Hobbyist

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels

No, not a "lobbyist." I do not intend to advocate for Microsoft or Pfizer or Coca-Cola.

I want to be a "hobbyist."

 

Clearly, I’m light years behind my compatriots in that, for one thing, I have never crossed the threshold of Hobby Lobby. I only venture into Michael’s under duress. I do not have my own Etsy shop.

 

And yet, I love the IDEA of hobbies. I yearn to plunge headlong into an “interest,” something creative, maybe something collectible. My dear friend Marda, who has soared far beyond hobbyist into the realm of true artist, speaks of the satisfaction she finds in her home studio, crafting for the pure joy of it. Like me as a writer, she loses herself in the process, and emerges, dazed but delighted, with a finished product. Only hers is something beautiful you can hold and put on your mantel, whereas mine exists completely on the printed page. You can wear Marda’s lovely handmade jewelry; my artistry resides (if I’m lucky) on your bedside table.

 

Turns out, the hobby options are numerous. Just to name a few, there’s beetle fighting (?) and dirt polishing (??), also coin/stamp collecting (both deemed the King of Hobbies—which is it? They need to get their act together) and something called extreme ironing. No joke, these people iron clothes, in weird locales. I have a tough enough time ironing where God intended (on a board, in front of the TV). There are shell seekers and sea glass hunters and piano dabblers. It seems to me that almost anything a person does in their spare time can be labeled a “hobby.” So perhaps my haphazard housekeeping, that periodic “fluff and dust” occurring just before we have company, qualifies? My hobby is…occasional vacuuming?

 

Nah. Hobbies are fun! Hobbies are shareable! Hobbies involve working with polymer clay and tiny plastic googly eyes and watercolor pens, or they are activities (solo or group) such as the faddish pickleball (which, though the name been explained to me, I will always picture as hitting a sour dill across a court) Hobbies, by definition, cannot be livelihoods; for instance, my psychiatrist would never call his adventure in psychotherapy with me his “hobby”(at least I hope he doesn’t).  I’d hate to hire a “hobbyist” lawyer or plumber, because they are just messing around, right? I want a serious pastor, darn it! Not someone who enjoys Googling “spirituality” between customers at Sonic. 

 

It seems that “hobbies” must be both dedicated pastimes AND lighthearted amusements. My mom Joanie was drummed out of the Hobby Corps early on, because she was the worst of both worlds—she was not having fun, nor did she take her pursuits seriously. Her  unfinished dècoupage projects littered the family room for years, and her hooked rug remained eternally semi-hooked. Even late in life, Mom briefly took up, then abandoned, whichever crafts caused the most mess.

 

But I am different. My hobby will be cute, tidy and also intellectually challenging! 

 

I’m leaning towards pistachio art.

The Gray Lady (Someday. Not Yet)

Little me with my wise Nana (why wasn't I taking notes?)
Oil painting by Carolyn Majewski

OK, so apparently my existential crisis is all in my head (my hair, to be precise). At age 67 and a half (precisely), and in consultation with my wonderful hair stylist Sue, I’m beginning to explore…going gray at last. The dye bottle has been mi amiga for almost 30 years now. At 38, I saw the dreaded grays beginning to appear in my very dark brown hair. What was, for several decades, a logical approach to premature aging, is now starting to look a bit silly (at least for me), as my aging is no longer remotely “premature.” 

The current game plan is to return to a short haircut, which had been my go-to for many years, by age 70, and then let nature take her course, color-wise. Several friends took advantage of the pandemic to stop with the tinting. As I so often am, I’m late to the party. But now I’m (almost) ready (not yet! Not yet! Don’t rush me!) 

I anticipate a period of adjustment for sure, but eventually I’ll stop feeling horrified when passing mirrors. The Graying of the Hair should dovetail nicely with the attendant Wrinkling of the Face, Flabbing of the Arms and so on. I gave up on aging like the ridiculously fit Jane Fonda eons ago; nowadays, I aspire to age like the actress Ruth Gordon, who rocked a wry and spry, if crinkled, look, into her late 80s.

 

As I settle in to my new status as an Elder, I know I should probably add the adjective “Wise” for maximum self-esteem. But I worry about identifying that way, because I rarely feel “wise” (unless “wisecracking” counts). Indeed, most days I struggle to spout any Words of Inspiration at all, even to eight-year-old Peter. I fear, by the time my final grandchild is old enough to converse, I will be reduced to whatever I recall from Poor Richard’s Almanac. “Ah yes, dear one, a stitch in time saves nine! What does that mean? I have no idea!”

 

For you see, mine was not a past marked by walks to school uphill both ways in the snow, or weeks of boiled potato and cabbage dinners. I was a child of the 1950s and 60s, and my biggest sacrifice involved having only three TV channels. Character building did not come naturally to someone who spent her after school time, not plowing the back 40, but watching “That Girl” reruns.

However, it’s not too late! Wisdom is a mere Google search away! Just as I did when leading Bible study at church, I only have to stay one click ahead of my students! Yes, my little descendants will sit at my swollen, arthritic feet. “Nana! What’s the Secret of Life?” my precious kiddles will ask. And I will rock my rocker back and forth awhile, for dramatic effect. 

 

“Listen closely, my children. The Secret of Life? Know when to stop dyeing. 

Hair dyeing, that is. You can’t actually stop 'dying'.

 

Hey! Where are you going?”

Photo by Elena Kloppenburg on Unsplash

What's My Theme?

Miles (me) and Prince Charming (Steve)

There’s a running gag in our production of Cinderella that has always been a hit with our young audiences. The Prince periodically instructs Miles the Town Crier to “Play my theme!” before his grand entrances. Miles then delivers a jazzy kazoo rendition of Aaron Copland’s "Fanfare for the Common Man" (a little inside joke for music-savvy grownups). 

Kidding aside, though, wouldn’t having your own theme song be COOL? Not only would it tunefully herald your arrival in a room, thus giving you extra importance, but just hearing it played anywhere would remind the listener of your fabulous self! In music, this idea of an identifying theme that recurs, expressing a character, setting or action, is called a “leitmotif.” 

A perfect example is the John Williams score to the movie Jaws. Those ominous, accelerating two notes during the film always meant a shark attack was imminent (which warning I personally appreciated, because it would give me time to cover my eyes and ears). Disney movie musicals, from Aladdin to Lion King to Encanto, also frequently utilized the leitmotif. Other, more highbrow leitmotifs include those of Richard Wagner (whose 19^th century operas were chock full of them), Puccini and Stravinsky. 

 

So…what kind of tune would evoke YOU? Would you stride into view with dramatic, sweeping tones? How about drifting in with a sweet, lilting violin solo? 1812 Overture-style cannon booms? Or “You Are My Sunshine” played on a toy xylophone? The possibilities are endless!

 

Panning out a bit, is there music that would represent a part your life journey itself? When Steve and I were on the road in the late 1970s touring in children’s theare, we had a cassette player in the car, but could only afford a handful of tapes (yes, our $15 per show salary didn’t go far!) So we tended to play certain ones overandoverandover, prominently Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto (“Theme from Tour” as we still call it). Even now, almost 45 years later, that piece of music brings me right back to the highways and byways of upstate New York, tooling along in a prop-and-costume laden Chevette. 

 

I’m in a contemplative state of mind these days, looking back over my lengthy time on the planet, and plotting a course for my undoubtedly briefer future. In fact, I am hoping to purchase a nifty poster called “My Life in Weeks," a chart with 4,000 marks on it, each mark representing a week of the average life span. You send the company your birth date, and your poster arrives with the weeks you’ve already lived crossed off.  I know some might find this product horrifying, but I’m excited about it. Mortality reminder, yes, but also a challenge to make the very most of each week ahead. 

this is what I'm talking about!

I see myself strolling confidently onto the world stage in the however-many weeks to come, accompanied always by The Theme that defines me.

 

While I’m deciding exactly what that Theme will be, for now I think I’ll go with Jaws.

 

Watch out, everybody!

 

 

 

Veggie Babies

photo by Deon Black on Unsplash

                    28 weeks: Your baby is about the size of a large eggplant

The day before Steve and I heard the news about the new baby, the big bros were already in on the secret. To their credit, they kept mum. But Peter was bursting to give me a hint, so he came into my office and said that they had a surprise, and they’d tell us later. I asked how big the surprise was. Peter responded, “The surprise is the size of an avocado!”

Turn out, he was absolutely correct. At 17 weeks, the baby was indeed avocado-sized. How do we know? Well, Ya-Jhu has an app comparing the size of our Bouncing Baby Grandson #3 with increasingly-sized veggies and fruits as the weeks of her pregnancy continue (a bean, a red pepper, now he’s an eggplant). Though I guess you could use any random measuring device (Your baby is about the size of a ping pong ball), it is very fitting that Mama Yaj is making use of a produce-centered one. 

Since Ya-Jhu's arrival in our lives, we have been served, and consumed, probably twice the amount of vegetables, and definitely ten times the fresh fruit, than I’d ever thought of offering when my kids were small. As a result, Aiden and Peter clamor for healthy after school snacks of fresh cherries, mango spears, and watermelon wedges.

Even though my five children’s afternoon munchies may not have been quite as nutritious as my grandsons’ are (we went through MANY a box of Honey Nut Cheerios), I console myself that at least my gang ate a decent amount of both fruits and vegetables each day—and easily 100X more than I’d eaten as a young child. 

I’m amazed my sisters and I did not end up with scurvy, rickets and other diseases of medieval malnutrition! True, we did have many cavities, thanks to regular consumption of Ring Dings, Yodels, Ding Dongs, and Twinkies (the manufacturers didn’t even pretend their junk food was anything BUT junky—those ridiculous names made that perfectly clear.)

When I took over the kitchen at age 10, my dessert-making skills were the first to develop, followed by meats. From my experience, peas and carrots (and, horrors! spinach) came in cans, or frozen in bags, but honestly Mom rarely bothered to serve anything like that, except perhaps at holiday time. 

Learning to properly prepare foods like salads and asparagus, I finally discovered their deliciousness, but the sugar-coated habits of a lifetime stuck with me. Even now, when Sheridan and Ya-Jhu bring out bowls of strawberries after dinner, my first thought is always, “I guess they didn’t notice the carton of fudge ripple in the freezer!”

My offspring grew to be very healthy eaters, and Julie is even a vegetarian. I have no doubt that the excellent produce they love will serve my grandsons (my veggie babies) well, all their lives. And while I do try, it’s probably too late for me to PREFER broccoli over Almond Joys. But that’s OK.

At least the candy bars have nutritious nuts in them.

Put a Lid on It

a sampler of my orphaned lids

Our corner of the planet has been under a “Heat Dome,” with high humidity and temps in the 90s. At this rate, we should all be roasted and ready to eat in 20 minutes! This image of a giant lid on top of us makes me very uncomfortable, on the one hand. Sweaty! Stifling! On the other, I think, “Well, at least our cover fits securely!” Because I am the owner of a vast and colorful array of Tupperware halves without their significant others (you know, the small square lids with no corresponding bottoms, the rectangular red lid that comes thisclose to matching the rectangular container, but not quite.) 

 

Until fairly recently, I was unaware of the Iron Dome concept, but of course it is well known to my Israeli son-in-law. There are ten countries currently using Iron Domes, mobile air defense systems that can intercept short-range rockets and artillery which threaten populated areas. I don’t understand the technology, and assume it’s only workable in a smallish country, but I could be wrong. Could we even HAVE an Iron Dome in the vast USA? If it didn’t quite stretch (a la my Tupperware), where would we be unprotected? Would Biloxi, Baltimore, or Billings be left exposed? Would we require several iron domes to be sure we were all safe? And just how big would an all-Europe or all-Asia Iron Dome need to be? I’m a literalist, and am picturing the whole world resembling the covered leftovers from a huge international potluck.

 

As for other domes, there are the various domed stadiums that dot the landscape—the Superdome (New Orleans), Ford Field in Detroit, the mellifluous Alamodome in San Antonio. These are designed to be weatherproofed, pumped full of AC in summer, and heated toastily in winter. Lately, though, the trend is to go back to open air arenas, because of course we miss being pelted with ice pellets during January football games, and sizzling in the inferno of August heat during baseball matches. We’ve been entirely too comfortable!! We need to suffer for our sports and music!!

 

Over the years, I have learned a few things about covers. It is possible to be TOO covered up, swaddled and coddled. Spoiled children tend to have a pretty rude awakening later on. A little exposure to the elements of reality is a good, healthy thing. And political cover-ups definitely have their perils, when the truth is (temporarily) hidden from view, and the falsehoods fester, until the inevitable explosion. 

 

So maybe it’s good that I’m forced to be intentional when matching up my Tupperware and lids. Perhaps I need to think about what I’m concealing. Sometimes those salad greens will turn limp and slimy, or that tomato paste moldy, without any air. Sometimes we all need to stand, honest and uncovered, and show the world just who we are. 

 

For now, though, I’ll keep searching for the matching round blue lid for that plastic bowl. 

 

It’s probably in the dryer with the odd socks. 

these socks are truly matchless

Shadowloss

photo by Tiana on Pexels

I’ve reached the age when the deaths of dear ones are increasingly common events. I remember that my Nana always turned to the obituaries first when she read her New York Times. She would joke that as long as she didn’t appear in print as one of the deceased, it was bound to be a good day. That chipper remark aside, I think Nana scanned the ages and causes of death, for reassurance that she herself most likely still had some time left. We have a tendency to rank death as quite the worst thing that can ever happen. 

But there are many other kinds of losses. I recently read that these non-fatal, but still very sad, events are called “shadowlosses.” Examples could include being fired from a job, a bitter divorce, the end of a friendship, a cancer diagnosis, moving from a long-time home. These occurrences are usually ranked as much less important than death, but I think some of them are almost as painful. And what adds to the pain is the way they are so often brushed off with “well, it could be worse.” Perhaps, but the empty spaces in our lives that used to be filled with good health, a rewarding career, a beloved neighborhood, can nevertheless cause tremendous sorrow. 

 

I mourn the demise of certain relationships. Even decades later, the thoughts of these lost friendships continue to sting—especially when I dwell on what I did to contribute to the final rifts. I totally understand the folks who mourn a major move from a house they’d loved, those who feel really adrift after retirement, those who greatly regret the dissolution of a marriage.

 

We tend to divide our lives into “before” and “after” certain pivotal events.  I agree with John Greenleaf Whittier that “what might have been” are the saddest words. For me personally, while the deaths of family members and close friends have been wrenching, my “before” and “after” event is the year before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. That is my biggest shadowloss. I became a nasty, out-of-control stranger to myself. I caused many people pain. I completely lost what I’d always understood to be my personality. That horrible year changed me then, and I remain a changed person. Luckily, I got the help I needed, and I have a good life now. But I’ll never go back to being the Elise of my first 49 years—and I’ll always wonder what might have been, if I never had a mental illness.

 

I’m glad that we’re starting to talk about shadowlosses. I’m hopeful that we’ll stop minimizing other people’s sadness, stop encouraging them to “just cheer up.” Time will pass. They/we will, someday, feel better. But in the meantime, it’s OK to cry. It’s OK to feel genuine sadness, and not have to justify it on some sliding scale. Life is tough. Period. Recognizing the validity of these different losses is a great gift we can give to others—and to ourselves. 

Joro's Web

  

Picture this....ONLY MANY TIMES BIGGER
(image by Albrecht Fietz on Pixabay)

The other night we were eating dinner out on our deck, and my eyes wandered to a weathered blue flyswatter hanging on a hook by the sliding glass door. I instantly recalled the jolly (if a bit macabre) sport that Aiden and Peter played a few summers back: Kill (ALL) The Spotted Lanternflies!! The weird, gaudy insects were clustering on, and damaging, our black walnut tree, and in general behaving dreadfully. We actually encouraged the boys to dispatch as many as possible, whacking away with the swatter.

 

Haven’t seen a single lanternfly this year, so I guess my grandsons are solely responsible for their extinction. Good work, gentlemen!

 

But wait! There’s more bug trouble on the horizon! Have you heard? The gigantic Joro spiders are coming!!!

 

These bizarre creepy crawlies, originally from Asia, coming to an American backyard near you, are, it is reported, as big as a human hand. They spin webs of up to 10 feet in diameter. Oh, and they are “mildly” poisonous as well. I haven’t slept since reading about them, and I fully expect the Joros to be just as horrifying as described. Oh, the press has since walked it back a tad: the mega-spiders will mostly be found in heavily wooded areas. They spin their webs high up in trees, not in a corner of your living room. They are “afraid of people” (but don’t they say that about EVERY terrifying creature, from grizzly bears to sharks? I find this notion preposterous. Why in heck would THEY fear US? I mean, there is the gun thing, I guess, but aside from that…) Let’s face it, though--even if the reports are exaggerating, even if a Joro’s only as big as half a human hand, that’s still too darned big for a spider. 

 

On the plus side, this alarming news item temporarily pushed other major nightmares (climate crisis, war, long COVID, politics, Ye) to the sidelines of my brain. But it’s a stretch to call the arrival of giant spiders a “welcome diversion.” A welcome diversion would be the announcement of a million butterflies heading this way (wouldn’t that be beautiful? Sigh.) This is just one more Terrible Thing we’ll have to face, in a world that seems to have more than its fair share these days.

 

At any rate, I am thinking of prepping for a real-life remake of Arachnophobia, by dusting off my copy of Charlotte’s Web. The gentle E.B. White tale of a wise and lovable spider is, of course, a great classic of children’s literature. I remember finding Charlotte indeed both wise and lovable, and I wept when she died at the end of the book. But alas, I don’t remember my affection for a fictional character changing my mind about real spiders. Hated them then, hate them now. 

 

It seems every time I decide to start loving nature, there’s something that gets in the way. I don’t WANT to despise the Great Outdoors! It’s all the Joros’ fault! 

I even fear cartoon spiders.

There's an App for That

 

my iPhone, all apped up

I remember back when “app” meant Sour Cream Onion Dip. It was a “mobile app” if you took it to a potluck. 

 

I’m no inventor.  If I were George Washington Carver, I would have stared at the humble peanut forever, without finding a single use for it. If I were Thomas Edison, I’d still be in the dark. While I may have a bit of ability as a wordsmith, I will never come up with a clever way to make coffee using a hamster-on-a-wheel for energy. I am in awe of anything resembling a fabulous life hack, though I stop short of sending my hard-earned $49.99 (in four easy payments) to the manufacturers of the Incredible Instant Ice Cream Calorie Remover/Lawn Mulcher.

 

So naturally, when I decided to come up with a few whimsical ideas for mobile apps for this blog post, I struggled. For one thing, there are (as of Summer 2023) NINE MILLION apps available, with something like 1200 new ones cropping up daily. That’s some high-powered imagination, folks!

 

And every time I thought of something really outlandish, I discovered there was already an actual app for it. “Fake-an-Excuse” exists, my friends (this app offers realistic sounds to play during an unwanted phone call—burst water pipe, crying baby, swarm of bees- to give you an excuse to hang up.) So does “Run Pee” (tells you exactly when, as a movie viewer, it’s a good time for a bathroom break without missing important plot developments). “Carrr Matey” helps you find where you parked your vehicle--using a pirate voice. For reals. Arrr.

 

But there is one area where I feel there’s still room for innovation, app-wise. It’s the field of personal development and relationships. Here are a few random thoughts (patents pending, so don’t try pulling anything!)

 

“UnAltared!” Ditch that loser fiancé in church, right before you say, “I do!” During the Wedding March, your phone emits a piercing nuclear attack warning siren. As the petrified guests scramble for the exits, you can calmly take off your veil and disappear into the wilds of the Amazon (jungle, not shopping site). 

 

“Is My Child a Cereal Killer?” This app secretly records late night forays into your pantry, exposing four-year-old Bobby as the unprincipled Cocoa Puffs binge-eater that he is. 

 

“Am I Becoming My Mother?” This is a super-simple app. Whatever you ask it, the answer is always, “Yes. You are becoming your mother. Just stop.” In the paid version, an electric shock is added.

 

And then there’s “Tok-Tik-Chat-Snap”, where you can spend hours recording your own little video masterpieces, and just as you're about to share, they disappear forever. Great for reminding you of the depressing futility of life!

 

Finally, “Heading to Heaven” charts your every thought, word and deed, day and night (dreams included), so you always know what progress you are (or are NOT) making on the road to the Pearly Gates. Think of it as a Confessional in Your Pocket!

 

Go ahead. "Apply" yourselves, gang! Time’s a wasting!

Baking Communion bread with Sunday School--in the plus column for "Heading to Heaven"? Maybe?