Seasons of Blog (700th Post Today!)

 

350,000 words I have written, it's

700 mini-essays counting today

They’re not all winners, but I’m still kinda proud that

I’ve had so much on many subjects to say…

 

And that, my friends, is where my lame riff on Rent’s signature song “Seasons of Love” mercifully ends. You can stop putting my lyrics to the tune in your heads now. 

 

There aren’t many other things I’ve accomplished 700 times. Brushing teeth, I guess (at least! At least!) Cooking dinners. Telling my dear children “I love you” and “I’m not your maid." It’s a pretty short list. 

 

It's hard to believe now, but I was SUCH a quitter, back in the day. You name the sport, I quickly ditched it. Diets galore. Running challenges aplenty. My ADHD accounts for some of this, I’m sure. Daily Bible reading/meditation/tai chi? Boorrring! And for a long while I got away with doing very little, because we moved so many times in my youth (4 elementary schools! 3 high schools!) Who was going to follow up when I never turned in the summer reading book report (I’d decamped from NY to Georgia by then)?

 

It wasn’t until committing to having, and then raising, kids, that I came face-to-face with something I couldn’t easily quit. It’s good that young parents-to-be rarely calculate what’s actually involved (“525,600 Diapers,” also known as "Seasons of Poo”), or we’d be at Population Zero. But seriously, momhood gave me confidence that I was capable of following through on something meaningful.

 

It was like flipping a motivational switch. Now, I was compulsively continuing various streaks: Years as a room mother! Decades as a church worker! When I launched “Working Title” in November, 2011, it was with my clear expectation that I would thence blog until croaking, readers or no. Indeed, I envision myself on my deathbed someday, planning a post and wheezing, “Somebody plug in my computer!” (or whatever futuristic device we writers are hunting and pecking on at that point). It’ll be just my luck that my grief-stricken offspring will hear (and honor) my request as “Somebody unplug my ventilator!” 

 

There’s an innate optimism underpinning my ongoing scribbling. I write to leave something behind for the world. I don’t delude myself that my work will ever be taught at Yale, but maybe a random reader one distant day will stumble upon an essay of mine and think, “Seyfried. Hmm. I wonder if she was related to Amanda.” I can only hope.

 

700 weeks from now, we’ll be heralding December, 2038. Several of my kids will be in their fifties. So will Amanda Seyfried. There will be many more new things to experience and think about, and write about. Lord knows (Lord does know, right?) where--or even if--if I’ll be then. But in any event, my somewhat prodigious literary output--blog included--will hopefully survive, to inspire, amuse and/or have no effect at all on generations to come. 

 

That is, if I can just remember to back up my files. 

Me, circa 2011, at an early book signing. Your cue: "You haven't changed a bit!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Irish Exit

 

buh-bye! (photo by Dmitry Zlovolsky on Pexels)

 

 

I HATE goodbyes at the end of gatherings. For eons, I was trapped in the etiquette loop:

 

“Thanks for a lovely evening!” 

“You’re SO welcome.” 

“Dinner was delicious!”

“I’m glad. Not everyone likes pickled Brussels sprouts.”

 “You certainly made converts of us!”

“Thank YOU for bringing that delicate orchid plant!”

“We figured you’d be the only friends who could keep it alive!”

“We’ll do our best!”

“Make sure you feed it some pickled Brussels sprouts!”

“Of course…huh?”

“Joke!”

“Ah. Well, take care!” 

“You too!”

 

By now it’s after midnight and you still haven’t retrieved your coat. Surely this ritual is equally painful for host and guest, no?

 

So, I was delighted to learn about the Irish exit. This masterful approach to leave-taking involves a literal disappearing act. At some point, you just fade away, subtly slipping out the door. No prolonged farewells. No attenuated chitchat at the end of an already chitchat-full evening. Poof! You are suddenly gone, leaving behind a happy memory and a labor-intensive hostess gift.

 

Note: the Irish exit is only acceptable when you are not the sole guest…ideally, there are several folks in attendance, and you can gracefully ease your way out undetected. If it’s just you for dinner? Sorry, buddy, you’re stuck.

 

Why Irish? One theory is that, during the Great Potato Famine, many Irish had to emigrate to the US without time for proper farewells. Others point to the Irish resistance to showy displays of emotion, or to the stereotypical Irishman or gal who has had a bit too much to drink and just wants to get home. 

 

But it isn’t only Irish. This quick, silent adios is also known in England as “French leave,” in France as “English goodbye” and in Germany as “Polish exit.” In other words, it’s often used while throwing shade at another nationality. 

 

I confess that, in the past, I always made the effort to seek out my host/hostess, even at a crowded shindig. But nowadays I’m more and more inclined to twenty-three skidoo, rationalizing that no one will really miss me anyway, not with a mob also wending its way towards the vestibule. 

 

It’s going well so far. I’m learning to make like Casper and de-materialize when the witching hour strikes. The trick is to remember to grab your things before drifting off. A couple of times, I’ve had to shamefacedly ring the doorbell to retrieve my phone, car keys, snow boots, etc.  At that point, face-to-face with the party giver, there’s only one thing to do:

 

“Thanks so much for helping me find my wallet! I have no idea how it got into your dishwasher!”

“No worries! I didn’t even notice you had left!”

“Our sitter called. Gracie’s not feeling well.”

“Oh goodness! Hope your daughter feels better!”

“Um, it’s Gracie, our dog sitter.”

“I didn’t know you had a dog!”

“We’re planning ahead for when we get one.”

 

 

And so on, forever and ever, Amen. 

 

I’m learning to live without my snow boots. Not worth it.

Trivial Pursuits

 

Steve and I don’t frequent trivia nights in bars and restaurants. I maintain it’s because we want to give the rest of the world a chance to win once in a while. That reasoning might not hold water under further scrutiny, though. We’re pretty good at summoning up the names of every one of Hogan’s Heroes and the first female prime minister of England and the lyrical genius who penned ‘Mairzy Doats,” but during the last few decades we haven’t been paying sufficient attention to pop culture to triumph on the playing field at Gallihan’s Pub or wherever. So the truth is, we don’t play because we fear being trounced.

 

I personally fare far better playing Wait Wait—Don’t Tell Me! on NPR, and the classic Jeopardy! on TV. From home, that is, without actually entering the fray. I know that were I to ever phone in to the one, or appear in person on the other, I surely would fold like a cheap suit. 

 

Still, I love collecting trivial bits of knowledge for my newsletter, and to sprinkle into my daily convos, and I’m proud to share that Aiden and Peter are following in Nana’s footsteps. The boys have become megafans of Zack D Films, a prodigious collection of 1.9 thousand YouTube videos, which solve mysteries, demonstrate cool stunts, and pose and answer quirky questions: Why Do Snowballs Stick Together? How Do You Break Down a Door? What if a Giant Oyster Ate You? Did the Pharoahs Die Alone? Is it Possible to Swap Brains? 

 

Some of the videos are a bit gross, which cements them as must-viewing for the tween set, but my hat’s off to Zack D. He has created content that piques youthful curiosity about how the world works, and that’s a very good thing.

 

In fact, were I to design middle school curriculum (btw, call me, McGraw-Hill! I’m available!), I’d be adding Zack D stuff to the otherwise ho-hum factoids that appear on tests. Think of it: young Conor or Tessa or Zenith sits down to an exam that includes both “Who was President during the Civil War?” AND “if you fell from a plane onto a trampoline, would you bounce back up?” 

 

Much funner, no?

 

But what strikes me the most, is the ever-shifting nature of trivia itself. I mean, when the Magna Carta was written back in 1215, it was considered pretty darned far from trivial, right? But now, the M.C. is just a tidbit (FAMOUS DOCUMENTS for $1000). And I’m sure that, in centuries to come, the people/places/things that are so paramount to us, will become little more than oddities for the trivia buffs of the future.

 

This perspective is both depressing, and rather comforting (stick with me). Sure, someday Alexander Hamilton might not be recalled as the clever Colonial rapper he actually was, but maybe, if we finally solve the climate crisis, “Global Warming” will be but a dim memory. A stumper trivia question. A Zack D film, even. 

 

Here’s hoping.

 

Core Beliefs

 

Photo by Alexander Jawfox on Unsplash

As if life wasn’t complicated enough.

 

Nowadays, it’s not just about the general condition of our homes, yards, and wardrobes; I would describe all of mine—house, lawn, clothes—as “works in (no) progress." We have moved far beyond these trivial concerns, friends. In 2025, it’s all about the aesthetics. 

 

Quick definition first: “aesthetic” is a Greek word, referring to the philosophy of feeling (perceiving) that something is beautiful. Of course, that makes anaesthesia mean "feeling nothing whatsoever." Get it?

 

At some point in the recent past, the fashion and design universe has grabbed hold of the term and run amok with it. Need proof? I was just reading about something called “Mermaidcore,”  which is an “aesthetic” that includes wearing seashell earrings, and hanging living room drapes made of shiny scales (I guess?) Intrigued, I then swam right over to a Wikipedia page listing DOZENS of aesthetics, in helpful alphabetical order. Now I am much better informed, and as a public service, I am passing this wisdom on to you.

 

Herewith, a random selection of aesthetics and what they involve (note: I often joke in this blog. The following are NOT jokes):

 

Appalachian Gothic: foggy mountains with supernatural sightings, flannels, work boots, miners' hats with lamps (again, not joking)

Barbiecore: pink everything (of course), from fingernails to sportscar. 

Beigecore: neutrality is the theme here—an example given is spray-painting your Christmas tree and all the ornaments beige. The Kardashian lifestyle is referenced.

Corporate Grunge: vintage computer graphics, and retro typography. Grainy overlays, a gritty, edgy feel

Mob Wife: leopard print (coats, tops, pants), bright red lipstick and big sunglasses

Industrial Decay: celebrating the beauty of rust, crumbling structures and urban deterioration

Vacation Dad: exactly that—what dads would wear on vacation. Sub-genres include: Disney Dad, Yacht Dad and Grill Guru

 

Although my first reaction was “ok, whatever,” upon further reflection, I kinda like the idea that beauty can be seen in such a wide variety of looks and styles. Art is not just for painters and sculptors. Anyone can BE a work of art, and everyone can (and should be) an art appreciator too. In centuries past, there were generally agreed-upon standards of beauty during different time periods—and outside of those times, deviations seemed not just unfashionable, but ridiculous. Imagine King Tut in a powdered wig, Joan of Arc in a hoop skirt, the Apostles dressed like The Beatles; today, one can see people looking exactly like that in Times Square alone! 

 

Modern aesthetics are so various and fluid that I do wonder what future generations --when, quite possibly, everyone on earth will resemble R2D2--will make of this quirky, lively 21^st century. We defy a general label, that’s for sure, and maybe we’re living in the last gasp of individuality. I sure hope not. In any event, let’s celebrate all of our amazing “cores,” be they Astropunk, Forestgirl or (my fave, for obvious reasons) Grandmacore. 

 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So let’s behold it, everywhere.

 

Whimsy and Weirdness

Happy Meatloaf!

Whimsy. Weird. One means light, fun, fanciful. The other means odd, strange, bizarre. I would argue that defining something/someone as “weird” or “whimsical” is super subjective and that, often, they go beautifully together. 

A recent article in the New York Times’ “Well” newsletter supports this assertion. In it, the author lists several qualities of a happy life. #1 is Create weird rituals. The example cited is a behavioral scientist who always places birthday candles in a baked meatloaf before serving it, and has his dinner guests then merrily sing “Happy Meatloaf to You!” I hope he alerts his company to this weird ritual beforehand, because otherwise he might risk eating meatloaf alone for the rest of his life. 

 

Pretending a meatloaf is a chocolate layer cake certainly qualifies as weird—but also whimsical, especially if the scientist insists on everyone wearing little party hats. That is the only weird ritual described in the article, but I’m sure there are tons more. Adults who don bulbous red clown noses when attending church. Job applicants who list “Pig Latin” as their second language. Folks who make their beds on the floor, and use their actual beds as nightstands. Families who enjoy barking and chasing cars in the neighborhood. Be honest, don’t you do some of these yourself? I know I do!  And they (the church clown nose and the car-chasing) definitely boost my happiness, even as they deeply trouble my neighbors. 

 

The same day I read the Happy Life article, I stumbled upon a TikTok comment thread replying to a TikTokian request for “silly, fun things you say and do!” Well, talk about whimsical AND weird! Someone says she’ll only criticize herself using a Cockney accent. Another, having made a mess, responds by muttering "and...scene!” as if she’s directing a movie starring a clumsy goofball. Ordering an item for yourself from Amazon and filling in “is this a gift?” with the message: “I deserve a little treat!” Telling your pet hamster not to answer the door while you’re away. 

 

Aren’t these adorable? I mean, I wouldn’t go as far as telling my unwashed dishes “it’s bath time!” but that’s only because Steve does all the dishes in our house. And I don’t say “thanks—good to know!” when Siri responds, but that’s only because I have no idea how to use Siri. Otherwise, they’re solid suggestions, sure to gain me a wide reputation for being madcap.

 

However, just because one CAN be weird and whimsical, doesn’t mean it’s always a good idea. Would you trust an offbeat (get it?) police officer (“I have you clocked going 450 miles per hour! Or maybe my clock is broken! Haha!”)? How about choosing a funeral director (“We thought Grandma would look better wearing ‘fake glasses and mustache’ at her viewing!”)?

 

I guess it’s really only safe to be a W and W sort if you're a comedian, or you don’t mind if your friends think you’re crazy. 

 

Luckily, I qualify on both counts. 

don't we all?

Lemonading

 

Rose and her friend Hannah (and tiny Julie) back in the day

 

What can I say about lemons?

 

One (spelled Lemmon) was a fine actor.

Lululemon is an activewear brand that I’d wear (if I was ever active).

Then there’s my orange Gremlin (first car--a total lemon, its color notwithstanding)

I used to think that putting lemon juice on my face would help get rid of my freckles. Nope!

Lemons perk up the flavor of fish, and make a dandy meringue pie as well.

I know someone who has a lemon tree in their house that actually produces lemons.

I also know that Peter, Paul and Mary had a hit song about a lemon tree. Not my friend’s lemon tree, though. Another one.

 

Then there’s the sage advice: “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”

 

I admit, I struggle with that suggestion. I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense to just give those lemons right back to life? “No thanks, and please don’t hand me any more of these. I’ll take some Godiva chocolates though, or some pricey jewelry—as long as you’re handing me stuff.”

 

But no. Apparently THOSE lemons are non-returnables, and I am now supposed to do something wonderful with them. Which is sometimes possible, but often not really. How to make lemonade out of your dire medical diagnosis, or a death in the family? Don’t have that recipe, alas. You’re fired from your job a week before you can receive retirement benefits? Wait a sec—let me whip up some tasty lemony beverage and we’ll toast that incorrigible ex-boss of yours!

 

I realize that it’s the attitude adjustment that is the point. Such as: always look on the bright side/it could be worse/at least you still have (fill in the blank). Chin up, cheer up, turn that frown upside down!

 

Here’s the problem, though. My personal attitude doesn’t adjust all that well. When things are horrible, they just ARE, and I feel horrible about those horrible things. Why is that so…horrible? For instance, while I try to find a silver lining in my bipolar disorder, a lot of the time I just hate that I have it. It is not a “blessing,” in or out of disguise. When I give myself permission to grieve about my mental illness, paradoxically, I usually feel much better. 

 

Toxic positivity is real. It’s born of society’s unwillingness to deal with pain, an inability to empathize. Far better to live in La La Land (the magical place where everyone covers their ears and sings “lalala” to drown out sadness and difficulty). And honestly? I think it’s a reason we’re in such a pickle right now—too many just refuse to see our country falling apart (making it tough to do anything about it). 

 

My sage advice? The next time life hands you a lemon, recognize it for the sour tasting thing it is. Cry if you need to. Feel those sad feelings. They are the beginning of wisdom, and compassion. And they will make the better times ahead, all the sweeter. 

 

Promise.