Rings On (and Off) Our Fingers

Sher and Yaj's wedding day (photo by Carolyn Majewski)

My darling husband made a confession when he recently returned home from an out-of-town film shoot, and honestly? Had he not mentioned this I have no clue when I would have noticed (eagle eye that I am most definitely not): Steve lost his wedding ring. Apparently he had taken it off while performing (his character in the movie was unattached), and stowed it for safekeeping in his wallet. At some point, getting gas, or coffee, or something, the ring had fallen out. It’s gone for good, and poor Stevo was quite upset. 

As it is, I have no right to criticize him. For I, too, am a ring-loser. Several times over, in fact. The first ring that disappeared was my beloved Nana’s. It was beautiful, and I have no idea why anyone would have entrusted 13-year-old me with it upon Nana’s death in 1970…me, who couldn’t keep track of her homework, “borrowed” clothing items, or anything else. I do recall the pang I felt when a panicked search yielded zilch (I have precious few mementos from my grandmother), but it wasn’t pang enough to keep me from repeat performances. 

 

Years later, my engagement ring was on-and-off my finger with regularity—sometimes the dramatic climax of an argument (and there were a few!), sometimes the absent-minded result of removing it to wash dishes. It always found its way back to me, until the fateful day I was vacuuming the living room. Suddenly I glanced down, and the little diamond (all S. could afford back in the day) had fallen out of its setting. I spotted it on the floor before it was suctioned up. I learned a very valuable lesson that day: never vacuum again.

 

The diamond languished in a baggie in a drawer for ages. I obviously wasn’t motivated enough to get it reset. Finally, I offered it to Sheridan to give to Ya-Jhu. He had it reset, and it has a sparkly new life with Yaj. It hasn’t been misplaced once in their 13 years together, and I’m positive it’s quite safe. 

Nowadays, my hands sport just a plain gold band on one finger, and on another, a ring belonging to my late sister Mo. I wouldn’t be shocked if these rings were also lost at some point, because that seems to be the way I roll, jewelry-wise. It does bother me, though, that in this one area I am just like my careless Mom. Joanie lost EVERYTHING—expensive bracelets, sweaters, Dad’s paychecks before they could be deposited—once, she accidentally threw away a large wrought-iron wall hanging! That, my friends, is not easy to do!

 

Gotta tell you, Steve’s sad feelings about this vanished symbol of our sacred union meant as much, if not more, to me than the silly ring itself. A ring, I reassured him, is very replaceable, and I’m sure it WILL be replaced. He, and our enduring love, are irreplaceable. 

 

Whatever else I lose track of in this life, let me never forget that.

Our 40th anniversary (2017)

A Shambolic Shambala

Himalayas and Tibetan Prayer Flags
(photo by Hannah Luo on Pexels)

Remember the ad for Calgon Bath Oil with the tagline: “Calgon, take me away”? Alas, my bath products rarely respond when I address them, and even if my body wash could speak, I doubt it would lead me to a fabulous island escape.   

Yet an escape is just what I’m after in these very trying times. I envy folks who have picked up stakes and decamped to the south of France or sunny Spain. Oh, sure, they have to contend with language barriers, finding affordable dwelling places, jobs, etc. But I’d endure those challenges and much more, as long as I am far from the dysfunction and lunacy of modern society!! There is dysfunction and lunacy everywhere, you say? Perhaps. But then again… 

There must be an unspoiled corner of the world, somewhere, right? A charmed locale, perhaps on a high mountain, where kindness and goodness reign supreme, and where groceries have actually gone down in price. Tibetan Buddhists call such a magical, mystical place “Shambala” (which author James Hilton wrote as “Shangri-la” in his book, Lost Horizon). There, the sun always shines, there’s a decent healthcare system, and everyone is happyhappyhappy. Shambala is a veritable Heaven on earth. Too bad it doesn’t actually exist.   

Further perusing Ye Olde Dictionary, I came across the word “shambolic,” which sounds awfully darned close to that Buddhist word for paradise, doesn’t it? However, shambolic means “chaotic, messy, and disorganized,” a far cry from the Calgonesque serenity I pictured. It occurs to me that, even if there was a Shambala, and even if I could book a one-way ticket, I would undoubtedly lug along my shambolic ways. Like the European settlers who arrived on our shores bearing the thoughtful gifts of liquor and smallpox for the native peoples who had no tolerance for either, I fear that my arrival would be nothing but bad news for the Shambalans.   

Alas, I carry my burdensome flaws and mistakes with me through life, much as I try to shed them. A change of address would most likely not change ME much. As they say, “wherever you go, there you are.”   

So where is this better world? And how do we keep from screwing it up?  

I just learned about something called ADP (adaptable high beams). These are car headlights designed to precisely illuminate the road ahead at night, without causing the glare that blinds oncoming drivers. Not yet available for most vehicles, at some future point they will be the standard. In other words, our autos’ beams will light up only what we ourselves need to see to drive safely. No one else will be bothered or endangered by our too-bright “brights.” They’ll have their own.  

What if we stopped forcing our “light” on our fellow travelers? What if we trusted our brothers and sisters with their light, their unique journeys? What if the way forward is bright, because of our differences, not in spite of them?   

Welcome to our Shambolic Shambala. Messy. Chaotic. Beautiful. Right here.

Slippery Slope

Martha Stewart, eat your heart out!

Many people’s pandemic stories (at least the tales of those of us lucky enough to escape COVID—those who got sick, of course, have the REAL stories) contain certain tropes. These include: Not Touching the Mail for Days, Cleaning the Groceries, Taking Daily Neighborhood Walks, Getting a Dog, Having Tons of Zoom Meetings, Putting on the Pandemic 15 (lbs) and Undertaking Home Improvements. Of these, the only one I missed was “Getting a Dog,” but then, both Rose and Julie adopted rescue pups, so I think I get partial credit. 

Now, nearly four years in, I have stopped doing most of the above activities—I grab my mail as soon as it arrives, plop my un-sanitized bags of food on the counter, Zoom as little as possible, and have cut back sharply on those walks (which may explain why my Pandemic 15 linger). But we are still Undertaking Home Improvements and One Improvement is Leading to the Next, and the Next, ad nauseum. 

 

First, in the summer of 2020, Steve re-finished our back deck, which of course led to new patio furniture and a fire pit. We were ready to have company—outdoors and socially distanced! Mission accomplished? Not so fast!! The interior of our abode was also crying out for attention. The family room paneling, once off-white, had aged to an ugly off-off-greyish-brownish. A new coat of paint worked wonders! But then the living room looked awfully sad by comparison, so it got painted too—which highlighted (highlit?) the shabby, shabby furniture. Out with my mom’s ancient sofa! Begone worn-out wing chairs! In with all brand-new stuff! 

 

Which, naturally, made our poor little kitchen hang its range hood in shame. Arguably the heart of our home, the kitchen had gone un-enhanced for decades (unless you count the appliances that broke and HAD to be replaced). So, just before the holidays, we launched the next phase of Operation Beautify. Luckily, some of my writing income had been set aside for this project, so we hired a professional painter to do the walls and cabinets, and another company to lay the wood laminate floor. It now looks so snazzy (we even have color-coordinated drawer knobs!) that I often just walk in and stand there, staring in wonder and joy at its loveliness. 

 

But then I mosey out to the dining room, where the big wooden table, its finish long worn away, stained with coffee mug rings and traces of magic marker (it’s also the arts and crafts table) sits in silent rebuke. Even the boys are taking notice, and almost nightly now, they mention our dingy eating surface and the urgent need to “fix it.” So that’s next on the agenda.

 

Where does it end? I’m hearing rumbles of discontent from the furniture in the upstairs bedrooms, and angry rattling from our extremely old windows. And I know, once we finally finish the re-do, the deck will start sagging again…

 

It’s a slippery slope, and we’re slipping all. the. way. down. 

                                     Peter and his Baba, down a slippery slope

Very Wordy

What do you see?
(Photo by Wolf Zimmermann on Unsplash)

I’m nothing if not randomly ambitious-- my goals are all over the place. While I am consistent in my sports aspirations (zero), I vacillate among these: seeing Thailand (where Rose lived for a year in her teens), baking a perfect croissant (Rose, who has done so, also my inspiration here), backing up my computer files more often, blowing up a balloon (don’t ask), singing again (my once-decent singing voice deserted me long ago), and keeping a houseplant alive for more than a week. See? Pretty scattershot.

Latest ambition? Increasing my Word Power, because, according to Reader’s Digest, It Pays to Do So! To that noble end, I subscribe to several daily emails that each feature a vocab Word o’ the Day. I never know what verbiage will be offered up for my elucidation. Oftentimes, the word is one I either a) already use all the time b) sometimes use or c) at least know how to spell. Those are the times I congratulate me, for utilizing such jewels as malapropism(using the wrong word, i.e. monotonous instead of monogamous), dilatory (slow, delayed) and sibilate (hissing sound). Fun fact: in childhood, I was in speech therapy for a “sibilate s” –otherwise known as a lisp. Fun FACT, mind you—mine was not a fun CHILDHOOD. 

 

But there are some doozies, and I’m challenged to casually toss them into my everyday speech. How does one work mickle (a large amount) and sensu lato (in the broad sense) into your average sentence without coming across as an insufferable snob? “Frankly, sensu lato, I have written mickle since my retirement.” Would you opt to continue a convo with this person? I think not! Therefore, I tend to use the more out-there words sparingly. My buddy Aiden, who enjoys finding out the Daily Word at breakfast every morning, is a big fan of the adjective anfractious (meandering, circuitous), but I think he loves it because it sounds just a teensy bit like a curse word, to a fourth grader “Oh, yeah? Well, you’re just a big anfractious!”

 

I am especially tickled when I finally learn the name of something I was actively wondering about. Who among us hasn’t looked up at the sky on a cloudy day and seen cumulus or nimbus clouds with shapes that reminded them of something or someone? Well, the word for that phenomenon is, according to Merriam-Webster, pareidolia (the tendency to perceive a specific, often meaningful image in a random or ambiguous visual pattern. The scientific explanation for some people is pareidolia, or the human ability to see shapes or make pictures out of randomness. Think of the Rorschach inkblot test.)

 

"Pareidolia" also applies to that slice of toast said to resemble the Virgin Mary (Hail Marmalade!) and that tree stump in the woods, featuring the grumpy puss of Uncle Joe. Pareidolia, friends. IYKYK.

 

Today’s word? Bokeh (referring to the out-of-focus parts of a photo image.) EVERY ONE of my blurry photos? Bokeh-full! Not my incompetent camera work, nope! Artistic choice!

Aiden's recent orchestra concert--I THINK he's in there somewhere