Hothouse Flower

 

A few of my fellow hothouse flowers! (Photo by Matthias Boeckel on Pixabay)

Since when did I become so darned persnickety about the weather? As a child, my two sisters and I would bed down happily on sheets spread on the living room floor in front of a box fan during blistering summer nights. In my teens, I rather enjoyed bundling up for winter (so long as I wore very fashionable boots and a flattering, not-too-puffy coat). 

I did notice my tolerance for temperature extremes start to wane as I hit my 40s, when I began to muse (not TOO seriously) about living in a more moderate clime (Hawaii leapt to mind). The greater Philadelphia area, with its infrequent (but brutal) blizzards and frequent cold snaps in winter, and thunderstorms and heat waves in summer, had become too “seasonally diverse” for me now. I’d read about Tornado Alley in the Midwest and thank my lucky stars that I didn’t live in Kansas. Alaska in January had zero (make that -50° F) appeal, with all that darkness and ALL that snow. 

 

My sweet sister Carolyn has long been a lifestyle artist (in addition to being a fabulous watercolor artist). C knows exactly what she likes, and makes a point of arranging it if at all possible. I well recall her habit to cranking up the AC in her bedroom, just so that she could snuggle under blankets in July. How silly, right? Except…I do that now, too. Yeah, yeah, high power bill, yada yada—but I figure having a happy spouse is WELL worth a little poverty to Stevo. Right, honey?

 

I am also, in my dotage, becoming much pickier about the food I eat, and the fabric of the clothes I wear. Given the choice between consuming a single Flamin' Hot Dorito, and dying of starvation—well, it’s been nice knowing you all. Also, wool has become too scratchy, linen too wrinkly, and satin too slippery. Cotton? Too cotton-y. My ideal outfits would be made of shimmering rainbows and feather-soft clouds, I’ve decided. Failing to find THAT perfect but unattainable wardrobe, I suffer (not in silence, however).

 

I always found literature’s hothouse flowers rather obnoxious. You know, the Regency and Victorian heroines given to constant fainting spells, and life-threatening bronchitis from the slightest draft. Get over yourselves, girls! I’d think. And it was really galling to notice everyone (the men especially) dancing attendance on them, while the spunky, uncomplaining gals were completely ignored. I used to identify with the Jo Marches and the Anne Shirleys, with their sharp tongues and their unglamorous attire. They had better things to think about than creature comforts!

 

Now, in my third act of life, I see the wisdom of being more like Gone With the Wind 's Aunt Pittypat, a little bit high-strung and quite fluttery—but still beloved. I’m going to enjoy MY creature comforts to the max, while I still can. So, my dear ones, turn down that thermostat and fetch me a cozy quilt! 

Oh, and please peel me a grape while you’re at it. 

Coach Elise

Costa Rica Mission Trip 2005

I swear, for someone whose life is not meticulously plotted out, I’ve sure been coached an awful lot. Not much in-person, one-on-one stuff, because I am also a cheapskate, but there’s no free/inexpensive resource I have not consulted over the years.

Beginning way back in my “theatre phase,” when I held my nose and plunged into the performing deep end with zero training, I read Uta Hagen, Stella Adler, and Michael Shurtleff in search of the acting Holy Grail. Sadly, these superstars of theatre pedagogy proved to be inadequate to the herculean task of making me a great (or even, let’s face it, very good) actor. Their tomes gathered dust on my shelf for years, though, silent proof that I was serious about my craft. 

Moving along to my next reinvention: church spiritual formation director. Wow, did I go all in on THAT one! My youth ministry guidebooks, Bible studies, mission trip and retreat manuals were clutched in my hot little hands, as I tried valiantly to get up to religious speed. My “coaches” at this time included Doug Fields, Kara Powell and Mike Yaconelli. I took the buffet approach to these teachers, taking a fun ice breaker from one, a deep dive discussion from another but, always, feeling at least 30 years too old for that job.

 

Now that I’m a full-time writer, there is no shortage of folks who coach. Some offer their wares gratis, but most charge. I often wonder where my writer-newbie tribe gets the moolah for an $$$ hour consult, or six-week class. I took one online course several years ago that promised to unlock the secrets of the NYT's coveted “Modern Love” column. The result was a depleted checking account, and NO love (modern or otherwise). 

 

I will put in a plug here for NYC’s Sue Shapiro. Her classes are pricey, but she delivers the goods—I’ve met a variety of prominent magazine editors, and gotten some really solid advice. Her fellow students have also been great sources of information and encouragement. Sue’s terrific book The Byline Bible spells it out for anyone seriously interested in publishing their pieces.

 

Anyhoo, I’m inspired to hang out my coaching shingle because why not? Working now on my pitch to the hordes of would-be actresses/Christian educators/scribes searching for a mentor (you know who you are. Also, who ARE you?). 

What do you think of this, hive mind?

 

Do you yearn to be cast in a minor supporting role in community theatre? Do your dreams also include teaching praise songs to totally disinterested youth? Is your life goal 1000 essay rejections in a single week?  If your answer is “yes,” I am the coach for you! I will share the 5 (3? 13?) Magic Steps that guarantee your success! For a mere $100 monthly ($750? $10,000? Still figuring that out) you will become the Shakespeare-quoting, Bible toting Op-ed writer the world has been waiting for!

 

Now I know how Vince Lombardi and Bear Bryant must have felt.

Super Coach!
photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Grabbing an Uber, Bolting from a Lyft

wherever I go, there they are!
(photo by Neil Ni on Pexels)

For the longest time I resisted using a rideshare. In New York, I stubbornly kept hailing taxis (even if I had to stand on a corner for 20 minutes). I don’t know why I hesitated, but I do have this pattern of refusing to face the future. I had to be dragged into the world of personal computing, kicking and screaming. My flip phone-to-iPhone journey was long and painful, as well. But I finally capitulated and installed the apps, once I was reassured of the safety of these cars-for-hire. I do my due diligence always, triple checking the license plate before getting into the auto, and requesting a female driver whenever possible. Indeed, I do everything but run my own criminal background check on every single driver-to-be. Better safe than sorry, I say! 

Lately, I find myself using these services often when traveling abroad. I've discovered that, almost everywhere, there's Uber, Lyft, Bolt or some other iteration. In Southeast Asia the company is called Grab, and using it was almost a necessity in the countries we visited, several of which had poor public transportation.

 

Of course I have tales to tell. There was the Lyft driver whose profile indicated that he was deaf. I maintained stony silence for my entire 45-minute ride. As I exited the vehicle, out of habit I said, “Thank you” and my driver suddenly called out, “Your’re welcome! Have a nice day!” I almost climbed back in and apologized for being so standoffish. Then there was the Uber I called in California to drive me to one of Sheridan’s concerts. The driver had no earthly idea where he was going. He dropped me in the middle of a maze of buildings on the UC Irvine campus, and by the time I located the performance hall it was showtime.

 

In Vietnam, we’d booked an adventure—making tofu in a village with a local family. To get there, we had to take a ferry across a river. Meeting time was 5:30. AM. Our driver not only spoke no English, he wasn’t inclined to use Google Translate either. We were dropped at a pitch-dark crossroads, with no river in sight. Steve was with me, but I still begged the driver to stay with us while we got our bearings. My frantic charades had zero effect. With a firm shake of his head, Mr. Grab roared off. Thankfully, Steve figured out where the river was before too long. 

On that same trip, our flight from Bangkok to Chiang Rai, Thailand was really delayed, and I texted our driver not to wait. Hours late, we deplaned—and there was our cheery and VERY patient chauffeur. He'd stayed put all afternoon. 

 

I have tremendous respect for folks who take on these assignments, which I could never, ever do. For many, it’s a second or even third job. I always tip very generously, and am grateful that wherever in the world I may be, my next ride is usually only 1-3 minutes away.