Go Mug Yourself
When a subtle shift adds a necessary jolt. Plus, 'Joker' part deux and Lamb Chop.
Roles have been reversed. Places have been traded. My parents are me, and I am my parents.
Mom and Dad are currently traveling around Spain, while I “play house” at their house—my house; the OG homestead—on Long Island, NY.
Days have gone something like this:
Wake to the subtle whine of Maggie who cries to be fed around 6:45 a.m.
At this time, the sun peeks through the slats of the new blinds meant to replace the old blinds that still don’t shade the morning light in my east-facing room so I heed her call before brewing tea to the quiet hum of an aging Sub-Zero refrigerator.
After letting her out back—yes, don’t judge, this is how we do the first do—I toast two slices of Pepperidge Farm cinnamon raisin swirl bread, which I butter and stack before cutting them down the center. (If there’s another way to prepare this factory-made loaf—the only one I like after years of French bread—I don’t want to know it.) I then cut unripened, mutated strawberries that taste like nothing and mix them with cottage cheese.
My daily ensemble consists of slippers, elastic-waist pants, and a sweatshirt. Makeup is little to non-existent, especially if I have no Zooms scheduled.
By midmorning, Maggie nudges me for a walk so I head out; sometimes forgetting to swap my slippers for sneakers, which causes me to pull an unwilling Maggie back up the front steps. I choose a podcast to listen to and attempt to take a different route each walk, taking notice of how the houses have changed since the era of leaving bikes on front lawns and chasing the ice cream truck.
Then, if I can muster up the energy, I drive 25 minutes north to a spin studio or unroll my yoga mat in the den downstairs to do some asanas with Elena Brower on Glo.
Sometime around 3:30 p.m. while I’m working from my Dad’s office to the soft lull of a gardener’s leaf blower or a 747 flying overhead to or from nearby JFK, Maggie starts to shift loudly wherever she’s sitting. She thinks it’s time to eat. I say it’s too early. Just like that: “Too. Early.” I sound like Mom, I think to myself. Maggie shifts and shifts and shifts some more so that her chain collar jingle-jangles on the wood floor or her tail whooshes against the carpet until, eventually, I relent.
More time passes. The landline rings occasionally and an AI-generated voice announces aloud the caller: “Call from [Indecipherable Scammer]” or “Call from [Beth Shalom Jewish Center] or “Call from [Dr. So-And-So’s-Office].
Soon enough, it’s nearly evening and time for Jeopardy. I am slightly more invested in the Invitational Tournament than I care to admit. If it’s Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, I pull the garbage out front and begin to wonder whether it’s too soon to have a glass of wine. Or three. Eventually, after carefully watering my father’s plants deathly afraid of causing them an early death, I cobble together some dinner. Finally, I fall asleep 15 minutes into a series on the couch before waking three episodes in craving ice cream. I eat some.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Did we go back in time to spring 2020? Am I a retired dog and plant parent?
Across the ocean, meanwhile, Mom and Dad are sipping Rioja or smoked cocktails, OD-ing on Gaudi…and counting down the days until they’re back in the comfort of their own home doing much of what I’ve been doing—just sub out the wine for Johnny Walker Black. It seems the rain (and sun) in Spain falls, er, plainly on Claudia and Stacey and nine days may have been too many days for this long-planned European adventure.
But oh how I long to be among the unfamiliar, sipping deliciously cheap table wine, sampling foreign foods I can’t pronounce, and getting lost in unknown neighborhoods! Spain is not my favorite country, but I’d still trade it for suburbia especially when suburbia is not boasting beach weather and most of my friends are a 43-minute, $21.50 off-peak train ride away. But, hey, due to a great deal of privilege, we all like what we like and make the best of what we may not.
Cut to me, standing in front of a kitchen cabinet full of Starbucks State mugs. For the past two weeks, I’ve been drinking my morning cuppa from them despite not loving their shape or feel. There is one other mug that I like, and when I visited from Paris over the years my Mom made sure it was clean and positioned in an easy-to-reach spot, which always made me feel warm and fuzzy. Now that I’m home “for good,” when it’s dirty, I tolerate the others out of pure laziness, pour in my caffeinated beverage, and move on. Until yesterday.
Why aren’t I making my tea or coffee in one of my mugs? I thought. One of the many kitchen accoutrements I lugged across the ocean two months ago? The same mugs I joyfully drank from every day, and washed daily without the help of a dishwasher?
How silly.
I can take on some of my parents’ responsibilities and routines and even appreciate their breakfast preferences, chuckling to myself along the way about apples not falling far from trees, but I can still have my own.
So I climbed up to the attic and found a mug, which I unwrapped and hand-washed before pouring some coffee. And let me tell ya: It tasted so much better! As alluring as it is to wear someone else’s shoes for a change—or drink from their mugs, as it were—there’s nothing like your own. I’m grateful for all the swapping, sharing, and sitting afforded to me since returning, and there may likely be more to come, but I’m eager to unpack more of myself somewhere new soon. Bon week-end, friends. xx — Sara
Clickable
The dirty truth behind “journalism” at The Inquirer. | NY Times Magazine
What kind of bird nerd are you? | The Guardian
“We are not beholden!” The Kardashians are not our royal family. |
I’m with Gary. No giant cruises for me, thanks. | The Atlantic
This yarn about browser tabs made me chuckle. | McSweeney’s
“Are we living through a Carrenaissance?” | Vogue
Maybe think twice (or more) about botox. | Gloria
Watchable
I don’t remember the plot of the original Joker film, but I do recall Joaquin Phoenix’s award-winning performance. Now, for the sequel, he’s joined by Lady Gaga, and the trailer teases just the right amount of artistry from them both, along with funnyman director Todd Phillips. Cue Joker laugh.
Currently Overthinking…
…when to follow up about a job opportunity…scheduling for some self-care… the intro to this letter…
Souvenir: Lamb Chop
Last weekend, over Sunday dinner at Rolo’s in Ridgewood (very, very good btw!), I learned Lamb Chop the sock puppet is Jewish. (Chag Sameach, LC!) Thanks to my dear friend and dining companion Saryn who’s an animal enthusiast, I also learned the famous handheld character—first popularized on Captain Kangaroo in 1956—is having a bit of a TikTok renaissance thanks to their, er, sister Mallory Lewis who is reprising her mother Shari’s role as the character’s ventriloquist. I don’t recall watching much Lamb Chop as a kid, but, like Saryn, I’ve been known to “break into the song.” You know the one: “This is the song that doesn’t end. Yes, it goes on and on my friend.” You’re welcome.
Just love your stories and can so relate to your latest 'Overthinking it'. Almost thirty years later I still feel the ache of my life abroad and miss it everyday, am still pulling bits of my life, my 'self', out of boxes packed long ago, and have fallen into watching jeopardy--and enjoying it. I lived and worked in places which at the time many would not dare, ran off with excitement and joyful abandon, yet the transition back to NY was the most difficult for me to settle in to. In fact, I'm still settling.
Loved this!