SHORT & SWEET #8
Cancelled Emojis, Nonna's Cooking, Memories of my Grandma, Patient Advocacy Saves Lives
Hiya Friends!
I was out of town this weekend so I’m keeping this issue short and sweet. Hope all my readers in the City of Angels are staying warm and dry! Noodle is on strike and refusing to go on a walk. Can’t blame the guy. I love to watch rain through a window, but like my pup, I don’t want to get soaked in it.
CANCELED EMOJIS?
Did you hear the news that a bunch of emojis have been canceled and if you’re still using them, you’re considered ancient? ⤵️
A survey of 2,000 people conducted by Perspectus Global showed that a majority of people between the ages of 16 and 29 believe that you are “officially old” if you use thumbs-up or heart emoji.
The official list of “cancelled” emoji includes: Thumbs-up, Red Heart, “OK” hand, Checkmark (or the Tick), Poo, Loud crying face, Monkey covering eyes, Clapping hands, Lipstick kiss mark, Grimacing face.
Perhaps it’s all the “preventative botox” seeping into young people’s brains, but this strikes me as madness. Surely there are more insidious foes to vanquish than the humble thumb’s up emoji, like, say, oh, I don’t know, Nazis? I’m looking at you, Substack founders.
Honestly, this emoji brouhaha sounds to me like some seriously agist 💩. ⬅️ Yes, I just used a canceled emoji and the word brouhaha because I’m proud to be an older person. Of course I understand that it’s a right of passage for young people to bust on older people. I’m sure that even in the Pleistocene period, cave kids rolled their eyes every time Grandpa retold the story about killing a wooly mammoth with nothing but a rock and gumption. But isn’t it time we change the narrative and stop using the word “old” as an insult? Like it or not, everyone ages. That is, if we’re lucky.
I just celebrated another trip around the sun. Whee and Yay! My mom’s father didn’t make it this far and neither did my former officemate/friend who passed away in her 40s a few years ago, leaving behind a young daughter. It was devastating and heartbreaking. There is no justice when it comes to mortality. We’re all unwitting players in some cosmic game, and at any second, we might get picked off by a lightning strike, a reckless driver, or a bad piece of fish. I know I’m very fortunate to be among the living and that’s why I always make a point of celebrating my birthday and eating lots and lots of cake.
There is one tiny new wrinkle though and I’m not referring to lines on my face. Now that I’m a woman of a certain age, sugar (much like my old pal, caffeine), turns me into Sweat Midler. ⬅️ I must credit my friend Jess for coming up with that hilarious moniker for a sweaty person. Being sweaty is a bummer, yes, but I didn’t let it stop me from stuffing birthday cake into my gullet while simultaneously mopping my brow. What’s the point of having a birthday if you can’t eat cake? No point whatsoever.
GRANDMA’S PANS (sung to the tune of Bill Wither’s “Grandma’s Hands” 😀)
Just when I started to think that young people today don’t appreciate their elders, I remembered this heartwarming story about a restaurant in Staten Island where real Nonnas do the cooking and there’s a line out the door. Thanks to my friend, Jeff for sending me a reminder post about it.
The owner of the restaurant, Jody Scaravella came up with the concept after his Italian mother and grandmother passed away. By staffing his kitchen with Nonnas, Jody got a respite from his grief and it seems to be doing the same for everyone who visits this cozy 30-table eatery.
At the Staten Island eatery Enoteca Maria, not only is the menu a surprise, the cuisine is, too. The kitchen is run by a rotating roster of nonnas — Italian for grandmother — who all have a passion for whipping up meals cooked from the heart. Just this month, they've had nonnas from Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, Peru, and Japan, with Egypt, Hong Kong, Sri Lanka, and Argentina coming up on the calendar, in addition to their regular Italian food.
But no matter where the grandmothers hail from, every night seems to play out the same. “People are always talking about their mothers and grandmothers, and the way they cooked,” owner Jody Scaravella told Travel + Leisure. “It really takes you by the hand and leads you down memory lane.”
I’ve seen videos on Instagram where diners burst into tears during their meals, completely overcome with emotion as Nonnas deliver their dishes and conjure memories of home.
My grandmas never cooked for me. They were NYC glamor girls-on-the-go, leaving a trail of cast-aside husbands in their wake. Even so, certain flavors and scents bring them to mind. I recently flipped through a magazine and caught a whiff of a Chanel #5 perfume sample. Suddenly I got all verklempt and time-traveled to Haiti in the ‘70s, where my Grandma Muriel ran a beach resort. I have a vivid memory of watching my grandma get herself dolled up when I was around seven-years-old.
She’s wrapped in coral pink sarong and seated at her vanity, surrounded by beauty-making bric-a-brac. A lit Carlton cigarette dangles from her lips, the butt stained pink. In spite of the Haitian mid-day heat, her bleached blond hair defies gravity, carefully molded in place with a spray that will one day annihilate the ozone layer.
“Zoo-zoo cracker,” she says, calling me by a nickname. “You need to get rid of this baby hair.” She slathers Alberto V05 hair cream at the roots of my forehead, holding her vodka soda in one hand. With the pink nails of her free hand, she rakes my head like a comb. Smoke hangs in the steamy tropical air. The sweet smell of hair cream, vodka, and Grandma’s Chanel #5 cling to my skin as I stand arms akimbo in a green bathing suit, feeling like a failure for still having “baby hair” in second grade.
Meanwhile, her campaign to rid me of baby hair failed. Some forty-odd years later, I still have them. My grandma was the boss at a time when not a lot of women were running the show. She could be tough and intimidating, and yet, she had nothing but love for me. I miss her tons.
A PATIENT ADVOCATE HELPED SAVE MY MOTHER-IN-LAW’S LIFE
I recently had a piece published by the PBS affiliate site, Next Avenue, about how Jared and I navigated my mother-in-law’s medical odyssey with the help of a patient advocate. If you’ve ever dealt with a medical emergency, or had a loved one in the hospital, you know how harrowing it can be.
Once spry, my mother-in-law now suffered from constant confusion, nausea, dizziness, lethargy, double-vision and headaches. She required a walker to remain steady. Upon release from rehab, the occupational therapist said Andy could never live on her own again.
Devastated by the news, we wondered if the surgery had been a mistake and had no idea how we'd afford or manage her long-term care.
Jared and I were completely out our depth until we hired Sandy—a patient advocate with over thirty-years of experience in the medical industry. In this piece, I recount our journey from the first scary diagnosis and surgery complications to the point at which Sandy intervened and helped put my mother-in-law on a path to wellness.
If you have any questions about working with patient advocate, hit reply here, and send me an email. I’m happy to share any info that might be helpful.
Okay! That’s a wrap for today. If you enjoyed any of the stories here, hit the ❤️ button (that emoji will never be canceled here at In With the Old) or leave a note in the comments. I always love hearing from you.
Oh, wow, I love that pic of you and your grandma at your bro's wedding! I am pretty sure I never saw that dress back then, but your sweet face brought me back to those times. Your grandma might not have approved of those fine hairs, but it is obvious that she adored you.
Happy birthday, Hilary! I hope you had a great day full of cake and more cake. Also, my mother's name is also Muriel! I rarely hear that name, so I smiled big when I read your grandmother's name was Muriel. I loved reading about the Nonna's restaurant and about how you found a patient advocate. I hope all in your family are doing better now. Keep writing!!! ---Clare