Mercy Buckets!

image by Christian Dorn on Pixabay

As a multi-language appreciator (as opposed to multi-language speaker), I am always fascinated to learn all the different international words that mean the same thing. You know: Hola! Ni Hao! Guten tag! Bonjour! (they all mean “excuse me, which way is the restroom?” of course).

Just kidding! (La Broma! La Blague! Lo Scerzo! Der Witz!)

 

Even more funner, are the idiosyncratic PHRASES for things like “good luck”…

 

In the mouth of a wolf (Italian) Good luck for the wolf, I guess?

Break a neck and a leg (German) Those German overachievers!

Fingers crossed (Swedish) Nice, positive wish

Fight! (Korean) A tad bit more AGGRESSIVE wish, no?

 

And here are some novel ways to convey gratitude:

 

May you have goodness (Irish Gaelic) Awww, such a sweet sentiment!

I feel heart (Taiwanese) Awww, even sweeter!

Stay healthy (Turkish) Is that thankfulness, or an instruction from your doctor?

May your hand not hurt (Persian) This one’s a little tepid—kinda like saying “Thanks for driving! Hope you don’t crash!”

 

The problem is, most countries do not suggest the fracture of multiple body parts when wishing someone good fortune. In most countries, that phrase might even be seen as a threat, something a crime boss might snarl. 

 

As the saying goes, “We are 185 countries divided by many different languages!” Or something to that effect. And that’s a shame!

 

We can do much better, peeps of the world! Wouldn’t it be swell to stub your toe and have your curses be the exact same curses that are screamed everywhere on the planet?

 

In the spirit of better global understanding, I have decided to invent some new phrases that EVERY land can use. None of this strange “avoir la peche!” or “"shinrin-yoku" for “I’m happy!” Is the pinnacle of joy in France REALLY being in possession of a peach?  “Avoir le croissant” makes tons more sense to me. And in Japan, the height of delight is—forest bathing? Given the crunchy leaves and twigs on the forest floor, I cast my vote for “big fancy tub bathing” instead.

 

Anyhoo, here are a few of my creations. Please use and share widely as you travel near and far!

 

Instead of saying “I’m sorry!” how about: 

“Why did you make me do that?” 

¿Por qué me hiciste hacer eso? (Spanish)

 зачем ты заставил меня это сделать? (Russian)

 

Instead of “You surprised me!” how about:

“Your jumping out from behind the sofa almost gave me a heart attack and made me ponder my mortality!” 

Ugonjwa Sugu wa Moyo, kuwaza kufa! (Swahili)

tumane mujhe dara diya door sophe ke peechhe (Hindi)

 

Instead of "Dinner was delicious!” How about:

“I’ve eaten more disgusting things!”

 ʻai mea ʻole 'ono hou aku!" (Hawaiian)

 ρώω γουρδισμένη τροφή! (Greek)

 

Instead of “Happy Retirement!” How about:

“Try not to be one of those annoying old people!” 

tǎoyàn de lǎorén, bùyào zhèyàng (Chinese)  

een irritante oude mens, wees niet zo (Dutch)

                                                                            

If there’s a prize for a monumental linguistic project like mine, I accept! Mercy buckets, y'all!

Divide and Slumber

 

 

 

"One Sleep, Two Sleep, Old Sleep, New Sleep/

Smooth Sleep, Rough Sleep, Never Get Enough Sleep "

(inspired by Dr. Seuss' masterpiece One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish)

 

Every now and again, sporadic history student (moi) stumbles upon a truly useful and enlightening nugget. For instance, didja know: leeches have actually been DIS-proven as medicinal aids? No need to keep saving those jars of bloodsuckers for your family doc!

 

Oh, wait, that’s pretty well established, isn’t it?

 

How about this?

 

Many of us find the goal of a “full night’s sleep” quite elusive. Oh, sure, we expect our newborns will awaken, shrieking, every two hours (I do that sometimes too!) But by and large, grown humans are tasked with a regular, nightly, seven-eight-hour, uninterrupted snooze-a-thon. If we don’t manage to attain this gold standard of sleepybye, it’s because we: watch TV, use our electronic devices, keep a hall light on, have a glass of wine or sugar cookie within four hours of bedtime, etc. Why didn’t we: use a sound machine? Regulate the room temperature? Meditate? Do gentle yoga? Drink warm milk? OUR FAULT, in other words. 

 

So, I’ve lived my three score and eight years feeling plenty darned responsible for all my wakeful nights. I picture every other adult on earth, with their nightcaps (not the alcoholic ones, the flannel kind!), snoring merrily away from 10 PM-6 AM. This image mocks my nocturnal struggles, and makes it even more likely that tomorrow my sleep pattern will be more broken than tonight's. 

 

Enter my useful/entertaining historical nugget.

 

In ages past, it was the NORM for people to sleep in two segments, cleverly labeled as “first” and “second” sleep. When darkness fell, candles would be snuffed out and folks would hit the hay (often, actual hay) for a few hours. At some point, they would awaken, and stay awakened for a while. During this interval, they would scroll through their iPhones and…no! wait! They would read a book, or knit, or even prepare a meal for the next day. They’d definitely visit the outhouse. What they wouldn’t do, was feel guilty. After a time, they’d toddle back to Dreamland for Slumber, Act II.

 

The original cause of this pattern harkens back to prehistoric times, when it was dangerous to sleep too deeply or too long, lest one become a saber-tooth tiger’s midnight snack. Much better to be fully awake when attacked by a saber-tooth tiger, no? At any rate, millennia passed, the lightbulb and The Johnny Carson Show were invented, and suddenly everyone stayed up through the evening, and then snoozed until the milkman arrived, clattering those glass bottles. 

 

Knowing that truth has set me free. No longer bound to my mattress, I feel totally justified whipping up a pie at 2 AM, or writing a chapter of my novel, or walking my dog (if I had one). Night is like a delicious sandwich, with dozy bread around a wakey filling! 

 

I’m writing this between sleeps, and I’m not ashamed to say it. History is on my side!

Chicken Jockeys!

  

I’m a veteran children’s theatre performer, quite familiar with the tradition of audience participation. As Peter Pan, I urged my young viewers to clap their hands to keep Tinkerbell from dying (yeah, it is a little dark). But these were kids, for goodness’ sake!

 

I expected that adults would be able to watch a show with quiet enjoyment. To my surprise, even years ago, we noticed that some patrons of our dinner theatre performances seemed to forget they were not home watching The Odd Couple on TV. One night I nearly stepped in someone’s plate of cheesecake, deposited on the edge of the stage during Act II.

 

Of course, there have been a few cult favorites like Rocky Horror Picture Show, where folks dressed up as the movie’s characters, and recited the lines aloud. But mostly, one could attend a movie musical with no danger of one’s seatmate bursting into an off-key rendition of “Seasons of Love.” By and large, audience members left the performing to the professionals, and all was well.

 

What’s happening? At the movies, grownups act like fidgety five-year-olds. They idly scroll on their phones, they chit chat. Those who pay no attention make sure to destroy the concentration of those of us trying to focus. 

 

Things are not much better on Broadway. Here the financial stakes are much higher. A Hamilton ticket costs almost as much as a dozen eggs! Doesn’t seem to matter, though, even when a superstar like Patti LuPone stops the show to berate a rude patron. The offender looks around, shrugs, then resumes conversing. Inexplicably, there is always a universal standing ovation when the curtain comes down. Good play or dud, the crowd roars like they’re at a football game. This spectacle is less a sign of appreciation, and more an obnoxious lung exercise. 

 

There is a tendency to blame COVID for the sharp decline in public etiquette, but come on—we can’t just keep pinning EVERYTHING on the pandemic, can we? No, I think its likelier that it’s a combo of a shrinking attention span, and a growing sense of entitlement in our culture during the past few decades.

 

So it was with trepidation that I took Aiden and Peter to see A Minecraft Movie last week. I’d heard some lines might inspire a vocal response. I hoped those moments would be few. Instead, after the prizefight scene (chicken with baby zombie on its back vs. Jason Momoa) (don’t ask), one child took the glad cry of “chicken jockey!” as his cue to keep screaming it for the last 40 minutes of the film. Oh, he had his mom with him, but no attempt was made to shush him. Even as we exited, the cherub kept yelling “chicken jockey!” through the lobby and out the door. 

 

I sincerely hope that kid continued shrieking night and day, for the next week, driving his parents absolutely nuts, and that they finally saw the light. 

 

All’s fair in love, war, and teaching good manners. 

For the Plot

  

one of my precious few adventures--zip-lining in Costa Rica

As a writer (and reader), I’m much more intrigued by character development than clever plot twists. Even if the protagonist has been chased by a violent mob, and is clinging by fingernails to a 20^th floor window ledge, I want to know more about what this terrifying predicament is doing to their psyche, than how/if they will be rescued. 

 

But even I acknowledge that something has to happen in the story (maybe several somethings), so I dutifully sprinkle a happening or two into my tales. 

 

So, it seems, it is with my own personal life. Stuff occurs, but there are long stretches when nothing much (at least nothing dramatic) does. I look back through my trusty planner and entire weeks feature the following notations: yoga (Wednesday), essay due to magazine (Friday). Maybe a dentist appointment or oil change for the car. What else of interest has transpired? No adventures great or small. Tried a new recipe maybe. Took a neighborhood walk. Nothing whatsoever that would inspire a breathless fan to turn the page (or even continue reading).

 

Recently I heard about a popular catchphrase, though, and it speaks to my current situation. The phrase? “For the plot” as in, do something, anything (learn to parasail, enroll in clown college) just because it’ll make your life more interesting. This also applies to the preferred attitude about unexpected calamities. Basement flooded? Goldfish go belly up? Accounts hacked? All good, because it’s all for the plot!

 

My next step, though, is to determine just what KIND of book I’m plotting here. Cozy mystery? Then I should adopt a cat, take up counted cross-stitch, and discover random bodies in the neighbor’s garden. Romance novel? A bit limited, as I remain happily married, but maybe I could set up a single friend with one of the many (haha) broodingly handsome men of my acquaintance, and then arrange for her to betray him, or be betrayed by him (whichever!) before their satisfying happily-ever-after. Madcap comedy? Joyriding in a “borrowed” country club golf cart, accidentally baking cookies with hot pepper flakes instead of chocolate chips, switching identities with one of my daughters (Wacky Wednesday), and so on.

 

This all sounds completely exhausting.

 

Here is a much more manageable version of my memoir:

 

Wake up, and spend the next two hours analyzing my dream about lizards and Luciano Pavarotti. Wash face, and brood about the new pimple on my nose. Think back on all my previous blemishes, starting at age 10. Drink my coffee, and ponder why anyone on earth ever thought Sanka was a good idea. Applaud myself for my impressive character development: I am phobic about reptilian opera singers, also weirdly obsessed with my skin flaws, and I think I’m a superior being just because I drink Starbucks—fascinating pages of self-examination, and I’ve done basically nothing!

 

So the next time someone tries to goad me into some ridiculous action “for the plot,” I’ll push them into a patch of poison ivy. 

 

For the plot, of course.

Moi as Bertha Blair the maid, in our plot-filled high school melodrama "Curse You, Jack Dalton"

The Empress of Ice Cream

Yaj and her boys eating ice cream in Taiwan

Let be be finale of seem/ The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.

                                  —Wallace Stevens

 

As a soi-disant essayist, I crank out my little 500-worders every week.  I don’t kid myself that any of these essayettes will someday resurface in any anthology, but I do go for diverting, sometimes humorous, occasionally enlightening pieces. Take this week’s topic: ice cream. My ambitious goal was to trace the history of the frozen treat, and end with my current obsession-- creating unusual flavors with my new ice cream maker. But as I began my research, I bumped smack into Anne Fadiman’s delightful essay collection which features—of course—a wonderful piece about ice cream’s history, and its place in her life. Oh well. 

 

So, those wishing to debate ice cream’s country of origin (Renaissance Italy? Ancient Greece?), and learn about famous fans (is it true that Thomas Jefferson’s “Louisiana Purchase” was actually a gallon of pralines n’ cream he bought down in NOLA's French Vanilla Quarter?) must look elsewhere. I will dial back my scope, and instead share just a personal reflection.

 

My earliest ice creamy memories include: 

 

The Good Humor truck, which in fine weather took up residence on Stuyvesant Oval in my Manhattan neighborhood. I loved the classic chocolate dipped ice cream bar; Mom inexplicably went for toasted almond (YUCK!) Fast forward to childhood summers at the Jersey Shore, and my serendipitous discovery of lemon custard ice cream. I adored it at first slurp, and assumed it would always be available to me. However, I would search for decades in vain for this elusive taste sensation. 

 

In 9^th grade I went through a long stretch of not eating much of anything—except a daily pint of Neapolitan, which I’d buy and consume on the way home from high school. Heard of “ice cream headaches?” Mine were Olympic sized; the weeks would go by with only chicken broth and the occasional hard-boiled egg joining the Breyer’s as my total diet. When I finally came to my senses, I avoided ice cream for years, because it brought back memories of a dreadful time in my life.

 

I’m back in the fold now, thanks to our summer fave, King’s Ice Cream Shop in Lewes, DE, and occasional off-season forays into Ben-and-Jerryland. But I never tried making my own until very recently, and it’s been a game changer. The boys and I take turns coming up with ideas for flavors. The guys go for the classics, whereas Nana is lured by recipes for lavender-honey, orange-fig, saffron-rose and the like. 

 

It all came full circle when Peter requested...lemon custard! Suddenly I was eight years old, loving that little cup of citrusy heaven in a Point Pleasant, NJ, ice creamery. It tasted exactly as I remembered, completely delicious.

 

Wallace Stevens’ poem “The Emperor of Ice Cream” describes a wake, during which ice cream is being churned for the mourners. His point is that we should treasure the fleeting pleasures which make up our reality, before it’s too late. Sweet moments? Life is full of them, friends.

 

And that’s the scoop. 

photo by Hybrid Storytellers on Unsplash