Weather Alert: Brain Fog

Yup. Looks about right.

Like most of us, my mind has weather. Amirite? My moods are “sunny” or “dark.” I rain (even flood) tears; I freeze people out. I’m sometimes long-winded, I can be a tornado of energy. My outlook can be clear or cloudy. This week, though I’ve been fighting it, I am foggy. Brain Fog has seeped into my cranium and taken up residence, and I’m having a hard time getting my bearings. I can only see a few feet ahead of me, and my emergency lights are flashing. I’ve slowed WAY down. Exit and street signs are impossible to read, so I’m going on instinct, feeling my way through my days. Suffice it to say, I cannot concentrate worth a darn right now.

There are understandable reasons for this lack of clarity, but that doesn’t make it any easier to navigate. 

Yes, we are in Month 13 of the Pandemic that Never Ends

Yes, our pastor died last Wednesday afternoon, so sad

Yes, I have precisely 4,123 items on my to-do list FOR THIS WEEK

Yes, I’m only on Number #3 of that list

and 

Yes, I’m 64 years old, and a little haze comes with the territory

I’ve always prided myself on achievement and speed (natural, not chemical) to power through life. While I am no athlete, I do usually move at a brisk pace, often knocking over knick-knacks and small children (sorry, Peter!) as I barrel along. These last several days, though, have been like slogging through molasses mixed with maple syrup mixed with crazy glue…when I’m not completely stuck, I am struggling to move. 

I’ve been sleeping restlessly, my dreams vivid and disconcerting. When I wake up (as I do at annoying intervals throughout the night—thank you, age 64!), I am disoriented for several moments (why am I in bed and not still climbing that icy ladder with the bad guys chasing me?) The rest of the days glide by, blurred at the edges. I feel like Lucille Ball in the movie Mame (if you saw it, the great Lucy insisted on soft-focus to hide her advancing age. When she was in scenes with other actors, it was like someone covered the camera lens with Vaseline when her face was featured).

I hear about the intense brain fog that is one of the lingering symptoms of COVID-19, and I truly empathize with those sufferers (and no, I’m sure I don’t have COVID). All I can do is keep driving down this road, cautiously, making my peace with a slower pace and rather less accomplishment than usual. Our lives, like our bodies, have spells of rough weather, and I think I’m in one now. The clouds will break, the fog will lift, the sun will shine again, eventually. I’ve learned THAT over 64 years.

While I wait, I might try to be patient, for a change. And grateful that, for me, this is a temporary condition. 

But I’d better keep those emergency flashers on, just in case.

H2O4U

You never forget your first Coke...look at that smile!

When I was little, I hated drinking water. Well, to be fair, New York City tap water way back then tasted pretty yucky. So I just didn’t drink any. And I was allergic to milk, so I couldn’t drink that either. And I was not a big juice fan. So I spent a lot of my time feeling—thirsty. Then, one magical day, at my cousin’s apartment, I discovered Coca-Cola. Where had they been keeping this amazing and delicious beverage? I wondered. It was sweet, it was fizzy, Coke was like a party in a bottle! I’d finally found something I loved to drink! 

But there’s a funny thing about Coke. I could drink gallons of it (and I did) and it could give me a mouthful of cavities (and it did) but I would still be thirsty--almost like my body was trying to tell me something, but I wasn’t listening. 

As an adult, my antipathy towards water, and my affinity for soda, continued. Oh, after a workout or tennis game I’d guzzle a little H2O, but never nearly enough to replenish what I’d lost during exercise. Usually, I’d imbibe exactly the amount required to swallow my pills in the morning, and not a drop more. 

Recently, I purchased a large, snazzy water bottle and have been trying to drink at least 6 glasses worth a day. My motives aren’t the purest (my skin has been really dry; I am struggling to lose some weight) but whatever the reasons, my body is reacting positively to this change. 

Monday was World Water Day, and that reminded me of how difficult it is to obtain fresh drinking water in many parts of the world, and how lucky I am to be able to just turn on a tap and watch it flow. Over the years, our church has supported charity:water, an amazing organization founded by Scott Harrison. Scott had been a nightclub promoter on the NYC party scene through his twenties; at age 30 he decided to change the course of his life. He spent two years on a hospital ship off the coast of Liberia, seeing the health consequences of dirty water. Since 2006, charity:water has raised $500 million for projects in 29 countries, providing clean water to 11 million people. 

We live in a world that tries to sell us Coke, when what we need is water. The world tells us that we need things that are symbolically “empty calories,” things that may sound good, or look good, or taste good, but can really hurt us. And there’s cool, refreshing water right here waiting for us, and we don’t even notice.

 This glorious first week of Spring, as I attempt to turn over a new leaf with a water-drinking routine, may I evaluate ALL the empty calories in my life, and fill up on the good stuff instead: compassion, gratitude, forgiveness, kindness. And may I do my part to provide life-giving water to my brothers and sisters who thirst.

Ny new H2O receptacle!

Our COVID Dish Supper

Dinner Screenshot 

Last week marked the one year anniversary of the pandemic shutdown. I’m sure we all remember where we were when the news hit, how surreal it felt, how we were told (and hoped) that it would all be over in two weeks (ha!) The past 12 months have seemed like an eternity, with all our lives affected, if not completely upended. My first thought was to leave observances to the media (some of which have done an amazing job of covering this milestone, with touching tributes to those lost—from the famous, to the every-men-and-women.) And honestly, don’t we just want to move on, as quickly as possible, to a post-coronavirus world? 

But Steve had an idea, a suggestion for hitting the one year point: why not invite the family to a Zoom virtual meal together? And of course, being Steve, it had to be a “COVID dish supper,” with all participants charged with preparing a dish whose name contained the letters in either “mask” “Zoom” “Fauci” or “pandemic.” The gang agreed to this goofy plan, and we had our dinner on Monday night (not the actual date of March 11, but the only night Patrick was off from work, and his girlfriend Ashlyn could join us too). 

 It ended up being lots of fun, and more meaningful than I was expecting it to be. The food part of the evening was a hoot, with LOTS of cauliflower and kale on the various menus. Ever the overachiever, I made pizza with cauliflower and kale (of course) but also Cheddar, Parmesan and mushrooms…which, if you check, you’ll see that this concoction used the letters in all 4 magic words. 

 As we ate, we reminisced about where we were when we first heard the news. Evan was in Canada, Patrick had just returned from a business trip to Charlotte. Julie and Gil had just gotten back from a California vacation. Steve and I had tickets to Company on Broadway, and of course all the theaters went dark. Yaj and the boys had only been home from Taiwan a couple of weeks. C and Rob said Hawaii had already shut down, in advance of the mainland. 

 Then we went around answering the following questions: what was your biggest loss? Biggest win? New skill learned? Skill not used? One thing you’ll keep doing? One thing you’ll never do again? One word to sum up the pandemic, and one word for the future? 

 While we each answered differently, there were common threads: we missed contact with other people (Rose in particular has been going it alone, living and working in a tiny studio apartment), we all learned some disappointing things about human nature. There were sharpened skills (C painted more, Steve played more guitar, I wrote more) and skills not used (driving, performing, etc.) Our summing up words for pandemic included: inevitable, unprecedented, sad. For the future? Onward. Hope. Connection. Love. 

 I’m really sick of Zoom, but it was a joy to Zoom together that night.

Grand Prize winner (oh, wait, there was no prize)

Mise-en-Place

my little corner of writer's paradise!

For many years as a cook, I resisted the French concept of “mise-en-place” ("putting in place"). I would watch Julia Child or another TV chef chop, dice, wash and portion, all before beginning to put a recipe together. What a ridiculous use of time! And how boring to do that kind of prep! Why not just plunge in? thought I. 

As a result, while I gradually became a better chef, the act of cooking or baking was a messy one indeed. I’d read “1 cup butter” and hastily grab two sticks from the fridge, only to read on that the butter had to be at room temperature before proceeding. I’d be mincing garlic and onion on a cutting board together, then discover that they were to be added to the saute pan separately. I’d never (ever) wash up as I went, so the after-meal kitchen resembled a culinary tornado, with the sink heaped with dirty pots, spatulas and measuring spoons. 

But recently I have embraced “mise-en-place,” because it inarguably makes things better (and simpler, in the long run). No more frantically softening butter in the microwave (and watching it melt instead), or trying to pick the garlic bits out from the onion. And washing dishes gradually during the process means that the after-dinner chore (which, full disclosure, is 99% of the time accomplished by Steve) is a relative snap. 

Now that my “cooking mise” is in full swing, I have turned to other, unkempt areas of my life and applied the same principle. I used to think my haphazard filing system at work, and my “home office” ritual of writing among the cereal bowls at the dining room table, were signs of eccentric creativity. It was just how I rolled. 

But now I see that I can roll in a different direction. I can keep my office spaces (at church and at home) tidy, with pens and scissors and plenty of paper, with computer files that make sense and can be easily accessed. 

And now I can add beauty and joy to the room. I have on my desk a bamboo plant and a little orchid and an English ivy,  a few framed photos of my family, a banker’s lamp (same color green as my little desk), and even a bit of whimsy ( a pencil holder in the shape of an old typewriter). I have a variety of scented candles to light—WITH a lighter, and a really nice water bottle to remind me to hydrate.

I joined a UK-based writing group that meets online to write from 8-9 each morning (I’m writing there now), and I marvel at how much I can accomplish in one focused hour. 

Life is messy and unpredictable enough as it is, so why have I been allowing MY life to fall into the same disheveled state? There’s not much I can control, but I can do some advance planning and make my days much more successful, and peaceful too. 

Mise-en-place. Vive la France!

Meal prep's looking different these days

Leftovers

 

The only cookbook in Mom's kitchen--true!

I’ve never been a big fan of leftovers--probably because of the way Mom would store whatever remained after our dinners (or at least, the “homemade” ones, as opposed to the frozen Swanson variety that was our usual fare). Very appropriately, we ALWAYS ate our meals in front to the television set, so in a way every dinner at Cunningham’s was a TV dinner. Joanie would crumple up a piece of foil and sort of loosely drape it over the pan containing our entrée leavings (either dried-out baked chicken or dried-out meatloaf). The refrigerated result was guaranteed to be extra dried-out the following night. Yum!

When our kids were little, we rarely had leftovers (this was especially true during the boys’ “formative” years, when they seemed to be “forming” out of endless mountains of groceries.) If there were any extras, I could count on my husband to scarf them down for lunch. Even now, when I thriftily make a double batch of whatever, I am never really tempted to eat the same menu again on Night #2. As always, Stevo to the rescue! Sometimes I need to remind him that the leftover fish was from a week ago Tuesday and might not be the safest choice today. His response is to give the dish a whiff, taste it, and proclaim, “It’s still fine!” To be fair, he hasn’t been poisoned yet, although I do expect that to happen at some point.

My disdain for leftovers does not end with food. I vastly prefer new clothing to second-hand, because I’d much rather be the first one to encounter these items. Not being Mrs. Moneybags, I do of course wear my sweaters and jeans (lots) more than once—but I do read with envy about the vast closets of the Rich and Famous, who are rarely seen garbed the same way twice. 

As I approach the midway point of my seventh decade, it is easy to think of what remains of my life as mostly  “leftovers”—that I will probably spend most of my final years recycling old habits, opinions, tastes. Not enough time to become a brain surgeon or astronaut or major league ball player, right? So I might as well tread water (figuratively speaking, as I am a lousy swimmer.) But then I remember how I feel about leftovers; I recall this right around the moment I remember the latter-day blossomings of Grandma Moses and Colonel Sanders. 

And so these days I am freshly inspired to keep going, to keep trying new things. To keep growing, as a writer and as a person. Most of all, to remember that every minute of every day IS brand new. There is no such thing as a “leftover”—life is all beginnings, even in the midst of endings. Every day is a gift, a beautiful new scarf, a freshly-cooked feast. A source of wonder, never seen before.

Which is a poetic way of saying: Steve, you can finish up that casserole. I’m good. 

Symptomatic

 

Extra Vitamin D! Check! Pulse Oximeter! Check! Blood Type Kit (to confirm my blood type causes the worst COVID symptoms) Check!

For roughly 63 out of my 64 years shuffling along this mortal coil, I paid scant attention to my body’s aches and pains. I detested going to doctors, taking meds, and, worst of all, doing physical therapy. If there is a Hell, it is that office where you yank those #$%%&&* pulleys out of, and back into, the wall, overandoverandoverandover, to supposedly strengthen your injured muscles. I tried to tell the therapist that I’d much prefer to just sit on the sofa watching TV and waiting for my torn rotator cuff to heal over time--as it would if I were a woodland creature out in the wild. Not that woodland creatures have access to Netflix, but nor do they have to do PT. Alas, she paid me no never mind.

I have therefore endured, without any medical intervention: a nagging finger nerve-pain thingy that's gone on for years, a foot pain thingy (extensor tendonitis, Dr. Google calls it) that still flares up, and innumerable colds, headaches and fevers. If I happened to notice an unusual spot on my skin, I’ve been more apt to muse, “Wow! That’s the shape of Idaho!” than to seek out a dermatologist. I have chosen to focus on other, much more worthwhile and interesting things in my life, and trust that Mother Nature will eventually fix whatever ails me. 

But all that changed on March 13, 2020, the beginning of Our Coronavirus Year. Suddenly, I was gripped with constant terror that I was definitely infected with COVID-19. My every shortened breath, sniffle or cough was the stuff of nightmares. I had it for sure!! How bad would it get? Would I have a chance to say goodbye to my loved ones before The End? 

Now, mind you, I never strayed from our six person bubble. Lucky for me, I do not have to grocery shop, nor am I working in an office or store, much less a hospital. I wore more masks than the Lone Ranger when I did venture out, and kept such a distance that I needed a carrier pigeon to deliver my greetings across the miles to neighbors. But still I've fretted…why can I not smell that roast? (Because I hadn’t put it in the oven yet?) Why does that cracker have no taste? (What fabulous flavor did I expect from something called “table water cracker”?) 

I kept my morbid speculations to myself for the most part, but would awaken in the night with the odd twinge that reminded me I was doomed. Doomed! Then I’d be up Googling “Odd Twinges that are Usually Fatal” at 3 AM. 

I’m a little less nutty nowadays, largely because I see a vaccine in my future (distant though it may be). And at some point I’ll be out in the busy world again, with other things to occupy my mind than the probability that my hangnail is cancerous. I can’t wait to go back to ignoring my health entirely! 

Until the next pandemic, that is.

Ugh. Go away.

Tough Luck! A Guide to Theatre Superstitions

 

Steve and I in "Pedrolino in a Pinch": that is NOT a real coin I'm holding. Steve's mustache: also not real!

As someone who believes in superstitions, many of which I learned from my Irish grandma (I’d better not EVER see you leave a hat on a bed), I was delighted to dig into the history of theatrical superstitions recently. Some of these were familiar to me from my acting days, but several were revelations (and, of course, add to the number of things I now worry about/avoid to maintain my "lucky streak.") Now, these gems can be yours as well!! Read on…

Break a leg! 

This is traditionally wished for a performer just before he/she goes on stage. History: back in Elizabethan times, as actors took their bows at the end of the show, the happy audience would fling coins onto the stage. The cast would drop to their knees, the better to scramble for the money, thus “breaking” the line of the leg. I know, that’s a stretch, but it’s true.

Elise experience: While I’ve never broken a leg (either way), I did fall on the Yellow Brick Road during a Wizard of Oz performance at a school, breaking a wrist. No coins were hurled my way, alas, or sympathy either. The principal merely gave us directions to the nearest hospital and disappeared. Ouch!

Bad Dress Rehearsal, Good Performance!

The axiom that a dreadful dress gets rid of the bad juju, leading to a sparkling show, is one every actor clings to after the prop phone doesn’t ring and the costume rips and the lines are flubbed. Surely opening night will be better!! 

Elise experience: Rarely did the same things go wrong during the actual performance. Rather, many many OTHER things went wrong. I’d mess up different lines, rip my stockings instead of my dress, and the prop phone would ring at random times throughout Act Two.

No Whistling Backstage!

History: In pre-tech times, the stagehands raised and lowered scenery by pulling on heavy ropes. They’d whistle to one another as a signal to do so. A whistling actor might well be knocked off his/her feet by crashing set pieces.

Elise experience: I’m not a whistler, so this was never a danger for me. But I’ve acted with folks who really struggle not to chirp a merry tune behind the curtain. I blame them, 100%, for the times our panels would collapse mid-show (it certainly wasn’t ME hitting the backdrop with a flying elbow! Nope! It was Willy Whistler!)

There are so many more, some comprehensible (keeping a light burning when the theatre is dark—it’s called a “ghost light” but is very practical—who wants to accidentally plummet from a pitch black stage?) some head-scratchers: never use real money, jewelry or mirrors as props (?). And finally, it’s apparently a thing that you give flowers taken from someone’s grave to the director on closing night. Get it? Show’s dead? Yeah, I think it’s a dreadful idea too.

Best of luck to you all, and remember NEVER to say “Macbeth” in a theater. It’s “the Scottish play.” You’re welcome!

Stevie Wonder performs "Superstition" on Sesame Street. Pure gold!

Honestly?

This was Take #312 of the Xmas photo that year. You can't hear my "Smile, dammit!"

It has not escaped my notice that I, along with the preponderance of my online friends, live either: a) perfect lives with our perfect families OR b) soap opera-like existences, replete with every manner of calamity. I am certainly guilty of doing a little sprucing up of my personal story now and again. Who really needs to know the last time I vacuumed? I don’t remember that myself! (Ya-jhu has a Roomba, and wields it often on all our carpeted surfaces, so I’m off the hook for that hated chore). And I’ve been known to gloss over embarrassing moments, while polishing up achievements. 

I belong to a humongous Facebook group called “Grown and Flown Parents” (at 200,000 members plus, it could be its own mid-size city at this point). The postings run the gamut as you can imagine, but way too many are along the lines of, “Advice please! My 12 year old daughter is about to graduate from high school. 6.9 GPA, valedictorian all four years, captain of every sport imaginable. She is weighing offers from every Ivy, all full rides. I don’t have a question after all, just wanted to brag!” Too many others paint their husbands (yes, it’s 95% women sharing) as either clueless doofuses, or actually abusive. These usually start with, “Am I overreacting?” and then proceed to describe totally unacceptable behavior. So I’m usually either groaning about Patty Perfection on the one hand, or feeling an urge to dial 911 on the other.

Saturday morning, however, was a breath of fresh air. One brave (and very funny) mom posted that her 16 year old son, who has been acting “like a total jerk” lately, took her car (he’s a lousy driver) to Taco Bell, where he bought himself a meal. Upon his return home, son continued to give mom grief, until she cracked, grabbed the bag of burritos from him, opened the front door and threw the bag up in a tree. She concluded, “Happy to share more mothering tips!” 

When I stopped laughing, I noticed the many responses—all equally candid, most equally hilarious. My favorite was the mom who ended lengthy bickering by her kids over the last donut in the box by cramming the whole donut in her mouth, and saying (through a mouth full of crumbs) “Problem solved!” 

It brought me back to those crazy days with all five kids living at home, and some of my less than stellar mommy moments. One day after church an older lady sweetly complimented me on my children’s good behavior in the pew. I answered, “Someday I’m going to make a video of our household, 10 minutes before we leave for service. The reason they’re all quiet is that they’ve screamed themselves hoarse!” 

And I guess that’s my message today. We are yearning for authenticity, in a world that seems more fake every day, more sanitized and more airbrushed. So, let’s be honest, OK? I think it’ll do us all good!

You go first.

                        Ah, those easy bedtimes and cozy trips to dreamland! Surely we had one or two?                                                            

Fun With Words

I remember George Carlin’s infamous routine, “Seven Words You Can’t Say on TV.” At the time, these words (c’mon, you know what they are) were off limits in broadcasting; if someone slipped, there was a time delay so the network could bleep the word out. Carlin, a true comedy pioneer, did a hilarious riff on these forbidden words. In these current, anything goes times, that bit seems really antiquated. ”Dirty” words have so invaded the vernacular that we don’t bat an eye, much less blush, when we encounter them in the media. Not sure how I feel about that, except to say that as a writer, I find using obscenities frequently is lazy, boring writing. Why overuse an expletive when there’s a whole world of fabulous words out there waiting to be chosen? 

During the past few years, I’ve become a collector of unusual, even arcane words, in English and other languages as well (German in particular). Used appropriately, they can really spice up an essay, or even a conversation. At the least, they’re fun to learn about. I’ve come to realize:

There are words for feelings you just can’t explain. Ever been struck by the sudden understanding that every stranger you see on the street has an inner life as complicated as yours? That’s called “sonder.” Been trapped at a noisy party where everybody talks but no one seems to listen? That’s “anecdoche.” I myself often experience altschmerz (bring sick and tired of the same old issues I’ve always had). Next time I see my therapist and he asks me why I haven’t made an appointment lately, I’ll say, “Doctor, it’s just altschmerz!” See if he knows what I’m talking about, him and his fancy degrees! 

There are words that used to be part of the English language centuries ago, but are no longer in use. My faves in this department are “uhtceare” and “expergefactor.” When you are lying awake before dawn and worrying, that’s uhtceare. When something wakes you up, it’s an expergefactor. So, “I was uhtcearing until 4 AM, when I finally fell asleep. At 6 AM the alarm went off—drat that expergefactor, anyway!”

Children are losing wonderful words to describe nature, because nature is not as important to them as technology. A few years ago, Evan gave me “The Lost Words.” With poetry and beautiful drawings, the book depicts words like bramble, adder, kingfisher and fern. It was inspired by the news that the Oxford Junior Dictionary has dropped 40 words like these because children were no longer using them, and that added in their place were words they DID use—blog, attachment, voicemail—all involving the virtual world. 

Pardon me for a moment while I descend from my soapbox☺ 

In closing, I just hope we will avail ourselves of the plethora of fabulous words out there, and maybe also stop cussing so darned much. How will our great-grandchildren use language someday? I don’t know, and it makes me feel some ellipsism* for sure. Agreed?

*Ellipsism: a sadness that you’ll never know how history will turn out

Peter and Aiden contemplate the future

 

A Couple of Characters

Those crazy kids! (Cactus Flower)

                                                            With the cast of Fallen Angels

As the pandemic wears on, we are finally bored enough to tackle a wide variety of overdue tasks. Home repair? Deep cleaning? I think not! Obviously, the Number One Seyfried priority is….. 

Going through the gaggle of old photos from our dinner theatre days! Yes, some might argue that painting the family room and re-surfacing the driveway take precedence, but honestly? I don’t care! They’re my memories and I’ll sort if I want to!! 

Steve and I graced the stages of many suppertime extravaganzas for several years in the late 1970s (throughout the Southeast), and again for a bit after we settled in Philly in 1980. Going through the glossy photos reminded me that we were once really skinny (thanks not to dieting but to our ridiculously small grocery budget). Perusing the yellowed newspaper clippings, it became clear that these productions did not make any local theatre critic’s “Best Of…” list. Indeed, our shows tended to inspire headlines such as “Woody Allen’s Fun Comedy Goes Awry at Bartke’s Theatre” and “Laugh…But Not With My Daughter." 

The raves were even more embarrassing than the pans, though, because of the reporters’ ineptitude. One fellow used to comment on the various buffet line items right along with his critique: “Elise Cunningham was sweet as the ingenue--and so was the strawberry shortcake I enjoyed before the curtain!” Amazingly, these kudos did nothing for my acting career. 

But we had a lot of fun, Stevo and I. Back in those days, we were often cast as father and daughter (even then Steve had an “older guy” look, though he had to use gobs of white shoe polish to get his hair right). Our one and only stint as young lovers took place at Birmingham, Alabama’s Celebrity Dinner Theatre and Bowling Alley (you read that correctly), when we starred in Cactus Flower. I must say I much preferred those stage smooches, to those with the motley assortment of my other leading men--even though the romantic spell was often broken by the sound of bowling balls hurtling toward pins on the other side of the theatre wall. 

During that time, we encountered some fascinating folks (and one animal): an actress who made most of her living performing on cruise ships-and whose actual first name was Oceana! Eccentric, hard-drinking, cigar chomping director Mel Glass (a real Zero Mostel type). And then there was Doodles, the dog, who appeared in the dreadful Love is a Time of Day in Hurricane, West Virginia. Doodles was both a scene stealer and a nasty biter--and clearly got the job only because his owner was the producer. 

We may have lived in crummy rooms above theaters, and smuggled dinner rolls upstairs for our breakfast, but nostalgia bathes it all in a rosy glow. 

Then, as now, hubby and I were a couple of characters. We feel pretty lucky to be cast in the Show of Life together (Comedy? Tragedy? Both!) and hope our run extends for many years to come.

Caricature from Don't Drink the Water--can you spot us?