radio City Music Hall for the latest Julie Andrews epic (I do believe the beloved British songbird starred in every single musical in the 1960s, including Sweet Charity, where she winningly portrayed a hooker with a heart of gold turned magical nanny, unless I’m mistaken.) At home, I could watch flicks from years gone by on “Million Dollar Movie,” which aired on TV at 4:30 PM daily in New York City. I was five years old then, and only dimly aware of Bette Davis and Humphrey Bogart (though I did notice that, while they smoked incessantly, my dad smoked more).

Later in elementary school, the family moved to Atlanta, where our apartment was thisclose to North Springs Movie Theatre! Walking distance to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the Franco Zeffirelli version of Romeo and Juliet, and Patton (which I inexplicably adored). Tickets were, I think, $.75, so for a mere three hours of babysitting the Butler Kids from Hell @$.35), I could afford to go, multiple times. 

During my 20s, I became quite the aficionado of foreign films, making weekly pilgrimages to the Film Forum in Buckhead to watch either shocking sliced Spanish eyeballs (Bunuel) or the slow, moody Scandinavian dissolution of a marriage (Bergmann). I became such a snob that I ONLY watched subtitled movies, thinking them far superior to those filmed in the language I spoke.

Then came the childbearing years, when at cocktail parties I would discuss the relative artistic merits of Aladdin III and Land Before Time VI. I was aware that films for grownups were still being produced, but I was too tired to watch them. There was a brief period when the kids were older, but still home, and we could enjoy actually excellent films together (I would push for Ordinary People and Tootsie, while Steve would opt to introduce them to that timeless horror classic, The Blob).

Now it’s all HBO and Netflix, mostly at home since the pandemic began. We never have to wait a millisecond for our celluloid gratification, as absolutely everything is “on demand.” And I appreciate the convenience for sure. But there are times I find myself missing the eager anticipation of a Friday night trip to Blockbuster, where we’d survey the VHS tape boxes lined up on the shelves. And then hustle home with our prize. The Mighty Ducks. Again. 

Giving Tuesday

My blog production team (just kidding, I have no idea who these people are)

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How fitting that today has been christened “Giving Tuesday!” For today I give you the last of my November blog posts! Let me tell you, I am super happy to give this one away; it’s been nagging at me this entire month. “Write something great!” it whines. “Don’t cheat your readers out of a grand finale!” To which I respond: “Quiet! You’re a blog post, for Heaven’s sake! If I want to make you a laundry list, or a traffic ticket, or a recipe for ambrosia, you can’t stop me!” But I realize I do owe you (and myself) a little somethin’ somethin’ as we ride collectively off into December, so here goes:

I hereby give you these pearls of wisdom: 

Two pounds of fish will never stretch for two nights. Period. Oh, you can try to give each of your five ravenous housemates a teensy sliver of steelhead trout, and even suggest they load up on the cauliflower. But inevitably someone (I name no names, but perhaps he is my eldest son) asks for just a teensy sliver more. There goes THAT grocery budget!

There will be long periods of rejection when you send out your writing (or audition for roles, or job hunt), and you will struggle mightily with your self-esteem. Never fear! You will get a writing or acting or business gig! In fact, you’ll get MANY on the same day. So many that you cannot juggle them all. To the point where you’ll say to God, along with the beloved Tevye in Fiddler, “We are Your chosen people. But, once in a while, can't You choose someone else?”

You will drive your car (Elantra, though I name no names) for nearly a year without incident, until the very day of inspection, when your wheels fall off and your radiator overheats just as you are pulling into the service station. And you haven’t made room in the budget for the repairs. This is where you are glad you got all the crazy gigs referenced above. Though they’ll still not be enough to pay the bill.

You will finally bite the bullet and purchase a generator, recalling frigid winters past. Count on your 6ABC meteorologist to chortle, “Warmest winter on record! Another January scorcher on tap for today!” The same thing will happen should you decide on central air next summer, “Snow in August? Believe it, folks!”

In the spirit of the day, I also give you:

My COVID-19 pounds (enjoy!)

My collection of mostly-consumed refrigerator mustards

My mother’s ancient sofa, which has been in my living room for 20 years, in a state of great disrepair. Watch out for the springs!

Our jumbled box of batteries, some usable and most not, but all of which you will have to test each and every time you pull one out.

My vast cookie cutter collection, from mammoth starfish to very small Ace of Spades. Because I don’t do cut out cookies.

It feels so good to be a giver! 

So. many. batteries.

The Point of No Return

I haven't even read this book, and somehow I own TWO COPIES

As a dedicated non-store shopper who, I say with some modesty, has single-handedly elevated Amazon to the internet behemoth it is today, I should know better. Should have the rhythm by now, internalized the magic date after which my purchase could no longer be returned for a refund or credit to my account. Yet, as I survey my little domain, I see many, MANY items I no longer want to own (if I ever did), just sitting there, gloating. “You’re stuck with us, sister!” I imagine the mistakenly bought book and the wrong color sweater saying. “NO one else would want us, and you missed your golden chance to unload us. Enjoy owning that novel you’ll never read, while you’re wearing the mustardy-puce sweater. Loser.” 

I am reflecting on other aspects of my life that have reached the point of no return. At almost 65, it truly is too late to get my pilot’s license I think (if my age doesn’t disqualify me, my 20/200 vision does). I will not embark on a new career as a house flipper (heck, I can’t even get my own house in good enough shape to flip). Medical school is no longer an option for me, nor is seminary (I still hate both the sight of blood, and the prospect of a year of Biblical Greek). There’s no going back to my youth. The childbearing ship has sailed. There is far more behind me, than ahead of me. 

Sometimes, I’m fine with that, because there are many aspects of my life’s journey I would hate to revisit (6^th grade P.E. class leaps to mind). But there is much I am sad to look at, receding in my rear-view mirror. And, mostly, I’m sad when I no longer have a choice. Doors slam shut. It is too late, a lot of the time.

Many experts are saying that our planet is reaching a point of no return. I just read a report warning that climate change is accelerating at a far quicker pace than current models had predicted. It is, I’m horrified to think, possible that our kids and their kids will be dealing with a planet that is becoming uninhabitable. 

But on some level, we are always at the point of no return, aren’t we? The clock neither stands still, nor reverses course. Our lives are the sum of the irrevocable choices we make. There’s no “do over” of a day, because that day is once and done, forever. And while we can (if we pay attention) successfully return an unwanted Amazon package, we can never undo what we have said and made happen.

I am currently putting together our Advent Prayer Center, and one of the meditations this year is about forgiveness, including forgiving ourselves (the hardest kind of forgiving). I’ll never return to yesterday, or even the last hour, so maybe I should be gentler with myself as I come to grips with this harsh reality. 

No returns? All right, then. Onward.

No return to my newlywed days. That's fine.

Overdrawn

writing on empty

I woke up a few minutes ago on this, Day 28 of the blog-a-thon, feeling wonderfully accomplished. My post for the day was written and it was really solid. I’d even chosen the pictures to go along, so it was just a matter of hitting “publish’! Boom!

So imagine my dismay when I opened my laptop to see…a blank computer screen. No, I hadn’t accidentally deleted a marvelous piece of prose (though that would also have been dismaying); it turned out I had DREAMED the whole thing. Yep, during the final dream of the night (which for me is always a doozy), the words had flowed like a rushing river, and I had created a work of true blog art. The kicker is--that is all I recall of the dream; none of the content of my writing stayed with me at all. 

Not an excuse, dear readers, but perhaps an explanation: my idea bank is overdrawn this month. November has been chock full of projects, all of which have involved copious amounts of creative writing. There’s been a ton of church stuff…writing multiple meditations for our Advent Prayer Center (this year we’re offering in person AND at home video experiences), coming up with content for our Christmas Eve family service in church AND the family-made videos for our virtual pageant.  Also, I’ve written two essays for the ELCA’s Gather magazine, a new essay with recipe for a fun food site I contribute to, and written five humor essays for the humor writing sprint group I’ve joined (two of which have been published on comedy websites). 

Topping it all off with 30 posts is proving to be a bit much, except in my dreams obviously.

I do keep a small notebook of random ideas for pieces, so that was the first place I looked this morning. Sadly, I’ve used every single one (except the bad ones, of which there were several). I am my own harshest critic, and am compulsive about not repeating a subject. I always go back and search all of my previous pieces to make sure I haven’t written too often about Peter, say, or prayer, or Peter praying, though the other night I did overhear Peter praying, to Santa (!) for an Octonauts toy for himself and a “box of treasures” for his brother, so it’s a shame I can’t write about that (or maybe I just did).

I have a little mnemonic device I use when I forget something. I pretend there’s a filing cabinet in my brain, and I go through the process of opening the imaginary drawers, assuring myself that whatever I’ve lost is in there. It even works sometimes! And at dinner recently when Aiden was stumped mid-tale, he clutched his forehead and pretended to pull open his own filing cabinet! I was so proud! 

I believe I can pick myself up after this stumble on the track and finish strong. 

Maybe I’ll go back to bed and re-read my dream post!

Mrs. Cellophane

Cactus Flower

 “Shoulda been my name, Mister Cellophane, cause you can look right through me, walk right by me, and never know I’m there.” (from Chicago)

I’ve never been one to shrink from attention. Even as a tot, I tried hard to command the room, especially rooms where grownups had gathered to chat about grown up things. I wasn’t a screamer, nor prone to tantrums. Instead, I charmed my way to center stage and then stayed there, never yielding, until at some point my audience either fell asleep or crept away. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard a six year old belt out “Just You Wait, Henry Higgins” with a flawless Cockney accent! That was me, Little Miss Showbiz. 

After a school career largely spent performing in plays (several of which I wrote myself), I launched a theatre career along with my actor sweetie Steve. While I never wowed them with my great beauty, I was attractive enough (and perky! Ever perky!) to land the ingenue roles in many a dinner theatre comedy. From Cecily Pigeon in The Odd Couple to Toni Simmons in Cactus Flower, the girls I played were always pretty, but usually not the sharpest tools in the shed. 

Even when I wasn’t performing, I was accustomed to getting my fair share of male attention in public (though I ALWAYS cringed when whistled at). I stayed young-looking for decades, so that stage of life lasted quite a while. I was always a fairly modest dresser, except for a stretch of bipolar mania in my late forties when I actually bought (and wore!) a leather miniskirt. But no matter what, though it wasn’t always welcome notice, I was definitely noticed.

At some point in my early fifties, that all changed. I suddenly became invisible. Walking past construction sites I rated dead silence, and if anyone did speak to me, they called me “ma’am.” In gatherings, I would try vainly to make eye contact with people, but most often they would look right over me, searching for someone more appealing with whom to converse. 

I’ve never really worked in a traditional business setting, so I haven’t experienced a lot of mansplaining, and men stealing my ideas and presenting them as their own, but my daughters say this happens all the time. This is another type of invisibility that women have to deal with, and it really stinks. Women are still unfairly passed over for promotions and raises. Women who do speak up are deemed “shrill” and ”bossy.” Better to stay quiet and compliant and, for Heaven’s sake, make every effort to look like a 20 year old! 

I live in an era where I can’t look forward to being revered as a wise elder of the tribe. Instead, I’ll continue to be Elise the Friendly Ghost, gradually fading away as the years pass. Ironically, the little girl who received so much attention, has become an older woman who’s just another anonymous face in the crowd. 

Yoo hoo! I’m over here! Anybody?

Plate Full of Thanks

Seyfried art installation

It all began with a second grade art project. Aiden came home last week with a place setting he had drawn, which included a paper plate decorated by things for which he was thankful. Sheridan quickly made his own “plate of thanks.” Last night after our wonderful Thanksgiving dinner, we broke out the Chinet plates and markers and the family went to town designing their own versions. I was delighted with their results (the only one not yet represented is Ya-Jhu, who was busy cleaning the kitchen during our impromptu art session (that earns Yaj a prime place on MY “plate of thanks.”) 

It was fun seeing the different items on the plates, from doggies and music to back scratches to sleeping late to, of course “friends and fam.” But, more than a silly game, it was an opportunity to stop and think of what we were all truly grateful for this year. For me, the #1 thing was definitely being together, indoors, for Thanksgiving with my family, after two incredibly difficult years mostly spent apart. Through the wonders of technology, we were able to see and talk with Evan in Seattle, and C in Honolulu, as well (yay, FaceTime). We look forward to having Ev with us for Christmas, and hopefully Ashlyn too (Pat’s lovely significant other has a large and close family, so no doubt we’ll have to fit into her plans where we can). 

I can’t say I ever took holiday gatherings like this for granted, exactly. I’ve often written about the cheerless “celebrations” in my family of origin. Mom in particular detested any activity involving cooking, or cleaning, or fussing of any kind (for Joanie, Thanksgiving was a horrible combination of all of these). 

In my late teens, when Steve and I became a couple, we would drive down from Atlanta to Valdosta for Thanksgiving with his parents. That was much better, although the sheer amount of food was completely overwhelming. I was still totally full from our 1 PM feast when, at 6 PM or so, Mom Seyfried would break out the leftover turkey and stuffing sandwiches, lest any of her brood perish from starvation. For Leona, as well, I think these ultra-holidays made up for HER miserable childhood, when the family of ten children often didn’t have enough to eat, truly. 

During my kids’ growing up years, and since, the last Thursday of November was always a joy, well worth the fuss and bother. This year, Julie and Gil (now vegetarians) brought veggie lasagna. Patrick made the ultimate cornbread with honey butter. I baked a maple custard tart with an oatmeal cookie crust, which turned out great.

Last night, as we swapped our dinner plates for our artistic ones, I was struck by how little, for me, Thanksgiving has to do with food after all. It's a time to really focus on my blessings, many of whom were gathered around my table after far too long. 

What’s on YOUR plate of thanks this year?

sk8r boiz

                                                                    The Natural

At age 37, Sheridan has decided to take up skateboarding. He’s not a “do crazy tricks at the skate park” kind of guy; his goal is to get good enough to take the board on the train next spring and then finish his commute to Kohelet Yeshiva (the high school where he teaches) on his own wheels. My oldest son has applied the same, laser-focused singleness of purpose that he brought to baseball as a young child, and later, of course, to his beloved music. He’s out there almost daily after work, cruising through the neighborhood, remarkably steady and well-balanced. Soon, he graduated from a long board to a short board (yeah, I know, I don’t understand either). In the evenings after dinner, he’s been known to regale Aiden and Peter with YouTube videos of other skateboarders and their feats of daring. The boys are all agog, and I’m sure that means they too will be clamoring for boards in the not-too-distant future.

You might think a man in his late 30s would look a bit silly, but not Sher! He takes the whole enterprise quite seriously, and therefore everyone watching him does too. 

Meanwhile, Aiden now is on rollerblades. When Baba is practicing on his skateboard, Mr. Aiden is usually out there too, rolling down the driveway and gliding easily to a stop. He has inherited his dad’s poise and looks perfectly at ease, even when tackling some decent-size hills. When I can bring myself to watch, I notice that, while Sheridan is totally aware of Aiden at any given moment, he is not hovering at all; instead, Sher concentrates on mastering his own sport. Their time together is companionable and low-stress, dad and son sportsmen having a blast.

Quite a difference from his fretful, hand-wringing mom, who couldn’t take her eyes off her children for a millisecond when they were in any perceived danger--say, digging a small hole in the sand at the beach. “Not too deep!” I would caution, “It might collapse on you!” That usually drained all the fun from their endeavor, and that really wasn’t my intention. But I ended up passing along my anxiety anyway, like a big, wet blanket. 

Ya-Jhu has similar parenting instincts to her husband’s, and as a result the boys adore climbing trees and monkey bars, without being yelled at to “be careful for Heaven’s sake!!” (when I would do that, my offspring would inevitably fall down.) I don’t want to miss out on my grandsons’ every hike and bike adventure, so I’m trying to bite my tongue and let them be. 

Winter will bring a break for my skateboard and rollerblade boys. But they’ll no doubt be sledding, and probably even skiing at some point. The parade of dangerous pastimes knows no season! But maybe I can make a real effort to change my ways. Perhaps, by Spring, I will debut the All-New, Laid-Back Elise!

Spring of 2040 is the goal. I didn’t specify NEXT Spring, did I?

Maybe one of them, someday?

Experiencing Delays

Rose delighted with a Xmas gift way back when! She may have to make do with the memory!

I don’t know about you, but my patience is wearing thin, in general (not that I ever had all that much to begin with). All around me are delays: ridiculous phone call hold times, letters and cards coming days or even weeks behind schedule, and now it’s the supply chain! I had honestly not given a ton of thought to HOW my Amazon purchases arrived at my door (I had a Santa-like fantasy image of UPS drivers in brown delivery sleighs, circumnavigating the globe overnight). Now I come to realize that MUCH of my stuff is on container ships, that are not being unloaded quickly. That stalled cargo may well include the few Christmas gifts I have ordered as of now. I’m afraid to order more because I don’t want to see the dreaded “estimated delivery date: January 9-February 15” on my computer screen. I haven’t gone holiday shopping in a physical store in years, so that option is off the table (Julie is my personal shopper, and I’m afraid she won’t have much luck this Yuletide either). I’m preparing myself for a festive Christmas morning of shaking gift cards out of envelopes, which is OK for the grownups I guess, but maybe less than thrilling for Aiden and Peter (“Starbucks! Nana, you shouldn’t have!”)

Evan is heading home for Christmas, and I know booking his flight was difficult (he couldn’t even get the same airport to fly in and out of from Seattle). I’d be shocked if he landed anywhere close to on time, and I just hope he doesn’t get in the middle of a fracas between an unhinged traveler and a flight attendant (those seem to be happening with such frequency that they could be filmed and people could watch like a prizefight on pay-per-view). 

What is the matter with everybody? Me included? I’d say we weren’t like this (horrible) in the past, however, I know humans have always tended to be stinkers. But nowadays, we behave like spoiled toddlers (“Me want it!!! Waaaaah!!!”) the second we don’t get our way. Intellectually I realize that we’re all super-reactive because of the pandemic, at least in part. Emotionally, though, all I want to do is run away and join an ashram. Spending my days meditating and eating bowls of rice sounds so restful!

One thing that is helping me is having a sense of humor. I recently joined a small humor writing cohort online, and it’s been a hoot. Every week we each come up with five funny pitches, vote on each other’s ideas, then write comedy pieces based on the winner. In addition to giving me lots of new material to (hopefully) place somewhere, it’s just such a great opportunity to laugh at life (in fact, one of my comedy buddies is writing a piece called “The Real Man’s Guide to Fixing the Supply Chain”). 

So as we plunge into the zany holidays, may we all take a deep breath, laugh heartily, and chill out a little. 

Company in NYC

At Rose's apartment

I remember Julie and Rose’s panic during the early days of COVID, when even stepping out of their New York City apartments exposed them to an elevated risk of infection. My girls were there for the worst of it, when the Big Apple was a global epicenter for the virus, when the hospital morgues were overfull, when every night people opened their windows and sang to the first responders. As after 9/11, those were days when enormous, anonymous New York pulled together, even if briefly, as a family under siege. 

Conditions, as of this writing at least, are much improved. Steve and I actually went up to Brooklyn last month and took Rose out for a birthday dinner at a lovely restaurant, indoors. I was quite anxious about the trip, but very heartened to see all the precautions still in place (we weren’t allowed into the café without our proof-of-vaccine cards, for example). And while it’s virtually impossible to really distance there, people were clearly making an effort (and I’ve never seen so many face masks). 

On January 8^th, we’re heading back, for a little company—the wonderful Sondheim musical Company, that is, which has reopened for a short Broadway run. We’d had tickets for late March 2020, which were of course cancelled, and for a time I wondered if or when we’d ever feel safe in a theater again. But we’ve decided to return this winter, and I really feel fine about this. This production features the legendary Patti LuPone, with Katrina Lenk playing the lead (formerly the main character was a man, Bobby, a bachelor whose married friends kept trying to find him a mate). I'm so excited to see the re-written version; I had seen Ms. Lenk in The Band’s Visit pre-pandemic, and she’s super talented. 

We’d no doubt be even safer staying home, and if there’s a surge or other major pandemic related issue, we’re prepared for another postponement. But taking this small step back into a somewhat normal life is worth it to us. Broadway theaters are relatively small and very old, and the seats are close together. I recall previous audience experiences, packed in so tightly that I felt I was related to my seat mates by intermission. But I am reassured of the status of my fellow theatre buffs, and I truly appreciate the huge number of safety steps taken in New York. 

Looking further ahead, I don’t think we’ll be done with the masks for a good while, especially inside. But I’ve gotten used to them, and actually feel weird in public when I’m unmasked. Every communal outing will provoke some anxiety for the foreseeable future, and I’m sure some activities just won’t be worth it to me. For instance, I haven’t been to an Eagles game since the lockdown began--but then, I’ve never been to one, nor do I have a scintilla of interest. However, I can’t wait for classical concerts and art museums again. 

And curtain time on Broadway.

                                                        Company opening number

SUBJECT:

One of my yearbook photos, unstaged (yeah, sure)

I took a stroll through my inbox today, and realized that many, if not most, subject lines for mass emails are pretty ridiculous. Here’s a small sampling:

She died from a snakebite. But the real killer was her husband (CNN)

I expect more from CNN than this obviously clickbait-y headline. Of course I opened it though. Isn't it every wife’s nightmare, when hubby arrives home with a bouquet of roses that includes a hidden copperhead? I have never been very cautious when Steve brings me flowers, but I may have to re-evaluate!

Our Most IN-Demand New Denim! (Betabrand)

Opening this tantalizing email reveals the promise of One ZILLION New Designs. For blue jeans? What, do they have three legs? Do they double as parachutes? Can you use them as coffee filters? How many changes can we ring on this most basic type of pants? I am in good shape, jean-wise, so this gets a hard pass.

Top Ten Gifts We’re Into This Week (The Grommet)

Cilantro Microgreen Kit! Magnetic Construction Blocks! Hexagonal Beer Pong Game!  This is the online equivalent of the 100,000 catalogs I’m getting in the regular mail on the daily, and I honestly can’t see one item that I’m tempted to buy for my “near and dears.” However, I am considering the Amazing Butter Dispenser as a treat for myself, because I never figured out how to use a butter knife.

Save 10% on Your Car Hire Now (Irish Car Rentals)

The girls and I were in the Emerald Isle in 2017. Much as I’d love to be planning another road trip in Eire, it’s just not in the cards right now. But wow! 10% off is much too good to pass up, so I may go ahead and rent a random car in Ireland anyway. You don’t see deals like THAT every day, right?

Your 1974 St. Pius High School Yearbook is On Sale! (Classmates.com)

OMG!!! For a mere $99.95 plus shipping, I can own a second copy of my senior yearbook, just in case I accidentally toss the first one into the trash! I long to page through and delight in the hairdos, the “most likely to’s”, the football pix (many) and the theatre pix (relatively few), that capture the special flavor of a Southern high school in the early 70s. No photos of my peers smoking pot on the school lawn during “open campus,” but I don’t need pictures to remember that!

And so on (and on). 

I send my fair share of weekly church emails to our Confirmation parents, Bible Study members, etc. and I think I’m missing the boat, as they don’t stand out from the crowd (which is perhaps why I get such a poor response). But what if I used some “teaser” subject lines? Here’s my thought going forward:

SUBJECT: 10% Off Denim Yearbooks When You Hire Your Irish Car and Buy Our Venomous Beer Pong Game!

Now that I have your attention, Sunday School at 9 AM this week. 

Wives, beware!