Symptomatic

 

Extra Vitamin D! Check! Pulse Oximeter! Check! Blood Type Kit (to confirm my blood type causes the worst COVID symptoms) Check!

For roughly 63 out of my 64 years shuffling along this mortal coil, I paid scant attention to my body’s aches and pains. I detested going to doctors, taking meds, and, worst of all, doing physical therapy. If there is a Hell, it is that office where you yank those #$%%&&* pulleys out of, and back into, the wall, overandoverandoverandover, to supposedly strengthen your injured muscles. I tried to tell the therapist that I’d much prefer to just sit on the sofa watching TV and waiting for my torn rotator cuff to heal over time--as it would if I were a woodland creature out in the wild. Not that woodland creatures have access to Netflix, but nor do they have to do PT. Alas, she paid me no never mind.

I have therefore endured, without any medical intervention: a nagging finger nerve-pain thingy that's gone on for years, a foot pain thingy (extensor tendonitis, Dr. Google calls it) that still flares up, and innumerable colds, headaches and fevers. If I happened to notice an unusual spot on my skin, I’ve been more apt to muse, “Wow! That’s the shape of Idaho!” than to seek out a dermatologist. I have chosen to focus on other, much more worthwhile and interesting things in my life, and trust that Mother Nature will eventually fix whatever ails me. 

But all that changed on March 13, 2020, the beginning of Our Coronavirus Year. Suddenly, I was gripped with constant terror that I was definitely infected with COVID-19. My every shortened breath, sniffle or cough was the stuff of nightmares. I had it for sure!! How bad would it get? Would I have a chance to say goodbye to my loved ones before The End? 

Now, mind you, I never strayed from our six person bubble. Lucky for me, I do not have to grocery shop, nor am I working in an office or store, much less a hospital. I wore more masks than the Lone Ranger when I did venture out, and kept such a distance that I needed a carrier pigeon to deliver my greetings across the miles to neighbors. But still I've fretted…why can I not smell that roast? (Because I hadn’t put it in the oven yet?) Why does that cracker have no taste? (What fabulous flavor did I expect from something called “table water cracker”?) 

I kept my morbid speculations to myself for the most part, but would awaken in the night with the odd twinge that reminded me I was doomed. Doomed! Then I’d be up Googling “Odd Twinges that are Usually Fatal” at 3 AM. 

I’m a little less nutty nowadays, largely because I see a vaccine in my future (distant though it may be). And at some point I’ll be out in the busy world again, with other things to occupy my mind than the probability that my hangnail is cancerous. I can’t wait to go back to ignoring my health entirely! 

Until the next pandemic, that is.

Ugh. Go away.

Tough Luck! A Guide to Theatre Superstitions

 

Steve and I in "Pedrolino in a Pinch": that is NOT a real coin I'm holding. Steve's mustache: also not real!

As someone who believes in superstitions, many of which I learned from my Irish grandma (I’d better not EVER see you leave a hat on a bed), I was delighted to dig into the history of theatrical superstitions recently. Some of these were familiar to me from my acting days, but several were revelations (and, of course, add to the number of things I now worry about/avoid to maintain my "lucky streak.") Now, these gems can be yours as well!! Read on…

Break a leg! 

This is traditionally wished for a performer just before he/she goes on stage. History: back in Elizabethan times, as actors took their bows at the end of the show, the happy audience would fling coins onto the stage. The cast would drop to their knees, the better to scramble for the money, thus “breaking” the line of the leg. I know, that’s a stretch, but it’s true.

Elise experience: While I’ve never broken a leg (either way), I did fall on the Yellow Brick Road during a Wizard of Oz performance at a school, breaking a wrist. No coins were hurled my way, alas, or sympathy either. The principal merely gave us directions to the nearest hospital and disappeared. Ouch!

Bad Dress Rehearsal, Good Performance!

The axiom that a dreadful dress gets rid of the bad juju, leading to a sparkling show, is one every actor clings to after the prop phone doesn’t ring and the costume rips and the lines are flubbed. Surely opening night will be better!! 

Elise experience: Rarely did the same things go wrong during the actual performance. Rather, many many OTHER things went wrong. I’d mess up different lines, rip my stockings instead of my dress, and the prop phone would ring at random times throughout Act Two.

No Whistling Backstage!

History: In pre-tech times, the stagehands raised and lowered scenery by pulling on heavy ropes. They’d whistle to one another as a signal to do so. A whistling actor might well be knocked off his/her feet by crashing set pieces.

Elise experience: I’m not a whistler, so this was never a danger for me. But I’ve acted with folks who really struggle not to chirp a merry tune behind the curtain. I blame them, 100%, for the times our panels would collapse mid-show (it certainly wasn’t ME hitting the backdrop with a flying elbow! Nope! It was Willy Whistler!)

There are so many more, some comprehensible (keeping a light burning when the theatre is dark—it’s called a “ghost light” but is very practical—who wants to accidentally plummet from a pitch black stage?) some head-scratchers: never use real money, jewelry or mirrors as props (?). And finally, it’s apparently a thing that you give flowers taken from someone’s grave to the director on closing night. Get it? Show’s dead? Yeah, I think it’s a dreadful idea too.

Best of luck to you all, and remember NEVER to say “Macbeth” in a theater. It’s “the Scottish play.” You’re welcome!

Stevie Wonder performs "Superstition" on Sesame Street. Pure gold!

Honestly?

This was Take #312 of the Xmas photo that year. You can't hear my "Smile, dammit!"

It has not escaped my notice that I, along with the preponderance of my online friends, live either: a) perfect lives with our perfect families OR b) soap opera-like existences, replete with every manner of calamity. I am certainly guilty of doing a little sprucing up of my personal story now and again. Who really needs to know the last time I vacuumed? I don’t remember that myself! (Ya-jhu has a Roomba, and wields it often on all our carpeted surfaces, so I’m off the hook for that hated chore). And I’ve been known to gloss over embarrassing moments, while polishing up achievements. 

I belong to a humongous Facebook group called “Grown and Flown Parents” (at 200,000 members plus, it could be its own mid-size city at this point). The postings run the gamut as you can imagine, but way too many are along the lines of, “Advice please! My 12 year old daughter is about to graduate from high school. 6.9 GPA, valedictorian all four years, captain of every sport imaginable. She is weighing offers from every Ivy, all full rides. I don’t have a question after all, just wanted to brag!” Too many others paint their husbands (yes, it’s 95% women sharing) as either clueless doofuses, or actually abusive. These usually start with, “Am I overreacting?” and then proceed to describe totally unacceptable behavior. So I’m usually either groaning about Patty Perfection on the one hand, or feeling an urge to dial 911 on the other.

Saturday morning, however, was a breath of fresh air. One brave (and very funny) mom posted that her 16 year old son, who has been acting “like a total jerk” lately, took her car (he’s a lousy driver) to Taco Bell, where he bought himself a meal. Upon his return home, son continued to give mom grief, until she cracked, grabbed the bag of burritos from him, opened the front door and threw the bag up in a tree. She concluded, “Happy to share more mothering tips!” 

When I stopped laughing, I noticed the many responses—all equally candid, most equally hilarious. My favorite was the mom who ended lengthy bickering by her kids over the last donut in the box by cramming the whole donut in her mouth, and saying (through a mouth full of crumbs) “Problem solved!” 

It brought me back to those crazy days with all five kids living at home, and some of my less than stellar mommy moments. One day after church an older lady sweetly complimented me on my children’s good behavior in the pew. I answered, “Someday I’m going to make a video of our household, 10 minutes before we leave for service. The reason they’re all quiet is that they’ve screamed themselves hoarse!” 

And I guess that’s my message today. We are yearning for authenticity, in a world that seems more fake every day, more sanitized and more airbrushed. So, let’s be honest, OK? I think it’ll do us all good!

You go first.

                        Ah, those easy bedtimes and cozy trips to dreamland! Surely we had one or two?                                                            

Fun With Words

I remember George Carlin’s infamous routine, “Seven Words You Can’t Say on TV.” At the time, these words (c’mon, you know what they are) were off limits in broadcasting; if someone slipped, there was a time delay so the network could bleep the word out. Carlin, a true comedy pioneer, did a hilarious riff on these forbidden words. In these current, anything goes times, that bit seems really antiquated. ”Dirty” words have so invaded the vernacular that we don’t bat an eye, much less blush, when we encounter them in the media. Not sure how I feel about that, except to say that as a writer, I find using obscenities frequently is lazy, boring writing. Why overuse an expletive when there’s a whole world of fabulous words out there waiting to be chosen? 

During the past few years, I’ve become a collector of unusual, even arcane words, in English and other languages as well (German in particular). Used appropriately, they can really spice up an essay, or even a conversation. At the least, they’re fun to learn about. I’ve come to realize:

There are words for feelings you just can’t explain. Ever been struck by the sudden understanding that every stranger you see on the street has an inner life as complicated as yours? That’s called “sonder.” Been trapped at a noisy party where everybody talks but no one seems to listen? That’s “anecdoche.” I myself often experience altschmerz (bring sick and tired of the same old issues I’ve always had). Next time I see my therapist and he asks me why I haven’t made an appointment lately, I’ll say, “Doctor, it’s just altschmerz!” See if he knows what I’m talking about, him and his fancy degrees! 

There are words that used to be part of the English language centuries ago, but are no longer in use. My faves in this department are “uhtceare” and “expergefactor.” When you are lying awake before dawn and worrying, that’s uhtceare. When something wakes you up, it’s an expergefactor. So, “I was uhtcearing until 4 AM, when I finally fell asleep. At 6 AM the alarm went off—drat that expergefactor, anyway!”

Children are losing wonderful words to describe nature, because nature is not as important to them as technology. A few years ago, Evan gave me “The Lost Words.” With poetry and beautiful drawings, the book depicts words like bramble, adder, kingfisher and fern. It was inspired by the news that the Oxford Junior Dictionary has dropped 40 words like these because children were no longer using them, and that added in their place were words they DID use—blog, attachment, voicemail—all involving the virtual world. 

Pardon me for a moment while I descend from my soapbox☺ 

In closing, I just hope we will avail ourselves of the plethora of fabulous words out there, and maybe also stop cussing so darned much. How will our great-grandchildren use language someday? I don’t know, and it makes me feel some ellipsism* for sure. Agreed?

*Ellipsism: a sadness that you’ll never know how history will turn out

Peter and Aiden contemplate the future