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

In the Fun House

 

Picture facing THAT--and the ball throwers were teenagers!
(photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels)

I recently asked myself, “E, when was the last time you had FUN?” 

 

I gotta tell you, E was stumped. First of all, define fun, right? When I think of my funnest times, I think of watching standup comedy and reading funny books and enjoying funny movies…hmmm, I guess those are not very participatory. Common understandings of “fun” are more along the lines of “running barefoot in the rain,” or “sticking your hands in the air on a roller coaster” or “playing dodge ball on a mission trip” (I actually did this last one, and fun is the last word I’d use to describe this sadistic youth group game, played by hurling a ball at full speed towards someone’s stomach or head).

 

I can’t very well continue down the road of life having zero fun, right? So, I checked and Eureka! I discovered the burgeoning consulting business known as “fun coaching.” Seems folks are paying the big bucks to hire someone who will reconnect them (and/or their office team) with simple childhood joys. Imagine paying a “coach” to teach adults to blow bubbles, to skip rope, to romp! According to my research, one can spend an average of $125 a session (4 sessions minimum!) to re-learn playdoh pummeling, hopscotch, and finger painting. The websites wax rhapsodic about our neglected need to belly laugh, to play with abandon, to channel our inner toddlers.

 

My visual image of these shenanigans? The HR department, clad in office casual, reduced to clapping their hands delightedly as a Jack-in-the-Box pops up. Yippee! 

 

I suppose, for some, “fun” is an alien concept that must be carefully taught, and maybe hiring a fun coach is the way to go. But I think if you have to study fun, you’re missing the whole point—much like repeatedly pinching someone to teach them how to be sad (which might work in a “pinch”—sorry!—if you were applying to be a professional mourner). “Fun” is, I feel, completely subjective (some of the church youth seemed to really enjoy throwing balls at me. Go figure.)

 

Just in case I’m missing out, though, I’m planning to hire my own personal “fun coach." My ideal teacher is 11 months old, spends large chunks of the day chuckling manically over absolutely nothing, and delights in smearing mashed potato in their hair. This happy kid would inspire by example, and would never expect a 67-year-old woman to join in the jolly potato hair massage. No, my fun coach would totally support me doing what I already DO for fun--writing essays, mindlessly surfing the internet, and eating the elaborate, highly caloric desserts I bake, ostensibly for the other people in the house, but really for me. 

 

Best of all, I could probably get away with paying my coach in Peppa Pig stickers.

 

Meanwhile, I’ll get tons of enjoyment watching those trendy “fun coaching” companies gradually fade away, as we all return to our natural feelings of impatience, anger and fear. Back to normal!

Fun Coach Patrick

WEIRDEST JOBS YOU WON'T BELIEVE ARE REAL--BUT THEY ARE!

Teaching dogs to surf: actual job
(picture by chandlervid85 on Freepik)

I’ll start with a confession: I'm the person for whom the clickbait title writer writes; the stranger the headline, the more compelled I am to check it out. Combine that with my ongoing search for blog material, and you get posts like today’s gem. Weirdest jobs I won’t believe are real? Yes, please!! As I perused the list, I kept asking myself—how much money would it take for me to agree to DO these jobs? Does Elise have her price? Read on…

 

HAIR BOILER: Curly wigs are made by…boiling the hair! Who knew? Since I have experience trying, as a sixth grader, to straighten my naturally curly locks with the clothes iron, I’d be game to boil hair (as long as it’s not on my head). I do recall the stench of my frizzled mane, though, and wonder how boiled hair smells. For $11/hour, I think I’ll pass.

 

TRAIN PUSHER: This job requires someone willing and able to push as many people as possible onto a crowded train before the doors close. I may not have the upper-body strength for this, plus I’m not ready to move to Japan (where most of the “oshiya”-- train pushers--push.) Earning potential listed as “variable” (I guess you’d get a bonus if no pushee loses a limb). Arigatō, but no.

PET FOOD TASTER: This appetizing pursuit requires actually sampling the food Mittens' owner will be buying. The way I see it, it can’t taste worse than my Nana’s cooking (she of the charred-beyond-recognition roast “meat”). For the right price, I’d probably chow down on some puppy chow. Alas, the salary is quoted as only $45K—not enough moolah, Purina!

 

BICYCLE FISHER: It’s a real thing in the Netherlands, where a number of the 800,000 Dutch bikes end up in one of Amsterdam’s 165 canals. Filling a definite need, and a nice opportunity to get some fresh air and exercise. However, I neither ride a bike nor swim. Too bad, as this one also has “variable” pay (perhaps based on the value of the cycle: you’d get more retrieving a new Audi Sport Racer, say, than a rusted, dented old Schwinn). 

 

SNAKE MILKER: No, reptiles don’t produce milk (if they did, I’m sure the upscale cafes would be pouring it into their specialty Cobra Lattes). Snake milkers collect snake venom, so that antidotes can be developed. Salary here up to $5K/month, which sounds decent until you factor in the potential fatality. Alas, not for me!

 

FORTUNE COOKIE WRITER: Ah!!! Now we’re in business!! I would LOVE this job!!! I have endless ideas for the fortunes already—though it pays an average of $60K annually, I honestly would do this one for free. “You will make it BIG in the movies. Better cut back on buttered popcorn.”  “Move in the direction of your dreams. Turn off TV and go to bed.” 

 

My careers go in 20 year cycles (20 as actor, 20 as church worker, etc), so I predict a “weird” 2042-2062 for me! 

Photo by RDNE Stock Project on Pexels

 

 

 

My Love Language

 

Photo by rovenimages on Pexels

Time was, when we talked about “loving," we had a fairly agreed-upon concept in mind. Saint Paul put it thusly to the good people of Corinth, and his wise words have since been repeated in 10 jillion wedding ceremonies, draining them of all meaning:

"Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends."   (1 Corinthians 13 v. 4-8)

I've amended this ever so slightly: 

"Love is patient, as long as loved one gets to the damn point sometime in the next century. Love is kind (of nice), Love is not  envious/boastful/arrogant/rude, unless there are GOOD REASONS to be. Love does not insist on its own way, but if Love's way is correct, of course it does insist. Love is understandably irritable if Love is awakened in the middle of the night by loved one's unbearable snoring (and Love does keep records). Love rejoices in the truth, so long as the truth is that Love is beautiful, bright, funny and generally far superior to all other spouses. Love believes, hopes and endures to a certain extent; Love is not an idiot. Love never ends, except when it does."

There, fixed it for you, Paul!

Well, now, a mere 2000 years later, along comes Dr. Gary Chapman and his bestselling tome, The Five Love Languages™--apparently there is a mere handful of (patented) ways people show their devotion to one another:

 

Hmmm...Acts of Service? My honey bun can show me his love, not by buying me a diamond bracelet, but by lugging the trash can (filled with his trash) to the curb? He can spend his idea of Quality Time with me (watching football) and that counts as affection? As for Words of Affirmation, what woman wouldn't be swept off her feet by a man telling her she does an excellent load of (his) laundry? Then there's Physical Touch: all well and good, but high fives and fist bumps should not count as adequate PDAs. Finally, "Receiving" Gifts. I'm a tad confused--isn't giving gifts the truer sign of love? I mean, when the four year old birthday child grabs the toy that mommy drove all over creation to find, does the grunt accompanying said grab mean "I'm so eternally grateful, mother dear, and I love you"? Convince me!

I believe that Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing, but much of the splendor comes from its myriad expressions. Let's not be so limiting! As for me, I finally found the meme that explained my personal love language better than I ever could...

My love language is cooking elaborate meals screaming at everyone to get out of the kitchen then loudly announcing the food was NOT MY BEST and waiting for compliments.

Hugs and kisses!

 

Custom-ized

Christmas 1989--notice the new baby AND the decorated tree!

At a baby shower last weekend, we played some games (as is the custom). One involved a list of baby-related traditions around the world (we had to guess which country had which custom). By then, I’d stopped competing for a prize, since I’d done abysmally at guessing the mom-to-be’s belly size, and remembering what was in a briefly unveiled pile of infant care items. But I did enjoy learning some interesting stuff (babies in India have their heads shaved! German babies’ names must be approved by the government! Greek newborns should not see themselves in a mirror!) Some of these can be traced to superstitions or religious practices, others are thought to have health benefits (Icelandic babies nap outdoors. Iceland. Let that sink in).

Now, I am aware that we Americans also have some pretty odd customs--Groundhog Day! Presidential turkey pardons! Not using the metric system! So, I do not feel globally superior in any way. Indeed, I’d love it if we espoused many customs from other lands—such as the Nordic Jólabókaflóðið (Christmas book flood), when gifts of books are exchanged, and then folks snuggle up and read all night—presumably indoors, but you never know (see Iceland, above). And it must be swell to be my age in Korea, where elders are highly respected, always deferred to, and served food first at the table. Guessing “OK Boomer” is NOT an Asian thing. 

Many a holiday season over the years I have spent fighting off one illness or another, from strep throat to pneumonia to bronchitis, and I firmly believe all my decorating, shopping, card writing and baking were directly to blame…not to mention my stubborn insistence on pushing through my discomfort, so as not to ruin The Christmas Magic. I’m convinced my kids always truly appreciated the festive Yuletide meal prepared by their coughing, feverish mom! 

Well, the lovely Irish offer us stressed-out women our own special annual day to chill—Nollaig na mBan. Observed in the west of Ireland on January 6^th, “Women’s Little Christmas” is time for the hard-working ladies to put a figurative “gone fishin” sign on the front door, and head on down to the local pub for a pint or two. Of course, before they are allowed this brief respite, they have to take down and put away ALL the Christmas decorations in the house; waiting until January 7^th is bad luck. It’s said that “even God rested on the seventh day, Irish women didn't stop until the twelfth!” Haha! We work harder than you, God! 

Next year, I’m definitely making some big changes. Every holiday going forward, it will be “customary” for me to lie in bed for hours reading, while my respectful family serves me tasty snacks. Later, I will make my Happy Hour appearance at the Oreland Inn, where my female friends and I will clink glasses, see our shadows, and talk about all the turkeys we used to date. 

And I’ll stop looking in mirrors. Best custom ever.

Three Irish gals in Dublin!

Pop Goes the Tart

Photo by Isabella Fischer on Unsplash

“Dreams really do come true!”

 -sign held by mascot, Pop Tarts Bowl 2023

 I witnessed some of last week’s televised college football match between Kansas State and North Carolina State, but not because I gave a flip about the teams or outcome of the game. No, it was because I’d heard it was the Pop Tarts Bowl, named after its sugary sponsor (it was formerly the Blockbuster Bowl), and I just had to see how the whole affair would be handled. I was riveted by the person romping around dressed as a smiling, square breakfast treat. Fun mascot, right? But rumor had it that the ending would involve the winning team actually chowing down on a gigantic Pop Tart. Say it ain’t so, General Mills! Consuming Mr. or Ms. Strawberry seemed beyond the pale, almost cannibalistic.   

The powers-that-be were prepared for this understandable hesitation. So, to soothe us, the sponsor’s clever advertising team spun it this way: yes, Pop Tarts are made to be eaten, but they (the tarts) actually ENJOY the process of being chewed up!! No need to cry for Strawberry—they may be interacting adorably with the football fans now—but they will soon go happily to their delicious fate!   

And indeed, in the spectacle’s bizarre finale, the mascot, still grinning and waving, was lowered into a giant toaster, emerging flattened and ready to be consumed. The Kansas State Wildcats and families were seen chomping merrily away on pieces of a huge actual Pop Tart. This transformation felt obscenely like a ritual sacrifice, more grotesque and stomach-turning than lighthearted fun. And so to bed, impressionable kiddies! Happy Pop Tart dreams/nightmares!   

Let’s unpack this. On one level, a live Pop Tart was just a really stupid idea. On another, it was the pinnacle--some might even say the nadir--of ludicrous sports mascots (and here I thought the Phillie Phanatic was weird). But, hey! On further thought, maybe it was designed to be subversive, a scathing satire of the over-commercialization of…well, everything.  

Nah, something tells me that these folks are totally serious.  

Time was, bowls were named Rose, Orange and Super, and that was that. If a company invested heavily in a stadium or performance arena, said locale wasn’t automatically renamed something unbearably clunky. But nowadays, the aforementioned Phanatic cavorts for the baseball fans in “Citizens Bank Park.” The New Orleans Pelicans play basketball in “Smoothie King Arena” (named for a Korean soft serve ice cream franchise). And Elton John’s Memphis farewell concert really was held in the “FedEx Forum.”   

Where do we go from here?   I suggest we take a big step back. Let’s pause in our re-labeling frenzy. Perhaps our corporations would look more attractive and community-minded if they let their venues “speak” for themselves. Personally, I’d much rather go to a sporting event in, say, Madison Square Garden than at "Diet Pepsi Stadium." Don’t worry, sponsors! I’ll still know you "own" the place!   

For now, though, tasty toaster pastries are just ruined for me.

Five Little Words

 

just my size!

I love a writing challenge, especially when they’re short. There are lots out there—from “Tiny Love Stories” (New York Times—100 words max), to the events sponsored by the Rehoboth Beach Writers Guild (at which people read their work aloud, with a 300 word limit—alas, for at least one writer each time, 300 words translates to 3000 words, and the organizers are much too kind to stop them from talking on and on). For me, Queen of the 500 Word Blog Post, I wouldn’t dream of uttering word 301. 

Not sure why I’m so drawn to writing briefly. I like to think it’s because I have a genius for capturing beauty and meaning in a fleeting moment, that I am a lyrical haiku-ist in a world of clunky epic poets. But honestly, I just hate the thought of editing a longer draft. Much better to avoid that tedium by keeping my work too short to trim in the first place!

 

A few weeks ago, I contributed a prompt for a writer friend’s upcoming One Liner Humor Sprint (participants will write one funny line per day in response to prompts). I came up with this: write a one-liner in the style of a favorite comic (Seinfeld, Rickles, etc.) I’m looking forward to what everybody comes up with (including me—I have no clue what to write, yet).

 

Rose seems to have been bitten by the brevity bug herself, because she just emailed family and friends to ask them to send her a five-word piece of advice, responding to the prompt Always Remember… 

 

I’m hoping Rose has a rule-following bunch of buddies! I sent her: Life is about creating yourself, which I believe to be both true AND adhering to the word limit. I could have shared many other deep, five word thoughts on life, from personal experience, such as:

 

Always remember…

Bananas make pears ripen faster

Shag carpet’s a terrible idea

Never go to bed angry

Therefore, never wake up happy 

Floss more than once yearly

Don’t wake a sleeping baby

Ask your doctor about Implausia

Good fences make invisible neighbors

Only you can prevent forest fires (six words, I know, but SO important, right?)

No white shoes after summer

No puffy parkas after winter

 

And so on.

 

These culled pearls will be used as part of a home decorating/art project Chez Rose. I applaud my daughter’s gutsy approach to interior design--though I too once decorated the walls of our Stuyvesant Town apartment, with bold Crayola murals in 64 brilliant colors. That was the same artistic era which saw my extra illustrations (also crayoned) in my parents’ wedding Bible. Mom called it her Blue Period, for some reason.

 

As we prepare to greet another New Year, I challenge my readers to tighten up those paragraphs, to compress those rambling thoughts, to become terser and concise-r. Learn how very much you can convey in just five (or fewer) little words.

 

Here’s to a Reader’s Digest condensed 2024 for all! 

 

 

 

Rose, boyfriend Amrit, and their respective doggies, strike a typical Brooklyn pose
 (sitting on her apt. stoop)

 

 

 

Pulling Off Route 66

 

 

As an eternally reluctant driver, my M.O. on expressways is: make note of all the exits! You know, just in case the road starts to ice over (never mind that it’s August), or there’s a sudden deluge or high wind or thick fog or darkness falls or…

 

Mind you, I never visualize exactly what I’d DO once I got to the end of the exit ramp; if the road conditions were dire enough, I’d consider moving permanently to Exit 343B (“if you lived here, you’d be home now!” to quote those chirpy billboards.) After all, who needs anything more than three gas stations and a Pizza City, right? 

 

On Friday, I’ll officially be pulling off “Route 66,” as I’ve thought of the past year of my life. Recently retired, zipping along for the most part, writing and getting published a good bit. It’s been a pretty smooth ride, and I’d love to just stay here forever. 

 

But alas!! The road ahead is ending, abruptly, and I’m being detoured onto Route 67. Not yet sure what to expect on this new highway; I sure hope at least there’s a Pizza City. Will 67 be a twisty-turny mountain road? Will there be scary suspension bridges to drive across? How about the traffic situation? In other words, will I have more essays declined than accepted? Will the editors I love to work with leave their publications, or “ghost” me? Will I be scooped by legions of more talented writers, and pushed right out of the market?

 

Those are just my writerly fears! Add to them my myriad worries about health (physical and mental), finances, family and friends, this perilous world of ours. Understandably, I’m quite concerned about my path for the next 365 days. Oh, and let’s not forget my fun getting older "look"! Years ago, I wrote a piece about the age spots that were already on my hands when Julie was still in elementary school. I haven’t noticed them of late, perhaps because there are now so many that they’ve morphed into one gigantic spot. And ah! the irony of a metabolism that has slowed to a crawl just in time for the rapid speeding up of the aging process!! 

 

But I am cheered by reading more about “67,” even though it lacks a peppy song. According to numerology, 67 is an Angel Number, with the energy of numbers 6 AND 7. 6 signifies home, family, love, harmony and balance. 7 signifies spirituality, introspection, intuition, wisdom and analysis.

 

The “angel” part? Well, seems my personal angel has been sending me many messages, all containing “67.” I just haven’t been looking hard enough! 

Time to pay attention, Elise! There are 67 chapters in the book I’m reading! 67 ingredients in my “healthy” yogurt! 67 gray hairs on my head (as long as I stop counting at 67). Hints and nudges abound! 

I think I’m ready to take a spin on my thrilling new roadway. My angel awaits!

She's probably in Pizza City.

Me, on Route 1!