Moments of Truth

Took a COVID test yesterday, one of several I’ve taken since I was exposed 10 days ago. To my relief, the tests have all been negative. At this point, I am free to go about my business without fearing that I am Typhoid Mary, 2022 edition. 

As I sat waiting for the magic second stripe to (hopefully not) appear, I recalled the many pregnancy tests I’ve taken over the years. In most of those cases, I was rooting for a positive (and, “several” times, that result came to pass). For both of these types of at-home tests, however, I was well aware of all that hinged on the outcomes. With the one: was I infected, and about to become ill? If so, had I meanwhile been sharing the “gift” of coronavirus unwittingly? With the other: was I expecting? If so, was I prepared to be mom of (fill in the blank number)? While that was an exciting and mostly happy prospect, memories of my previous lengthy and excruciating back labors pretty much crowded out any incipient joy. 

 

Life is filled with these moments, isn’t it? When so much hinges on a single new piece of information, and all you can do is wait for it to be revealed? College letters come to mind (for my kids, not me. After high school I took a gap year, then enrolled in George State University, which in 1975 only rejected you, I think, if you misspelled the name of the school, and maybe not even then). But for my offspring, those fat envelopes held a significant clue about their paths forward. When Sheridan received his letter from Juilliard, he got on the phone with a friend who was super stressed, and they opened their acceptances at the same time (btw Sher ended up happily at Curtis). 

 

I’d like to reassure the legions of worried young people that it will be OK, no matter what the university letters say. After all, look at me! I didn’t even finish my degree, and I’ve had a fabulous career in neuroscience! 

 

Oh, wait…maybe that’s a bad example.

 

As for the other results, COVID has taught me to take every vaccine and other precaution (who WANTS to take their chances on a ventilator? Not me!) but then realize, as those infernal mutated variants continue to appear, that at some point I may get it after all. So a positive test wouldn’t be the end of my world. And the false alarms when I thought I was pregnant and wasn’t? Maybe it just wasn’t the right time for a child to be born. 

 

The course of our futures may hinge on a few pivotal moments (the job offer accepted, the house bid rejected), but our reactions to those opportunities and setbacks do make a difference. Whether it be “no” from Yale or “yes” from the sellers of a first home, the answers, and our responses, create the up-and-down, unique and precious adventures that are our lives. 

 

We got this, friends.

My favorite positive test results!

Stick-to-it-iveness

We received a wedding invitation in the mail the other day. Included in the attractive nuptial announcement was a magnet bearing the theme colors of the future event. How clever! Now we can stick the invite on the refrigerator with its own sticker-on-er! Mind you, we possess enough magnets to festoon every fridge in East Oreland, but the more the merrier!! 

Things that can stick to other things have been a lifelong source of fascination for me. I recall the drawings I made in childhood that I always anointed with gobs of Elmer’s glue. For some reason I preferred to draw on one side of two different pieces of paper, then attach, rather than just turn one piece over to decorate. My few surviving masterworks from the Early (Crayola) Period are therefore quite lumpy and bumpy. I also LOVE utilizing Scotch tape, rubber cement, staplers, paper clips, ribbons and string—in short, anything that joins one item to another. I do defer to my hubby when it comes to his copious use of duct tape in prop-making (you should see the Town Crier’s horn in Cinderella, made out of a funnel taped to a tube taped to a kazoo!) But otherwise, I’m the Stickum Queen of the household. In the kitchen, I find all binding agents deeply satisfying (flour, cornstarch, etc.) as I use them to join butter and milk to form a magically thick sauce. I love making sticky buns, and eating sticky rice. Hanging random stuff on walls with Command strips? Yes, please! 

 

Young Peter seems to be following in Nana’s fingerprints. Give that kid a pair of safety scissors and a glue stick and he’s happy for hours, cutting paper into itsy bitsy pieces and then gluing the snippets together. Makes perfect sense to me. 

 

I have been told on occasion that I am “the glue holding the family together,” which I don’t believe, really—I think the Seyfried clan does a pretty darned good job maintaining themselves as a team. But of course it’s flattering to imagine that I am THE necessary ingredient, with my home-cooked and needlessly complex meals, my frequent, overdone displays of affection and incessant chatter, and my various neuroses. Someday, I muse, when I’m fully “retired” to that 55+ community in the sky, my children will gather to mourn and reminisce about dear old Mom. “Remember how she’d always freak out over nothing?” they’d recall, tears in their eyes. “And she was afraid of EVERYTHING! Driving, the dark, thunderstorms, driving in thunderstorms in the dark…” “It’s a wonder we weren’t completely screwed up.” 

 

Wait a minute, this is not how my musing is supposed to go. 

 

But seriously, connections are vitally important to me. I love making a new, or deeper, connection with someone else, binding over shared taste in movies or books, or finding a common friend. I love feeling that, deep down, we are all interconnected in so many important and wonderful ways.

 

Ways that don’t even require Elmer’s glue.

My amazing family (they're actually the ones who hold ME together)

Taking a (Mental) Shortcut

 

Musical superstar couple! Totally unbiased opinion!

I’m all for shortcuts! Whether it’s finding a quicker way to the mall, or streamlining a recipe, if it gets me from Point A to Point B in a speedier manner, shortcuts free up my very valuable time! Now, please don’t ask me to ACCOUNT for all that freed up time! Let’s just assume that I make the most of every single saved second—ironing the pillowcases, say, or working on a cure for cancer (though I do have a theory that too much ironing may be a contributing factor to arm cancer).

I was reading an interesting article about bias the other day. I had time to read this because of my new and nifty housekeeping shortcut: I ask myself, “Is what I am about to clean/tidy just eventually going to get dirty/untidy again?” My answer is usually “Yes,” so then I say to myself, “So there’s really no point, right?” This little internal convo has revolutionized my cleaning routine, and now I can stretch out on my handily unmade bed guilt free, and read articles about bias.

 

“Bias” is a word I’ve been bandying about for years without understanding the full scope of it. Usually I think of it in purely pejorative terms—someone is biased against people of another race, say, or a different religion. Or, conversely, when I talk, as I am wont to do, about Aiden and Peter’s brilliance, artistic talent and sports acumen, I’ll often end with, “Of course, I am a little biased!” which allows me to brag on and on because hey! At least I admit my favoritism!

 

But “bias” refers to a wide variety of tricks by which the mind can arrive at a course of action faster than by deliberative thought. There’s Confirmation Bias, where people tend to pay much more attention to information that confirms what they already believe, than information challenging their beliefs. This is being played out large-scale on the political scene these days, of course, but I also recognize that I am much more inclined to listen when “experts” say that running is bad for you. I extrapolate that walking, the gateway drug to running, should also be avoided when possible.

 

Then there’s Hindsight Bias. Looking back, you knew all along the Cubs or Celtics or Yankees would win (or lose) that big game, didn’t you? Hindsight Bias is not very useful when placing pre-game bets, which are all about foresight, but it’s great for later pontificating at the bar or on sports talk radio.

 

Other biases include Actor-Observer (I failed the test because the teacher’s questions were too tough! Billy failed the test because he’s stupid!), Optimism Bias (I don’t wear a seatbelt and I’ve never been in a car accident, so I’m good!) and Anchoring Bias (I’m most influenced by whatever I heard first). 

 

All biases are mental shortcuts, and I should try not to use them to circumvent critical thinking, which takes time. And critical thinking, unlike ironing, truly is time well spent.

Overlapping

If that's what they're after, they're out of luck

As I write this, I am mere hours away from a new “acting” gig (oh joy!) For the past few years, Steve has been doing more and more film work. Most of this to date has been the blink-and-you-miss-him variety; for instance, he's in Adam Sandler’s new movie, Hustle--as an extra in a basketball game scene. But there have been some bigger roles, and I’m proud of him for getting out there. 

Which brings me to this morning. Steve was hired to film a spot as a tourist at Valley Forge Park, and the producer thought it’d be nice if I came, too, to play the role of…wait for it…Steve’s wife! At last! 45 years of training are paying off! We will be filmed roaming around various locations in the park. Rumor has it that a bicycle is involved as well; I think the original idea was that we would be riding merrily along on two wheels. As everyone in the world knows by now, I do NOT know how to ride a bike (nor do I have the remotest interest in learning). Deal breaker, right? Au contraire! It will apparently be OK if I merely stand NEXT to a bicycle (yes, they do sound pretty desperate). Stay tuned!

 

This (getting back into acting) was not how I envisioned spending my retirement. At all. Let Angela Lansbury accept her lifetime achievement Tony Award at age 96 (which she did the other night)! Hasn’t Angie gotten sick and tired of gracing stage and screen for those multiple decades? Wouldn’t her life have been much more interesting if she had switched careers at some point? Angela Lansbury, dental hygienist? Or maybe, school crossing guard? In contrast, I prefer MY life to be neatly compartmentalized. So: The Children’s Theatre Years, The Church Worker Years, now The Full Time Writer Years. This well-organized method of existence will make things much easier for my future biographers! 

 

But seriously, life is all about the overlaps, isn’t it? When DO The Parenting Years end, exactly? Not when they graduate from school. Not even when they become parents themselves. I can still work myself up into a state thinking of Evan’s recent wilderness training school adventure—he spent five days with no food, no shelter, licking water off leaves, for Heaven’s sake! Had I been anywhere nearby, you can bet I’d have left a stash of granola bars and Gatorade hidden under rocks for my poor baby to find! And it’s the same with my other kids—I never stop being their (neurotic) mom! 

 

And so, as is typical in this messy and overlapping world, I’ll put down my pen for today and become (briefly) an actor once more. It’ll actually be fun to work with Steve again. 

 

But just to be on the safe side, I intend to do a really mediocre job, to prevent being called into service in the future. Hey, producers? Next time you need a bicycle-riding tourist, may I suggest...Angela Lansbury?

Pretty is as Pretty Does

 

Gorgeous...I guess

I’ve been wondering lately, why some creatures (great/small) elicit “aawwws!” and others “eewwws!!” I mean, except for their coloring and that adorable stripe, what is the diff between chipmunk and field mouse? But the one we enjoy, and the other we hire people to eradicate. Sans the fluffy tail, squirrel and rat are indistinguishable, no? A lovely mourning dove perched upon a branch in our maple tree vs. a tough and dirty city pigeon, strutting the mean streets? They honestly look alike. But we are hard-wired to tell the difference, and to label the one as lovely and the other as yucky.

 I’m not an insect fan. At all. But, even as I shriek and flail away at stink bugs and hornets and mosquitos, I love the ladybug, for example. Is it all just perception born of cultural bias? I mean, I cannot imagine being thrilled when a beetle without that red-with-black-polka-dot coloring, lands on my arm. But should Miss Ladybird perch upon me, I am utterly delighted.  Go figure.

I’m also crazy about fireflies. And butterflies. But not emphatically NOT house flies. And while I set traps to capture those disgusting pantry moths before they burrow into the whole wheat flour, the appearance of a huge green luna moth on the screen of a bedroom window yesterday was cause for celebration and photo snapping. Is it their rarity? Their hue? I have no idea, but we were all not spooked, but rather charmed. 

 

There are (often changing) standards of outer beauty in the human world, of course, and I’ve spent a lifetime trying vainly to attain them. If only I could have lived in the Victorian era, when long, perfectly toned legs were not an attractiveness requirement! Indeed, legs of any description were completely hidden away beneath voluminous skirts, including at the beach. Ah, those were the days! Back when women couldn’t vote or own property in their own name or…never mind.

 

What if our fickle and shifting ratings system extended to the animal and plant kingdoms? What if, for example, wolf spiders became all the rage next week, while people shrieked at and stomped on small, winsome grasshoppers? Can you imagine tulips and daffodils suddenly becoming eyesores, as folks lovingly cultivated lawns full of gout weed instead? But no, in the natural world our attitudes are fairly consistent and fad-free. Pretty is hummingbirds and roses, not cockroaches and kudzu, and that has been true for millennia. 

 

But here's what has also ever been true: some of the most physically stunning specimens of the human variety have the ugliest personalities. And vice versa. My Grandma Berrigan would say, “Pretty is as pretty does” when reflecting on the nasty behavior of a beautiful looking person. So it behooves me to look beneath the surface (my surface too), and not worry so much about outward appearances.

 

I may have no control over the length of my legs, but the extent of my compassion? That I can, and should, do something about. 

Degrees of Difficulty

Beautiful Taughannock Falls, Ithaca

Steve and I are marking my recent retirement from church with a short getaway to Ithaca, NY. Ithaca is one of our favorite places. There’s spectacular natural beauty that once (42 years ago) inspired me to strap on cross-country skis. Of course, I only recall the intense and futile effort expended to stay upright, and (equally of course) I haven’t done it since. There’s amazing food (Ithaca is home of the Moosewood Restaurant, a famous and fabulous vegetarian place that has its roots in the hippie days). There are two great colleges: Cornell University and Ithaca College, so there’s always something cultural (concert, play) going on. We leave on our trip later this morning and I’m really looking forward to it.

Anyway, I thought I’d do a bit of research about walking/hiking trails in the area, making note of the ones labeled “easy.” Buttermilk Falls Trail sounded splendid, but it’s a “moderate,” so no go. Potter’s Falls Trail (“easy” and about 3 miles long) seemed perfect—until I read the reviews. One mentioned that the second half of the trail was so steep the reviewer had to climb on all fours (!) so I guess it’s easy if you happen to be a dog. 

 

I cry foul when I hear or read about any physical activity, from bike riding to bowling, described as “easy.” My friends, NONE of it is remotely “easy,” at least for me. Heck, I can’t even float in a pool, and that is something you don’t even have to be alive to master!! And I am equally baffled by: technology, card game rules, piano playing, foreign languages, woodworking and gardening. And so on.

 

So what AM I good at? 

 

Well, I like to think I’m a pretty fair writer (though you may draw your own conclusions). I used to think I was a decent actor until the first negative review of one of my dinner theatre performances in 1978 (“Elise Cunningham was stilted and unconvincing as the daughter”—see, I can still quote the darned thing!) From that moment on, my theatrical confidence fell below zero. Oh, I got some kudos acting in children’s theatre but, face it, gang, kids are not that hard to impress (their idea of a fabulous performance is the maximum number of comic pratfalls). There’s gotta be something else I can do with little effort…

"Little Goldy and the Three Riding Bears" --the pratfall queen!

Oh, yes! Cooking! I find cooking and baking “easy.” My listeners’ eyes glaze over as I describe homemade cakes that involve four layers and two kinds of frosting. “It really is easy!” I protest. “Just try it!” But now I have a reputation: no one on earth believes me when I rate a recipe as “simple” (even though that 22 ingredient stew is a snap. Honestly.)

 

Degrees of difficulty are so individual, aren’t they? One person’s “elementary” quantum physics equation is another person’s “beginner’s” violin tune. Therefore no one should rate anything, I say! 

 

Or maybe rate toothbrushing as “challenging,” and give everyone one daily victory?

Cool Kid

Cool shades, guy!

I was never one of the cool kids growing up. I know, shocker.

That’s OK. I’ve (almost) gotten over it.

 

It’s funny, now that I’m 65, there are all new criteria for “cool” and, finally, I think I qualify. Now, it doesn’t matter how well I play kickball, or even if. No one is looking at my sneakers to make sure they are an approved brand. I am no longer judged by the TV shows I watch, or the video games I have mastered, or the amount of pepperoni pizza I can consume in one sitting. 

 

Instead, I am “cool” because I do work I enjoy, because I am lucky enough to have a wonderful family, because I usually finish the book club book at least 30 minutes before the meeting begins. And while I do rely on eyeglasses now, I still have most of my hearing, my original knees and all of my teeth (as of this writing). 

 

To make sure I maintain my cool status, I like to spread the rumors that driving at night, exercising (of any kind), or knowing any Ed Sheeran songs make you decidedly UN-cool. Trust me, all the cool Nanas are in bed by 9, and watch Trevor Noah on the internet the following morning (the jokes are much funnier when you’re awake, right?)

 

I think I’ve figured out the key to “cool” (and why it was such an elusive goal for young, insecure me): you need to be yourself, and not care too much about following the crowd. My own offspring were a mixed bag when they were little, but now that they are in their 20s and 30s they are all proudly individuals, and indisputably cool. 

 

It only makes sense that Sheridan’s children would take after their dad (Sher never much cared about being a follower) and even at tender ages are both proud individuals. Aiden and Peter’s different drums are beating loudly, and it is music to my ears. 

 

Aiden is finishing up second grade soon, and while there are of course some areas where he conforms, for the most part he likes what he likes, whether it’s drawing elaborate comic strips, singing in a boys choir, or geeking out on math problems. He is not on a township sports team, but is instead learning tennis. He loves to play chess with his dad, and watch old episodes of “Garfield” on TV. By not worrying about being “cool”, my grandson actually is. 

 

So my cool guy will be 8 on Friday, and he wants a classic Beetle Bailey cartoon collection as a gift, and Mama’s noodle soup as his special dinner. I look at this boy I love so deeply, with his goofy grin, gangly frame and penchant for clowning around, and I pray he will never stop being wonderfully quirky and unique Aiden. It’s my prayer for us all, to be the only people we were created to be. Ourselves. 

 

Happy birthday, sweetheart. You’re absolutely one of a kind.

Mustaches are really cool

On Thin Ice

Bet you thought this was going to be a climate change post! Fooled ya! While I do indeed fret about the melting glaciers and other indications that our planet is in BIG trouble, I’d rather write about something cheerier: ice skating! We have, not one, but two enthusiastic skaters in the family these days, and while they aren’t ready to be in the ice dancing pairs competition at the Winter Olympics (yet), we’re proud of both Rose and Peter. My oldest daughter and youngest grandson love the sport, and are making great progress.  

  

Rose has always preferred solo to team athletic endeavors (surfing over soccer, etc.) and has been taking skating lessons up in Queens. I threaten to go up there and embarrass her by screaming, “You’re doing great, honey!” during her class, and maybe now that I’m retiring I may do just that some Sunday. In any event, I’m eager to see her in action. Peter I do get to enjoy, thanks to the weekly videos Ya-Jhu takes of his lessons at Wissahickon Skating Club. By lesson #2 he was skating without holding onto anything for balance, and runs (runs!) across the ice with tremendous enthusiasm.   

I have no clear memory of learning to ice skate, but any lessons I did take must have been utter failures, because I fall down even just thinking about stepping onto the ice. I recall sisters Mo and C skating now and then, but not me. Watching skating superstars spin and twirl on that impossibly slick surface is an ordeal, because I’m always waiting for them to have a televised wobbly landing or missed triple axel (isn’t an axel part of a car?) Btw, time out for education: I just Googled and, as always, was instantly enlightened. The axel jump is named for Norwegian figure skater Axel Paulsen, which I guess is better than a jump named for Peggy Fleming or Scott Hamilton (“Incredible! He just completed a perfect double peggy!”) Back to our regularly scheduled blog post.  

 Even though I realize that the ice at indoor rinks does not have ten feet of freezing water beneath it, therefore not much chance of falling through a crack, why risk it? Amy March fell through the ice, remember? And almost drowned! I make it a point to avoid travails endured by any of the Little Women, including dying from scarlet fever (Beth) and having to write my books in longhand (Jo). So I will forever be on the sidelines, white-knuckling my cup of hot cocoa and holding my breath as the kids dart around on those razor thin metal blades.   

We’re all on thin ice these days, my friends, aren’t we? With so many perils lurking beneath (and all around) us. And so: do we quaver in the corner of life, or do we lace up our skates and enter the fray?  

I know I’m sick of quavering. But do I have what it takes to glide gracefully into the future?   

Time will tell.        

No Excuses

Julie, one of my favorite excuses, all grown up and married

I am the Justification Queen. While I admit I accomplish a decent amount, I have ever-ready excuses when I fall short. For ages, having five children let me off the hook for lots of stuff; no time to deep-clean the house when there are diapers to be changed and homework to check!! Nowadays, I glance around my still unsterilized surroundings and realize that, with my youngest child age 27, it’s probably time for a different excuse. And I promise you, I WILL find one. Wait, got it! My live-in grandsons!! They’re only 5 and 7, so that buys me at least another decade of good excuses for a little grime. Whew!

For the past 20 years, my full-time job at Christ’s Lutheran Church has been the justification for scads of writing and submitting that didn’t happen. Thursday, my day off, was my main writing day. That, along with some very early morning sessions, summed up all the time I had to pen my deathless prose. No wonder that novel never happened--I was busy! Never mind the stories of prolific authors who are also doctors, lawyers, etc. Those people are just weird, right? And probably not very plugged in to their main jobs either! Would you want your appendix removed by a poet who is figuring out rhyme and meter in his head, and paying no attention to the location of your organs? I didn’t think so.

 

Well, now here we are. I’m 10 days from retirement. My Big Excuse will soon disappear, and then I will have all day, every day, to be a writer. My friend Rochelle is a writing coach, and her slogan is “'Maybe Someday’ Becomes Write Now!” I know, Rochelle, I know. But I really like living in the world of Maybe Someday! In that enchanted land dwells, for example, my solo show, which I’ve been yakking about doing for years. Except for one course I took last year (which was really inspirational, and I was briefly inspired), and two short stand up gigs,  I have made zero progress on getting a one woman show written and produced. Guess I actually have to DO this thing now? But I'd prefer it still existing as a smash hit in my dreams!

 

For the past eight months, since I gave my notice at church, I’ve been blithely telling people that I’m not a bit concerned about getting enough writing work. And there truly are a great many opportunities out there, especially with the exploding digital media scene. So why, now that my last day at CLC is imminent, do I clearly envision Monday, May 23^rd as a day, not of tremendous literary output, but instead a day of panic and a blank computer screen? By Tuesday the 24^th, will I be sleeping late, then binging on Netflix series? But I’ve been sleep deprived for decades, and all that TV is great writing research!

 

Nope! MY new slogan: “No Excuses!”

 

Or…”BETTER Excuses!“

 

Yes, that’s more like it.

Oh, it's OK! You can disturb me!

Up-to-Dating

I enjoy seeing photos of kitchen re-dos. It’s so nice that SOMEONE has the time, interest and money to tackle these things! Our kitchen has not been touched, really, since shortly after our 1989 move-in. Oh sure, we planned to replace those horrible wooden cabinets someday, install decent flooring—at one point we even thought of taking down a wall so that we’d have more than five square feet of space (that dream died when our architect friend Mark gave us the sad news that it was a “bearing” wall, without which the ceiling would collapse). 

But renovation has its pitfalls. An obvious one is the fact that everything surrounding the new part immediately looks old and decrepit—a whack-a-mole situation, where the freshly painted family room highlights the really ancient windows, and the arrival of a new chair instantly causes the neighboring sofa’s upholstery to fade and rip—which makes the new chair look shabby too, and so on.

 

This also holds true with many revivals of movies and plays. Bringing an old favorite into the present day tends to either spotlight the weaknesses of the original, or remind the viewer that the original really was better and shouldn’t have been tampered with. I was reminded of this phenomenon during our last two New York shows—a revival of Stephen Sondheim’s Company, and a bold reworking of the classic Cyrano de Bergerac.  

 

We had loved Company in its first incarnation back in the early 1970s. It was smart, funny, and perfectly captured the energy of New York City at exactly that point in time. But for whatever reason, it was decided to make bachelor Bobby and his hovering married friends, bachelorette Bobbie and hers. It strained credulity when the husbands were the ones who fretted about Bobbie’s single status (my hub, like most others, wouldn’t have noticed had she grown a third arm). As we watched “Another Hundred People” whipping out their iPhones as they sang and danced (hey look! It’s gotta be 2022!), it just served to remind us that we vastly preferred the premiere production.

 

Cyrano, which was written 130 years ago, and set in 17th century France, would seem to be another case of a revival that couldn't work. Instead, though, it was such a significant re-imagining that it totally worked (for me; Steve, who has played Cyrano twice, wasn’t 100% on board). While allusions were made to Cardinal Richelieu and Molière, one character also referenced Roxanne, Steve Martin’s movie from 1987. The cast was in modern dress, and tossed mics around as they ably rapped many of the lines. Heck, star James McAvoy wasn’t even sporting the huge nose that is always THE prominent feature of the title character. By excavating the play down to its bones and rebuilding, the show felt thrilling and new, and not an awkward attempt to modernize.

 

Moral: when updating, either go big or go home.

 

So instead of new curtains, I guess it’s time for a bulldozer!