I Warned You!

Thank you for your service, Mr. Canary

From the late 1800s to 1986, before the development of electronic detectors, coal miners habitually carried canaries down into the mines with them. The idea was that these small birds would react much more quickly to carbon monoxide, and when they keeled over, the humans would know to skedaddle. I’m no animal lover (I’m more an animal tolerator), but this used to really bother me. I completely understood the need for some kind of warning system, but all those poor dead canaries! 

It was with great relief that I learned about the resuscitator cage. Developed in the 1920s, this was a special cage for those little feathered prognosticators. When a bird started looking droopy, the circular door would close and oxygen would be injected by a valve from a tank on top of the cage. The result was a revived canary—and duly warned miners. It seems that the miners were very fond of their chirping companions, and determined to rescue them if they got into trouble. 

 

Early warning systems of one kind or another have always been with us (read your Bible and try to count the number of warnings issued by prophets—OFTEN disregarded). As technology has improved, these systems have gotten more sophisticated, but the concept is the same: getting out in front of a disaster and hopefully averting it, or at least mitigating the damage. Sometimes the systems fail (I’ll never forget the terrifying false alarm my sister received in Hawaii a few years ago about a possible attack by North Korea), but far better to have a system in place than not. Btw my favorite title for one of these is the California earthquake warning system called Shake Alert, which sounds rather lighthearted, something an ice cream parlor might use as an ad (“Shake Alert! Try our yummy triple chocolate milkshake!!”).

 

In addition to natural catastrophe warnings, there is the EWS Network for Student Success, which identifies risk factors that impact school performance. There are various warning systems developed by the World Health Organization to predict future pandemics and other infectious diseases. I am already dreading the age when I will be asked to take a cognitive ability test to screen for dementia, because I can absolutely see myself freezing up and saying that the current president is Rutherford B. Hayes. 

 

As a parent, I was quite the seer, telling my children that if they kept tipping that chair back they would fall, that if they didn’t REALLY brush they would have cavities, and if they didn’t stop poking their sister they would get a timeout. They rarely heeded me. But I was always 100% correct! So there!

We can’t live our lives paralyzed with fear, for sure, and there are risks worth taking. But when there’s a lot on the line, for ourselves and others, I think we’d all do well to take notice of warnings, most of which are issued to protect us. 

 

And in our dangerous world, that’s not a bad thing.

Shake alert! You've been warned!

Meeting the Moment

May God hold Ukraine--and us--in the palm of God's hand
(photo by Elena Mozhvilo for Unsplash)

In the Book of Esther, the Jewish queen is told that perhaps she was made for “such a time as this.” And Esther does indeed rise to the occasion, and saves her people from Haman’s wicked plot. It is a powerful story of personal destiny and responsibility that has always stayed with me. In a cynical world, those who selflessly sacrifice for others (even total strangers) in service of a greater good, seem rare indeed. Even foolish.   

Yet this is what seems to be what is happening right now, in Ukraine. The brutal invasion by Vladimir Putin’s troops has shown the world that the Ukrainians are people of great courage, unfaltering love of country, and willingness to sacrifice, and even die, for the ideals of freedom. Were these people, like Esther, made for this moment in time?  

I’ve noticed that Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelensky and my Steve share several things in common. they are actors. They are comedians. They are both a bit height-challenged. And they are, in my opinion, both people of character and integrity. Now, whether my hubby would have the courage to meet this terrifying moment as Zelensky has, I guess we wouldn’t know unless he found himself in a situation like that, but I like to think he would. In any event, Ukraine’s leader has moved me to tears several times with his videos, in which he rallies his country and vows to stay with them, no matter what. This from a guy whose entire prior political experience was playing the part of a president on a Ukrainian TV show called “Servant of the People.” Who would ever have guessed?   

But “such a time as this” includes a pantheon of other dreadful situations, globally and at home. Two weeks from now, we will mark two full years since the lockdown at the start of the pandemic in the US. Our climate is raging out of control, and many experts are warning that we are approaching the point of no return if we want to change course. And then there’s the poisonous discourse and division that have re-written “love your neighbor” as “love only those neighbors who fully embrace OUR mindset.”   

Like it or not, THIS is my time—and yours too. There’s been plenty of finger-pointing over what started us on this downward slide, but it almost doesn’t matter. Here we are, all of us. And the future, while unpredictable in some respects, isn’t looking very rosy right now.  

But what if, like Esther and Zelensky, we recognize that we were born for this time, and no other, and meet the moment with bravery and resolve? We may succeed or fail, but don’t we owe it to the next generations to try? It’s at least possible that one or more of us has the key to saving our planet and humanity—and if we seem like unlikely heroes, who’s to say that disqualifies us?   

Ask the TV president turned real one, leading the fight for Ukraine.

president of my heart

What If You DID Need a License to Have Kids?

 

How often have you heard, “You need a license to drive a car, but not to have children”? 

Well, here in Babyland we’ve finally decided to set some standards, to make sure our cherubs are placed in the very best hands! 

First the written test. If you pass this, you get your learner’s permit; you can then parent during daylight hours, accompanied by a licensed parent. 

1. Complete this sentence: When beginning to parent, first check your  a) rearview mirror b) seat belt c) superior attitude about the way you were raised. _________________
2. What is the speed limit (if any) for leaving a grocery store after your child has knocked over that huge “Souper Bowl” display of cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle and ripped open five family-size bags of cool ranch Doritos? ______________________________
3. How far away must you park your stroller from a fire hydrant?____________________
4. Too close! How did your baby figure out how to open a fire hydrant anyway?________________________
5. When four parents approach an intersection with the sixth grade teacher at the same time, which one gets to attack her first?__________________________ 
6. When approaching a slow-moving 15 year old 20 minutes after the alarm has gone off, is it legal to turn on the flashers (bedroom lights) and sound your horn (scream)?_________________

Congratulations, perfect score! Now on to the road test! 

Make sure you are getting into the driver’s seat, and staying there for the next 18 years.

Turn on the coffeepot (“ignition”) and pull carefully into the day.

Watch out! You nearly hit your toddler! Calm down! One more incident like that and we’ll just go right back to the DMV!

Parallel parenting time! Navigate placing yourself precisely between two parked moms at this crowded playground. Be careful of the one giving a play-by-play of her son’s recent victory on the T ball field. Oops, now watch that you’re not too close to the one drinking from a thermos of margaritas while her kids push your child off the slide. 

Doing fine!  Think you can handle the expressway? You have no other choice! On the entrance ramp, now…merge expectations with your teen’s (do they get an after-school job at Chipotle, or a ridiculously generous allowance from you, apparently for breathing? ) OK good, now keep watching every second as you rapidly speed up. Braces. Wait—braces off already? Why are her teeth still crooked? Acne? Your investment in clear skin just bought the dermatologist a beach house! SATs! Just 1550? Hmmm, he better take them again or kiss Harvard goodbye. Prom? She is NOT leaving the house dressed like that! Senior Week? He is NOT going to Cancun with his friends from detention! Hold on, going WAY too fast! Take the next exit!! 

Whew. Great! You passed. We think you’re ready to be a parent! Congratu---

Wait, where are you going? Come back! We thought you WANTED this job!

Maybe we better go back to no standards. We’ll never unload all the babies this way.

The Seyfried children had unlicensed parents!

The Secret of My Success

 

I won a Super Bowl pool! Find out how...

You’ve been dying to learn this, haven’t you?

In the loving and sharing spirit of Saint Valentine himself, then, here it is, the secret of my every success: I just stop thinking about attaining it. By which I mean, nearly all of my “wins” have come AFTER I’ve put whatever I was competing for completely out of my mind. Case in point: at our mentor meeting at church Sunday afternoon, one of the dads came up with a Super Bowl pool. The teams of mentors and Confirmation students filled out the form before kickoff, to determine who would later be victorious (the prize was ingenious--$100, which would then be donated to the charity of the winners’ choice). I let my teenage partner fill in our names, and that was the last thought I gave to the whole endeavor. Once home, I did my usual Super Bowl thing, which was not watch a second of it. This year, for good measure, I even eschewed the commercials and halftime show, knowing any mild curiosity I had could be easily satisfied by subsequent viewing online.

So, of course, my duo won the pool. Now, had I cared one whit, I promise you there would have been a different outcome. But, by playing mentally “hard to get,” I clearly attracted good fortune. 

In my writing life, I mostly achieve acceptances of my pieces to magazines and the like by submitting to them, then promptly forgetting I did so. This works best when I send out a flurry of essays and articles to a large number of publications. It is a delightful surprise to hear from, for example, a humor magazine I’d sent a little "something something" weeks prior. In contrast, I have been single-mindedly focused on cracking a very tough comedy nut, sending them way too many submissions, and then refreshing my inbox multiple times per day for a response. Needless to say, I have been rejected 100% of the time so far. Of course I have! I’ve been way too needy! I should be ignoring them altogether, so that eventually they will unearth one of my pieces and contact me frantically, begging me to allow them to feature it. 

Now, my formula (I call it, The Power of Not Thinking About It at All) may not work for you. You may, for all I know, swear by laser-focusing on your goals, bringing all of your brainpower to bear on envisioning your desired outcome. If that is your preferred method, great! But for those who have tried and failed to manifest success, I encourage you to give my technique a whirl. It has the advantage of freeing up your gray matter for what is truly important, such as wondering if you actually ate that crème filled donut for breakfast, or if you just dreamed you did (alas, I gain the same amount of weight ingesting pastry virtually and literally). 

Secret of my Success, my friends? As my Brooklyn buddies would say, “Fuggedaboudit!”

How many calories in a dream donut?

Need to Know Basis

Confession: I am an information junkie. If there’s something I want to know, I NEED to know it, and I need to know it now!! Now, mind you, this ravenous appetite for enlightenment doesn’t extend to astrophysics, say, or sports. Those fall into the “don’t know, and don’t care” category for me. 

I recently installed something called Mailtracker on one of my email accounts. Through the magic of technology, Mailtracker can tell when my “sent” emails are opened, and how many times they are read. I get a daily summary of these missives every evening. While I’d be very curious about any emails I send to YOU, don’t worry—I’m not interested in tracking my personal emails. I just wanted Mailtracker for my writing life, so I could tell when editors opened and read my queries, pitches and submissions. Before this, I would send an essay, say, to The New Yorker, and then wait. And wait. And wait for a reply. I’d agonize over when to send a follow-up email (too soon? Pushy! Too late? They’ll have forgotten all about it!) Whereas, with my dandy little tool, I can tell exactly when Mr. or Ms. Big Shot Editor opens my message! Yay! Now we’re in business, right?

But what do I do when I know they’ve they read it, but they still don’t respond? That’s a whole other issue. Some publications are very prompt and get right back to me (often with, “thanks, but we’re passing on this piece!” but still, it’s an answer!) Others take weeks, even months. Some assume that you know their silence IS their (negative) response. So Mailtracker has not, in fact, solved my problem. In fact, my “need to know” may have led me to know a little too much for my own good!

I wonder—if there was a Mailtracker for the prayers we send to God, would we feel better? Or worse? If we got a report that, indeed, the Almighty HAD received our prayers at 3:15 PM, but our inbox remained empty for days, even years? Would we conclude that God’s silence was always a negative answer, or would we give the Big Guy the benefit of the doubt, and realize that our prayers would have a response, in God’s time if not in ours? Do we really need to know precisely how prayer works, to believe that it does?

There’s an awful lot I wish I knew that I don’t know, may never know. But maybe some of that I DON’T need to know. There are things I can, and should, just take on faith, faith that we are all in the very capable hands of a loving God.

I probably won’t uninstall Mailtracker just yet (who knows, The New Yorker may finally read my fabulous essay this afternoon!) But I hope I can make my peace with the gaps in my comprehension of life, figure out what I can, and then, rest assured that all will be well in the end.

The Ben Franklin Effect

 

Hey, bud, can you spot me a Benjamin?

Ever since first grade at Epiphany Catholic School in New York City, I have been extremely interested in The Art of Making Friends. I’d observe the popular kids in the lunchroom and at recess, and try desperately to emulate them. Was it their enviable hair (long, blond, poker straight) and freckle-free skin, so unlike mine? The casually elegant way they wore their navy-blue uniforms (skirt always hiked up to be precisely short enough to look cool, yet not short enough to rate a reprimand from Sister Bernadette?) Apart from their looks, what did they say and do that attracted classmates like honeybees to clover?

For decades, the answers eluded me, and even now, at age 65, I still look at the people on EVERYONE’s dinner party invitation list and wonder what I’m missing. Now mind you, I now have a cherished circle of true friends that I value beyond measure (though I’m a bit puzzled by their interest in being MY buddies). But I still yearn for more, an “overflowing cathedral at my funeral” amount of amigos. In particular, I am determined to win over the people who dislike me (or are totally indifferent). But how?

Of course, I turned to the oracle of oracles, Benjamin Franklin himself, for a tutorial. That peripatetic author, inventor, statesman and sage was also immensely popular. What was Ben’s secret? Was it his jaunty powdered wig? The casually elegant way he wore his waistcoat and breeches? Lucky for me, Mr. Franklin spilled the beans, writing about a clever stratagem that has come to be known as The Ben Franklin Effect. 

The BFE (as I like to call it) involves turning an enemy into a friend by—get this—allowing THEM to do a favor for YOU. Counterintuitive, right? But apparently it works. Seems back in ye olden days, Franklin figured out how to ingratiate himself with a non-admirer: he asked the man if he could borrow a book from him. And when the loan took place, there was a shift in Ben’s adversary. Suddenly he became quite agreeable, and in the end they were great chums. It all has to do with something called cognitive dissonance. We mentally order our universe so that there is harmony—no things that don’t make sense. Therefore, when the man loaned the book to Ben, he justified the action to himself by saying “I wouldn’t do that nice thing for Franklin if I didn’t like him, therefore I must like him.” Voila! Ben had made a friend by letting him do a favor!

I am eager to try out the BFE myself, and see if I can increase the ranks of my friends. I plan to ask enemies, acquaintances and even total strangers if I can borrow stuff: a cup of sugar, $100 until payday, that sort of thing. And when I rake in my bounty, I’ll have the bonus of raking in new admirers too.

Does anyone have a copy of Poor Richard’s Almanac they could loan me?

Mind Over Monkey

Awww

1956, my birth year, was a Year of the Monkey on the Chinese Lunar calendar. I was reading predictions for the coming year for my “sign” and honestly, I’m in for a rough ride. Apparently this is not a big year for earning money (great. I’m retiring from church in May.) I also am prone to injury in 2022 and should (and I quote) “stay out of forests.” As is my custom when reading such forecasts, I shrugged and muttered, “What do they know?” even as I've frantically redoubled my efforts to sell my writing, and taken extra care when passing trees. 

I always loved monkeys—or rather, my mistaken ideas about them. I’d ooh and ahh over adorable photos of tiny capuchin monkeys, with those big sad eyes reminiscent of a Sarah MacLachlan commercial. I’d laugh at the antics of chimps on TV and in movies (mischievous but affectionate). As a child, I daydreamed about owning one, a precious little thing draped over my shoulders. But it remained a dream, along with my occasional fantasy of owning a horse (inspired completely by reading National Velvet). Pets of any kind were out of the question at Cunninghams’, at least until we were old enough to take on their care entirely (it was all Mom and Dad could do to keep three small HUMANS fed and watered). 

I have since learned that most monkeys are biters with nasty tempers, and make very poor pets. I was so disillusioned!  I mean, I too have a temper (though I rarely bite), but I was hoping my spirit animal was, you know, otherwise sweet and lovely. 

In meditation, which believe it or not I have attempted on many occasions, there is something called “monkey mind.” It refers to those pesky, random thoughts that rocket around inside your brain, distracting you from serenity and peace. My monkey mind is so bad that I can actually hear my mental diversions as high pitched shrieks, like the ones that make a trip through the primate house at the zoo such a uniquely painful experience. 

This week, Thich Nhat Hanh, the wonderful Vietnamese Buddhist monk and writer, moved on from earth at age 95 (Thay was not much for talking about “birth” and “death”). He was a huge advocate for interfaith understanding (my favorite book of his, Living Buddha, Living Christ, lovingly and gracefully pointed to the similarities between these holy men he revered). He founded a monastery and retreat center, Plum Village, in France, that has long been on my bucket list to visit. The essence of Thay was (is) mindfulness, the art of truly being in the present moment, not stressing about past or future. 

Our current state of affairs in this world makes living mindfully more of a challenge than ever. I mean, who wants to live in THIS moment, when the past seems comparatively rosy and the future possibly promising? But, in honor of Thay, I’m trying. 

You hear that, monkey mind? Pipe down!

Pod Person

Vocab Word of the Day: Pod

Pod is one of those words that sounds wrong if you say it out loud it several times in a row. Try it. I’ll wait. Right?

But there’s more to those three little letters than THAT. Grasshoppers hatch from pods. Peas come in pods (not the same pods of course). There is a kitsch classic movie from the early 1980s, The Pod People. By most accounts it is howlingly dreadful, veering into the “so bad it’s good” territory. Maybe one of these years I’ll watch it, after I’ve gotten through the 10,000-film back log of movies I actually am interested in seeing. 

During the past few years, “pod” (along with “bubble”) has been used to describe a small group of people it is considered safe to be with during a pandemic. My pod includes my immediate family and a few vaccinated-and-boostered friends. “Pod” also refers to a group of whales. Now that I think about it, I became rather more whale-like as I sheltered in place, with that place’s easy access to snacks. 

Speaking of things “pod” related, I have been toying with the possibility of starting a podcast for several years now. Lord knows I listen to enough of them, and I love to talk, so there’s that. But I get stuck on one tiny detail: what do I have to offer the world as a podcaster? Various ideas flit through my head: humor, spirituality, humorous spirituality. Cooking. Spiritual cooking with humor. None of it sounds very compelling. Then I came up with: do a podcast WITH someone else!! My #1 candidate is my Rose. She is very funny, and we see the world quite differently, a lot of the time. Maybe we could interview each other’s choices of guests. Just to mix it up? But even writing this down, it sounds simultaneously too daunting, and quite possibly boring. 

There is something about me that dreams of pursuing hard things, things I often have no talent for, while distrusting the activities that come easily to me. If I can write funny skits, for example, without much forethought, they are automatically not nearly as valuable as writing, say, a white paper (which I would love to attempt just as soon as I find out what a white paper is.) It’s all part of the self-sabotage at which I excel. If I can do it, how good can it possibly be?

But back to the podcast. I don’t think I need a fancy studio. Marc Maron interviews very famous people in his garage. I HAVE a garage. I’d just need to clean it out. But then, like giving a mouse a cookie, I’d have to find a place to put everything. I would be quite elderly by the time that task was completed. But wait! How about a podcast for 90 year olds? I don’t think that’s been done! Maybe AARP could sponsor! 

I think I’m on to something! Check back with me in 2046!

Right Here, Right Now

Hurry up! Winter weather be done! Pass quickly, weeks, until I see my living-away kids again! Speed along, months, until I retire (nothing against my church job, which I have loved, but I am just eager to see what full-time freelance writing will be like.) 

This is ironic, because at my age life is rocketing by anyway, so why am I seeking to hasten the process? I liken it to flipping to the last page of a book I’m enjoying (DID they end up together?) and every time I do this, I realize I’ve spoiled the journey of discovery for myself. Maybe what I should do instead is try to be really alive and alert, and savor each moment. 

To that end, I loved an article just out in America (the Jesuit magazine) that referenced the late Indian Catholic mystic Anthony DeMello. DeMello shared so many wonderful meditation practices in his books, and one in particular has really spoken to me. Simplicity itself, but profound. Here it is: 

Sit down somewhere, take a breath, close your eyes and then listen to the world around you. Hear the sounds that have been surrounding you all this time, without you noticing them. Then, after a minute, open your eyes, and now focus on what you see before you. Maybe it is the streaks of light on the wall or a picture on your mantel, or the way the snow flops up against your window. Whatever it is, once again just try to sit there and enjoy it. Try repeating this exercise (listen, look). 

As a variation, he suggests, try spending some of a meal this way: Close your eyes and just taste the food in your mouth and smell its aromas. I had to chuckle at this, because my suddenly closing my eyes and zeroing in on my meatloaf would no doubt elicit noisy commentary from my young dinner companions: “What’s the matter with Nana? Nana? We’re sorry! The meatloaf is good! Now can we have dessert?” But I’d be game to try this exercise at some solo meal, whenever that may be. 

Aiden and Peter are changing daily. Observing their giant leaps forward in speech and understanding and physical agility is like watching time-lapse photography. And, while I try to recall their cute sayings and doings as much as possible, I am missing a lot I know. I wouldn’t dream of wishing their childhoods away. So let me make my peace with the fact that those amazing little lives are happening in dark winter and a pandemic, and I can’t just separate everything out. 

 So I won’t. 

 I look out my office window. Night is falling. I hear traffic in the distance on Pennsylvania Avenue, cars heading home. The streetlights are winking on. I can smell Ya-Jhu’s dinner cooking (NOT meatloaf). Downstairs the boys and Sher are playing a rousing game of hide and seek. This is my good life. And in this sacred moment, I know I am truly blessed.

View from my office window--I noticed!

Aftermath

For someone who is completely un-athletic, I sure participate in a lot of marathons and sprints!! Mind you, these are all the literary kind, but why quibble? Believe me, I get just as (long) winded when I’m writing as I would ever get running 5Ks! 

What usually happens in these endeavors is, I hop aboard someone else’s Big Idea Express. Then, once I’ve convinced myself that it’s too late to back out, I experience a high level of anxiety and stress. Why did I sign on for this? Why am I even pretending to be a humor writer/blogger/person of any talent whatsoever? But then, I get “in the groove,” as the young people say, and (usually) end up doing well (AKA finishing). 

There follows the aftermath, a cool-down period of days or weeks when I barely touch pen to paper. This is one of those times, and unfortunately it comes just as 2022 dawns. Instead of working on a new project, taking a class or attending a workshop, I’ve spent the first three days of the new year idling. Being the all-or-nothing gal that I am, I have gone from coming up with 35 comedy pitches and seven humor pieces, and 30 blog posts in 30 days, to zero output. I’m not even writing limericks or knock-knock jokes, and this, my first blog entry of ’22, is shaping up to be nothing special. 

True sports people (that is the term, no?) don’t let this fallow time bother them. They realize muscles need to rest and recover. They don’t automatically assume they have lost all ability, just because they aren’t still clocking world-record times and distances. But for a self-doubter, every minute not spent producing SOMETHING, is proof positive that nothing will ever be produced again. I mean, a few weeks ago I was cranking out “The Real Housewives of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood”, “Can You Chip in $5 to Save the Planet by MIDNIGHT Tonight?” and “Eulogy for the Expired Coupons on My Kitchen Bulletin Board” (all of which, ahem, were subsequently published on humor websites), and fancying myself the next New Yorker contributor. Today, it feels like my funny bone was surgically removed, and my only New Yorker contribution was the $$ I doled out for a subscription to the magazine. 

This time, I’d love to enjoy my aftermath, even a bit. It would be awesome to rest my poor brain once in a while, without guilt. Deep down I know that is the key to future productivity (taking a break). But still I panic, sure that the Writer’s Block to end all blocks is on my horizon. That has never happened, and I need to stop assuming it will. 

My sister C sent me a really cute door hanger that reads “Do Not Disturb: Writer at Work,” and now adorns the door of my home office. I think I may need a second one that proclaims “Do Not Disturb: Writer Doing Absolutely Nothing. She May Even Be Napping.”

Shhhh.