Jane Roper's Blog

People are always asking me how I maintain my fantastic physique.

Hahaha no they aren’t. And “fantastic” would not be accurate. Like many a middle-aged woman who has borne children (two at once, in my case!), I’m not exactly killing it in the abdominal region. I have a belly, and her name is Sheila. We have fun.

But I am fairly fit and trim overall. I run, I hike, I go to an indoor climbing gym twice a week, I do some yoga. I eat fairly healthily for the most part, though I have a hard time resisting a good dessert or a nice cold glass of white wine. Or fresh bread. God, do I love bread.

Alas, the ole metabolism isn’t getting any faster, and I have no intention of starving myself (been there, done that). Then there’s the whole losing-muscle-mass thing that happens as we age, which I’m not thrilled about. I have mountains to climb, suitcases to carry, and jars to open. Also, strength = balance = not falling and hitting your head on the edge of the sink and bleeding out right there on the cold tile floor of your bathroom, alone.

So, I decided it was time to up my exercise game a bit. But not by suddenly hitting the gym five days a week or taking up triathalons or some such ridiculousness. I’m a busy lady. And I actually find exercise for exercise’s sake really boring. (Thank God for audiobooks and podcasts or I’d never go running.)

Moreover, I believe in making small, manageable changes when it comes to self improvement of any sort, for the optimal chance of success.

Therefore, I have added two very simple things to my exercise routine:

1) I do almost daily ten-minute dumbell workout videos on YouTube.

This is the perfect example of aiming low. If I resolved to do a 30- or even 20-minute workout video every day, there’s no way I’d stick to it. Even 15 minutes might be pushing it. But 10 minutes? I can do anything once a day for ten minutes!

And what’s great for someone like me, who finds pure exercise tedious and craves novelty in all things, is that there are zillions of ten-minute dumbell workouts on YouTube. They range wildly in quality and production value—and this is part of the fun.

Sometimes you get multiple camera angles, excellent sound, quality graphics, a well-lit setting, and a clearly professional-seeming instructor. And then sometimes you get a beefy dude in front of his RV who does a lot of grunting. Or a woman in what may well be her parents’ basement, who starts with weights that are too heavy for her and therefore has to keep stopping in the middle of rounds of reps. (I wish I could re-find this video…it was hilarious, and delightfully human.)

His video is called “The BEST 10 Min Full Body Dumbbell Workout PERIOD.” Not sure I’d agree, but it was entertaining for sure.

A strangely high percentage of the ten-minute workout instructors seem to be from English-speaking countries other than the US. Sometimes I can tell right away what their accent is, but other times I am totally baffled. South African, but has lived in Ireland for 20 years? Australian, but is married to a Frenchman and has a speech impediment? Who knows. I just love all the different ways they say “feel that burn!” Fill thet barn! File thayt beern! Furl thit bine!

“Kip it op! Yure doying GRITE!”

Do I actually do one of these workout videos every single day? No. But most days. Has this made any difference in my overall fitness / strength / tone / etc.? Yes, a little bit, for sure. It has definitely improved my climbing, especially when it comes to core strength. Which is nice.

2 . We got walking pads.

Some couples take up pickleball when their kids leave home. We’ve taken up walking in place.

Also known as desk treadmills, walking pads are the bottom part of a treadmill, without the rails or front console to hold onto. So you have to have decent balance and a little courage to make it work. The upside is, you can move it around and stash it away when you’re not using it, so it doesn’t just become a big, guilt-inducing clothes rack in the corner of your bedroom. There are even some that fold, apparently.

The man in motion. He would like you to know that he averaged 11K steps a day over this past week.

We got the first walking pad on Facebook Marketplace for 75 bucks, and bought a basic standing desk with wheels. So, now we walk in place while working at our computers or even just watching TV. We liked it so much that we got a second one to put upstairs in my office.

It took a little getting used to; there are some things, like writing Substack pieces, I can’t seem to do while walking. But more rote work, absolutely. And I find it way less tiring than just standing.

This walking pad thing was borne of a theory I had, based on a long-time phenomenon: I lose weight almost every time I go on vacation. (Don’t hate me!) Usually it’s just two or three or four pounds. But I’m only 5’3”, so it’s not nothing. I can see the difference even if nobody else can, and I can feel it in the waistbands of my pants. Even Sheila shrinks a tad. Why does this happen? My assumption has always been that it’s all the extra walking that generally comes with travel. (The kind I do, anyway.)

But it still always kind of blows my mind. Because I do not hold back when it comes to enjoying delicious food and beverage when I’m on vacay. When my husband and I went to Portugal early this fall, it was bread, cheese, meat, and wine up the wazoo. Same thing when I went to France two years ago. FRANCE! Baguette and butter, pastries, crêpes, steak-frites, more cheese, more wine.

Hell, I somehow even managed to lose weight while on a cruise—a cuise that had Cake Night! With like 12 different kinds of cake available! (How could I try any less than three?) But apparently the shore excursions we did and walking back and forth on the ship all day canceled it out—and then some.

So my theory was that if I significantly increased the number of steps I took at home—on top of eating my normal, healthier diet, and my usual exercise routine—I might drop a few pounds.

But has this happened, after three weeks of treadmilling? Absolutely not!! Why, I ask you, WHY? Maybe it’s because I eat food made of better quality ingredients on vacations, especially in Europe, and that helps somehow? Maybe it’s because I’m more relaxed? Maybe it’s a cosmic joke? Who knows. But I’m going to keep walking anyway. And stick to skim milk in my coffee.

SO, there you have it. The lazy gal’s guide to maybe getting in slightly better shape in an attempt to stave off middle-aged spread.

Follow me for more easy, healthy lifestyle hacks!

Actually, no, don’t. But do at least try a 10-minute YouTube workout. If you don’t have weights, you can use a couple of large water bottles or household pets. Here’s the grunting RV guy again to get you started.

Enjoy!

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living—and AI is making it increasingly difficult. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Either way, thank you, as always, for reading. xoxo

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P.S. Happy Thanksgiving. Here’s my favorite funny Thanksgiving video. Watch it as a reward after your workout.

P.P.S. The rest of the year is going to fly by, and a new year is a great time to start that book you keep meaning to write, or get feedback on your draft. I can help.

Well, the Jane’s Calamity kiddos have been in college for two months now, and while I do miss them quite a lot, especially around dinner time (we were big on family dinners), it’s not quite as terrible as I feared. And my husband and I eat dinner in front of the TV a lot now, which I sort of love. (We’re re-watching Mad Men, and it’s so good.)

But I definitely feel…weird. And it occurs to me that it’s because something has shifted in a very significant way. I don’t mean the obvious fact of the kids having left home. I mean that the very nature of how I'm experiencing my life has changed.

Stick with me. Maybe you can relate. And maybe, if you’re in the big middle of your life, it will help.

Up until now, at every age and stage of my existence, from kindergarten to college to my thirties, I had dreams of what was next. While I was fully immersed in one era of my life, I could also see the next phase a comin’, and got excited picturing myself in it.

When I was a little kid, I dreamed of being a bigger one: going on the “you must be this tall” rides, staying up late, maybe even getting braces, like my rad babysitter with the Dorothy Hamill haircut.

When I was in my big kid years, I looked forward to being a teenager: high school, boyfriends, proms, learning to drive, getting the damned braces off. Then, as the end of high school drew near, I started picturing myself at college. And as college progressed, I started looking forward to young-adulting: living in an apartment in a city with Monica and Rachel, traveling, building a career, getting an MFA.

As as all that unfolded, I began looking forward to the next phase(s): getting married, settling down, and raising children. (I know, very conventional.) And then as those years progressed, I started dreaming about—

>> RECORD SCRATCH <<

Nothing.

My friends, in the past eighteen years, I never once dreamed about or looked forward to the next inevitable phase of my life—the one I now find myself in now: middle-aged empty-nester.

I had no visions of myself here. The runway up to this moment was the first time in my life I was like “Nope, not looking forward to that.” All I saw when I thought about the future beyond the kids-at-home parenting phase was a succession of years stretching toward the horizon, and my face gradually succumbing to gravity over the course of them.

Oh, sure, I had vague notions of traveling and hiking more. Spending more time writing and reading. Going to more cultural and social events and whatnot. I looked forward to small things like actually putting the red pepper flakes into the recipes that call for them.

But that’s not the same as excitedly anticipating the next big stage in life’s journey. It’s just feeling mildly pleased at the thought of doing more or different versions of the things I’ve done all along.

I am, indeed, doing more of those things. It’s nice! And yet…I have definitely been feeling a unmoored. Like I’m drifting. Floating. Waiting for something to happen (besides, hopefully, selling my new book), but with no idea what that something might be.

What I’m slowly starting to realize is that now that I’m done with all the growing up and adult life-building I did in the first half of my existence, it’s time to shift gears into a different way of thinking about life—one that’s about being more mindfully in the moment. (This is something I’ve never been terribly good at).

I need to stop thinking about my days and weeks and years as progress toward the next thing. I need to, instead, think about how I’m going to enrich and deepen the now. This isn’t to say that I can’t still change or grow as a person, or achieve new things, or try to contribute to humanity in new ways. Au contraire!

But if my life was a river before, tumbling ever-forward, now it’s a lake.

And I can either spend all my time bobbing here feeling mildly melancholy and nostalgic for the river (which I reserve the right to do from time to time) or I can become a lake-dweller extraordinaire.

I can explore its coves and shores. I can learn how to windsurf, or take up fishing. I can scoop water from it and put it under a microscope to see all the hidden life inside. I can cruise around it on a pontoon boat with my friends. I can pluck the litter and invasive plants out of it. I can marvel at its beauty, and watch it change with the seasons. I can skate on it, swim in it, pee in it. (HAHAHA — just making sure you were paying attention. But, also, I can.)

I am extremely lucky to have such a lake, and I would be an idiot if I didn’t make the most of it. Maybe I should have been thinking about life in more lake-y terms all along. But I don’t think that’s really possible, except for the most enlightened among us. It certainly wasn’t possible for me.

But now that I’m here, I’m gonna run off the dock jump in.

Join me, won’t you?

My second most favorite lake: Winnipesaukee

By the way: I came up with this river vs. lake metaphor in the process of writing this post over the past couple of days. Trying to think about my life in this new shape is actually making me feel a little less off. It’s even given me a new sort of spiritual challenge, if you will: to embrace the lake! This is part of why I love blogging / Substacking so much.

Thank you for being here.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. (And AI is making it increasingly difficult.) If you enjoy my writing, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! xoxo

At my most favorite lake: Squam

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Here’s some free and very important advice: If you ever happen to be talking with a writer—you know, just casually chatting with them about what they’re working on, or what’s going on with that book they were writing, etc.—and their reply is “I’m on sub,” that is your cue to back slowly away. Because the writer you are talking to is very likely not in a good state of mind.

“I’m on sub” means “I’m on submission.”

It sounds kinky but it’s very much not. What it means is that the writer’s book is currently being submitted to publishers by their agent, (or possibly by the writer themselves) in hopes that one or more publishers will make an offer.

It’s telling that writers are more likely to say “I’m on sub” as opposed to “My book is on sub.” It really can feel like it’s not just this piece of art you created that’s out making the rounds; it’s you, too.

You’ve spent months if not years on your book, likely sacrificing sleep, income, and/or your children’s wellbeing to get it done. Perhaps you’ve banged a hole into the wall next to your desk with your head, alienated your spouse, or damaged your liver along the way. All par for the course.

Bottom line, you are invested in the thing. So deeply invested that your book really does start to feel like an extension of you.

Then, suddenly, you (and your book) are out there being scrutinized and judged by the acquiring editors of publishing houses, with their cigarettes and their expensive slacks and their…cashmere sweaters tied around their necks and draped over one shoulder? Wait, no, no, no. That’s not right.

Sigourney Weaver as J.D. Salinger’s editor in the film “My Salinger Year”

The editor who acquired and worked with me on The Society of Shame (and whom I adore) looked nothing like this. She’s got tats and wears cute alt / vintage-y clothes, and is not in the least bit intimidating. BUT the point is: when you’re on submission, especially when you’re new to it, it’s hard not to imagine editors as these very mysterious, all-powerful, sophisticated beings, sighing in disappointment in their Manhattan offices as they read one mediocre manuscript after another (yours being one of them), while wearing sweaters in some strange yet undeniably chic way.

To make matters worse, sometimes these editors dangle hope in front of your eyes—a note to your agent saying something like: I’m halfway through, and am really enjoying it or I love this book! Am getting some internal reads (meaning, from other people in the house—this is generally necessary before an editor can make an offer). And you start getting excited and hopeful, and even let yourself wonder if you have anything in your closet that might work for your appearance on the Today show.

And then, a week or two later, your hopes are violently dashed: I’m sorry, while I admire so much about this book, I ultimately just didn’t fall in love with it. Or: Unfortunately, the team feels like it’s too similar to another book about sex dragons that we just acquired.

It is…not fun.

The other thing about the submission process that non-writers may not be aware of is that it drive writers to do rather….strange…things. Like what, you ask? Well, here are a few examples. (I’ve totally never done any of these.)

— Looking up the editors your agent has submitted to on social media to see if any of them have started following you and/or have recently posted something like “just finished reading an AMAZING manuscript about sex dragons this morning and can’t wait to make an offer!”

— Following all of these editors on social media then immediately unfollowing them because you don’t want to look like a stalker, and god you hope they didn’t see; what were you thinking? Are you drunk??

— Drinking more than usual.

— Consulting Magic 8 Balls, fortune-telling pens, and other predictive devices about whether you’re going to get a book deal.

— Telling yourself that the first answer you got from the predictive device isn’t the right one, because you weren’t concentrating hard enough.

— Reminding yourself, when you spin / rotate fourteen times in a row and still don’t get an acceptable answer, that these things are bullshit. There’s no such thing as fortune-telling objects, signs from the universe, etc.!

— Going for long, soul-searching walks as the rejections start rolling in, looking for signs from the universe—like, if you see three crows, it means you’re going to get a book deal.

— Telling yourself, after seeing only two crows, that that counts too. And probably means something even BETTER! (Two-book deal?)

— Googling the editors that haven’t said no yet in search of proof that one of them is your soulmate.

— Googling yourself to see what editors might be seeing if/when they look you up. Is it clear from your web presence that you are their soulmate?

— Drafting an email to your agent asking for an update, then not sending it, because if there was any good news she’d tell you, obviously. Then, for several days in a row, pulling the draft back up and not sending it, and then finally actually sending it at eleven-fifty p.m. one night after getting back from commiserating with your fellow writers at a bar.

— Having a minor heart attack when you see your agent’s name in your inbox the following afternoon, then feeling bereft when you open the message and learn that that that one editor you were POSITIVE was your soulmate has decided to pass because as much as she adored it, she “just couldn’t get buy-in from marketing.”

— Throwing your Magic 8-Ball at a crow

— Going back to your manuscript to remind yourself that it really is good, dammit, and there’s no way it’s not—NOOO!!! Nope, nope, bad idea. Close that file STAT and forget you ever looked.

— Googling how many times various famous, bestselling books were rejected before they found a publisher. Then, counting how many people have rejected your book so far. Then, going back and Googling some more until you find a story about a book that was rejected more times than that.

— Very deliberately, angrily not hitting “like” on an Instagram post by that one writer you know who shares EVERY good thing that happens to him, this time announcing that his book was just shortlisted for the Pen/Faulkner Award and he’s just so very “humbled.”

— Hitting “like” and commenting “SO thrilled for you!” on an Instagram post from a dear writer friend announcing that she just got a book deal, and really, truly meaning it, but also now you’re crying.

— Reminding yourself that some of the world’s greatest artists and authors were never appreciated in their lifetime.

— Ice cream

Just to name a few.

What writers generally *don’t* do is tell thousands of people that they are on sub, in case the ultimate outcome is not good. But because I apparently get off on radical honesty, I am doing just that.

Yes, indeed, the novel I’ve been working on over the past almost-two-years is out there making the rounds as I write. I would have loved to stay with my last editor/publisher, but the imprint that published The Society of Shame, Anchor Hardcover, is sadly no longer in existence. Damned suits!

Interestingly, though, I’m not feeling nearly as anxious and miserable about the process as I did the other five (count ‘em!) times I went through it. Maybe it’s because I know so much more about the publishing business now than I used to, and I know what a crapshoot it is to get a book deal, and how many factors—including luck—come into play.

Maybe it’s because with The Society of Shame I finally—after years and years of trying— got the big, shiny prize of having a novel published by a major press, and getting it again would just be gravy.

Maybe it’s because I know that I will get the book out there one way or another, even if it means self-publishing or serializing the thing here on Substack, and honestly, being read is the most important thing, no matter how it happens.

Or maybe (gasp!) I’m actually getting better at staying sanguine in the face of things that are completely beyond my control?!!

Or….maybe (probably?) it’s too early. The book just went out, and I haven’t started getting (the inevitable) rejections yet. Will I be Googling, crow-counting, and digging around in my daughter’s room for that Magic 8 Ball a week from now? Will I slowly start to lose my shit? Reply hazy.

In the meantime, though, I’m enjoying the fact that I’m not losing my mind—and I’m sure my husband is, too.

To my friends (and anyone else) currently in writer hell, du courage. We’ll get through this together.

All posts on my Substack are free, but writing is how I make my living and pay for the wine and ice cream I consume whilst on sub. If you like what you read, please consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, consider buying my book. Thank you as always for reading. xoxo Jane

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P.S. I will be protesting the authoritarian Trump regime at a No Kings rally this Saturday, and I hope you will too.

I am in my unsubscribing era.

I think I’ve made this declaration before—maybe even here on this very Substack—but this time I really mean it. Unsubscribe. Unsubscribe. UNSUBSCRIBE! That’s me. Grinning maniacally as I scroll down to that teeny little line of type at the bottom of the email.

I’m unsubscribing even from companies and organizations I’ve been getting emails from for years, or that I’ve resisted unsubscribing from before. Even if I’ve semi enjoyed getting the emails. (I’m sorry, The Skimm.)

I just need less crap pouring into my inbox. The Primary AND the Promotions ones. Less news. Less donation requesting. Less selling. Less clutter on my screen and static in my brain. Less shit in my life.

And let me tell you, it is incredibly satisfying. Kinda like a good nose blow, or a productive cough.

Sometimes, if I’m feeling extra frisky, I even go the extra step and answer the “why did you unsubscribe” survey at the end.

But often times, you see, the appropriate answer—or, like, the really accurate answer—is not there.

So, here’s the complete list of “why did you unsubscribe” options I would need. (Please feel free to add your personal additions in the comments.)

__ I no longer want to receive these emails

__ There are too many emails

__ I never signed up for these emails

__ These emails are a constant reminder of the dystopia that is our current political reality and they crush my spirit on a daily basis.

__ These emails are for one of the twelve Jane Ropers in UK whose emails I regularly get. I am not now nor have I ever been a member of the Shropshire Horticultural Society.

__ Actually, on second thought, don’t unsubscribe me. Perhaps it would take my mind off the dystopia that is our current political reality to imagine that I am living in a quaint village in Shropshire, doing things like attending Horticultural Society meetings and drinking tea.

__ These emails just make me angry that Chuck Schumer and Hakeem Jeffries are still in charge. Seriously, guys. Get your shit together.

__ These emails make me feel guilty about not donating to your organization even though I really, truly do care about [climate change, gun control, LGBTQ rights, homelessness, hunger, childhood cancer, immigrant rights, civil rights, Alzheimer’s, stopping private jet port expansion, women’s healthcare], and the vital work you are doing. Thank you for your service! I’ll just slink away now and hope you don’t notice.

__ These emails make me laugh so hard I have peed my pants on several occasions. Do you honestly think I’m going to donate to the giant state university in the midwest where I spent two years on the far, far edge of campus for grad school and even there occasionally had to step over puddles of cold frat boy vomit? LOL. I’m sending you the bill for my pants.

__ These emails are freaking me out because I started getting them within six hours of having a conversation with a friend about how I really want to go to Greece someday, and now all of a sudden you’re sending me Athens flight and hotel deals? WTF?!!

__ I *definitely* never signed up for these emails. I do not live in Missouri, and I would rather disembowel myself than donate to or vote for a MAGA Republican.

__ These emails are for the Jane Roper who lives in Greensboro, North Carolina, and I’ve actually gone the trouble of calling you—twice!—to tell you that you have the wrong email address, and if North Carolina Jane Roper isn’t showing up at her physical therapy appointments, it’s because you’re still sending the reminders to the wrong person, and I sure hope she isn’t getting charged.

__These emails link to articles that I really, really want to read, so I don’t delete them for days, but I never find time to actually read the articles, and the emails just sit there in my inbox glaring at me disapprovingly, thinking “You know, if you stopped going on social media and playing Spelling Bee and watching dumb TV, you’d have time to read the articles. Just saying.” And I can’t take it anymore.

__ These emails make me feel like I’m old and hideous, but if I would just buy your skincare products I will look 35 again. And if I keep getting these emails I will go broke because I keep buying your skin products and they are NOT making me look 35. Look at my neck. LOOK AT IT!

__ These emails are destroying the earth. Do you know how much water and electricity server farms use? No, seriously. Do you?

__ These emails started pouring on a daily basis in after I visited your website once—ONCE!—for, like, ten seconds. I hate everything.

__ I JUST DON’T WANT THEM. Yes, I know that was the very first option, but it wasn’t in all caps.

__ Other. And no, I’m not going to type in why. Leave me alone.

That pretty much covers it.

Now, I invite you to join me in the mini-release that is unsubscribing. But not from me!! Obviously.

Here’s a picture of Shropshire, to entice you to stay.

Ahhh. Lovely.

All posts on my Substack are free, but writing is how I make my living. If you like what you read, please consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, consider buying my book. (It’s good!) Thank you as always for reading. xoxo Jane

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Before I get into this post, I’d like to take a moment to exercise my first amendment rights—which I think I still have—and say that Donald Trump is a repugnant, sociopathic, pathologically stupid, fascist shitweasel with a face like a rotting pumpkin and I hope he dies a slow (but not too slow) and miserable death very, very soon.

Ah. That feels good.

So. I recently had the great good fortune to be able to escape the flaming-dumpster-sliding-into-authoritarianism country that is America for ten days. The Mister and I hit the transatlantic skies barely twenty-four hours after we dropped Twin #2 off at college, and found ourself in a place—namely São Miguel, the biggest island in the Azores—where there were views that looked like this:

And places like this: A cove where hot springs empty into the ocean, so you can swim in a delightful mix of hot and cold currents.

And food like this:

The Azores were never on my bucket list, but we were offered the use of a friend’s house there, and man oh man, I’m so glad we took her up on it. What a gift. (Thank you, friend!)

Then, after a few days in São Miguel, we headed to Lisbon, which we also loved. It had all your European city greatest hits—cobblestones, cafes, old churches, pigeon-y plazas, balconied old apartment buildings, dozens of shops of identical souvenirs made in China and much, much more—all humming with a warm, vibrant vibe. And sunshine. So much lovely, lovely sunshine.

What I especially loved about both the Azores and Lisbon—and I suppose this speaks to Portuguese culture more broadly—was the emphasis on views. There were multiple well-marked “miradouros” (scenic overlooks) along the roads in São Miguel and a number of them sprinkled throughout Lisbon—including one just around the corner from our Airbnb, Miradouro de São Pedro de Alcântara:

I am—as my passion for hiking up mountains might suggest—a big fan of big views. I guess most people are but, I mean, I really really am. Like, a lot.

I like seeing the bigger picture—the vastness and complexity and fullness of it all, whether it’s a mountain range or a cityscape. When I have a perch overlooking the world, and when I feel small in relation to everything else, I feel more solid and centered. My mind is clearer and quieter. (For this reason, I don’t love writing when I’m on the ground floor of buildings, unless said building is on a hill.)

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I also love that views invite imagination: Who is that teeny person way down there? Who lives in that house? Where’s that music coming from? What kinds of beasts might be prowling those woods? What the hell is that shiny thing? From afar, the possibilities are endless.

Traveling is a sort of view, too. As an outsider, you see the places you’re visiting from a distance. You can see your own life from a distance, too, and I find this often makes me feel extra fond of it. You’re also reminded that the world is vast and varied and you are not, in fact, the center of the universe. It’s a sort of freedom. A liminal-in-a-good way state of being.

At least, that’s often how I feel when I travel abroad—including over the past few years. But this time I didn’t feel that same release.

You know shit is bad when even while you’re on an incredible trip in a gorgeous place, eating all manner of delicious fish and cheese, you can’t quite shake the low level sense of dread about the state of your country. (Note that this was the case even before Charlie Kirk was killed, which happened halfway through our trip.)

My damned hyperactive inbox is partly to blame—Heather Cox Richardson and The New York Times and Paul Krugman and Jeff Tiedrich and many, many others very rudely followed me on my vacation. I made the grave error of looking at Facebook from time to time, too.

Then there’s the fact that the Azores and Lisbon were crawling with American tourists and expats. Not only that, many of the locals we talked with were extremely tuned in to American politics. (“It’s like a soap opera” one guy told us. “You can’t stop watching.”) Even our taxi driver to the airport mentioned the midterms.

But what it really, truly comes down to is the fact that what’s happening America right now is just so dire. The erosion of norms and laws and free speech is happening at a terrifying speed, and the anger and fear and division just keep getting worse.

Portugal was a fascist dictatorship for 42 years. It took a military coup to bring the government down—and it happened largely because the military was sick of hemorrhaging lives in the attempt to hold onto Portugal’s African colonies. It was not because of peaceful protests or court cases or elections. It never is. Not that we shouldn’t still do these things here in America; we should. But it increasingly feels like hope of a turnaround is fading.

There’s no escaping that knowledge for more than a few minutes or hours at a time, and there’s not a mirodouro in the world from which it looks pretty. (Speaking of ugly views—two words: Charlie Kirk.)

And I’m not even directly in the crosshairs of the current regime. My life hasn’t changed much in any immediate sense, and I am privileged as hell in countless ways (ten days in Portugal!) What is it like for people directly feeling the brunt of what’s happening, who fear for their lives and livelihoods—people who can’t ignore it even a little, let alone chill out in a shady praça drinking beer and playing cards, feeling mildly melancholy but also having a pretty damned good time?

I’m sorry. I know this is not the laugh-a-minute chucklefest of a missive you may have come to expect from me. I’m sorry. I will be funny next time, I promise. We need humor. We need joy. And, yes, we need beautiful views. So here’s one more for the road, from São Miguel:

Save the date, October 18, for the next big nationwide No Kings protests. At least we can say we tried.

All posts on my Substack are free, but writing is how I attempt to make a living. If you like what you read, please consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription to support my work. Or, consider buying my book. Thank you as always for reading!

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Well, our kids are officially launched—we brought Twin A to RISD on Sunday and Twin B to Wesleyan yesterday. Bittersweet, exciting, sad, blah blah blah. The universe does not need another post about this rite of passage, so I’ll spare you. And I’ve already written (at length) about the fact that I’m less than thrilled by this whole empty-nest situation.

BUT I will say, in the spirit of looking on the upside: I have started seeing this phase as an exciting opportunity to de-clutter. Maybe this is a common instinct? The birds fly, then you look around and think: Jesus, there is way too much stuff in this nest. Clothes I haven’t worn in years, medications from the Bush era, the kids’ old Halloween costumes moldering in boxes in the basement, books I will never, ever read.

You see, I am a bit of a keeper. I’m a hopeless nostalgic and perennial hoper of things like: maybe someday I really will go back to playing the recorder. (I played in church, right up through high school, and was quite good. I still dream of finding someone to play the recorder duet solo in “Stairway to Heaven” with me.) And: Maybe someday when I try on that one particular top I’ve had for going on ten years I won’t think “yeah…no” and wear something else instead. And: Maybe one day I’ll have a grandkid who will be delighted by this mildewed Minnie Mouse costume from 2013.

And then there is the other force that is perpetually enabling my keeping tendencies: My parents’ crap.

As we all know, one of the super fun parts of adulting is being offered your parents’ (and sometimes your own) crap when they downsize and/or declutter out of consideration for those who will have to clean up after them when they depart this realm.

This is particularly fun if your parents are, like you, enthusiastic acquirers and keepers of things. My parents’ accumulation bent was was aided and abetted by the fact that they’ve always had lots of space. They used to own a ramshackle old farm in Maine in addition to our primary residence in Connecticut, and, later, owned and ran a whole kids’ summer camp, plus a small vacation rental property. That’s a lot of rooms to fill with crap.

My late father was particularly adept at accumulating things. This included everything from random brackets and hardware and slightly broken furniture found at barn sales or “free” piles on the side of the road that he thought might one day come in handy (Occasionally they did), to toys, sporting equipment, and VHS tapes at the town dump’s “swap shop” (Merry Christmas!), to old books—lots and lots of old books. More on those in a bit.

A tiny fraction of his collection

My mother, meanwhile, is a genealogy enthusiast and unofficial keeper of family heirlooms—aka the crap of previous generations. She is loath to let this stuff go out of family, which is why, for years, my brother and I have periodically gotten texts or emails from her, accompanied by pictures, saying things like: Do you want one or more of these neat old horseshoes? They’re from from Gram Gram’s farm in Ireland. Or: Do either of you want this afghan? It’s one your great grandma Eulalie made when she was at a sanitorium “drying out.” Or: Any interest in this lamp? I think Dad picked it up off the side of the road.

And then there’s my own crap that has been offered back to me over the years: Christmas ornaments I made in nursery school, the framed Annie and Peter Pan Broadway posters that hung in my childhood bedroom, my baby teeth.

Eight times out of ten, I say no thank you. (See: Baby teeth.) But, well, that’s still a lot of crap making its way into my life.

Some of it I actually have a use for, like my grandmother’s china and silver and my great, great aunt So-and-So’s crystal glassware. The fact that these things come from family is a substantial part of their beauty to me, and of the pleasure I take in using them exactly twice a year.

That’s Grandma’s damask tablecloth, too.

But sometimes I say yes to the crap I’m offered simply because I don’t like the thought of it being consigned to oblivion. If it’s interesting or unique or has sentimental value or even just screams “history!” (e.g. an ashtray from the Red Cross Club in Naples where my other grandmother worked during the war) it’s hard for me to say no.

Which brings me to my father’s books.

My dad was a major bibliophile, and fancied himself a bit of a collector. (He fancied himself a lot of things, only some of which he actually was, but that’s a topic for another day.) Over the years, he collected dozens of old books from yard sales, antique shops, used bookstores, and, of course, the glorious Traveler Restaurant in Union, Connecticut, where every customer gets to pick out a book from the vast and eclectic collection after they finish their club sandwiches and cole slaw.

If you’ve ever traveled between Massachusetts and Connecticut on I-84, you’ve seen this sign.

Recently, my mother asked me if I wanted to go through my dad’s book collection and see if there was anything I wanted to keep or try to sell. Obviously I said yes, because I am me.

There were three moving boxes full of books, most from the late nineteenth through mid-twentieth century, ranging from McGuffey’s Fourth Eclectic Reader (1879) to Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge (1944, multiple copies—it was one of my dad’s favorite books—including a first edition) to his 1953 Wolf Scouts guide.

Most of the books are in decent condition, and many of them are quite beautiful.

You’d think at least some of them would be valuable. But even the ones that seemed most promising—a mint-condition, late 19th century copy of The Song of Hiawatha, for example—really aren’t worth much, according to my cursory internet research. Thirty, forty dollars tops. The first edition Razor’s Edge is the only one that might be able to fetch a few hundred bucks.

Still: there was never any question that I would keep them. Some of them, anyway. So I sorted through and picked out the ones that called to me—the most beautiful, the most intriguing, and/or the coolest in a kitschy sort of way—like this delightfully pulpy novella (also by Somerset Maugham):

I really hope she falls on her knees. Bet he does too!

Will I ever actually read any of them? On some lonely, rainy, empty nest Saturday afternoon will you find me on the window bench with the cat in my lap and a cup of coffee on the windowsill, reading The Story of San Michele or Arabian Nights? (Or, more likely, The Beachcomber?)

Or will they just sit on the shelves for a few decades, only for me to eventually foist them upon my own children—or perhaps my theoretical mildewy Minnie Mouse grandchild?

I don’t know. But I’ve decided to stop wondering what the point is of keeping them. I just like knowing that they exist, and that they are part of my world. Turning the pages, smelling the old book smell, scanning the text—the cadence and phrasing so different from modern day, yet still completely immediate and human…it’s satisfying and sad and a little bit magical. Maybe the Germans have a word for it. Altenbücherntraurigkeitmagiefreude?

More than any other sort of artifact (e.g. pill-popping Eulalie’s afghans), old books feel to me like portals to the past, and to the lives of actual, individual people: the authors and illustrators and designers who created them, the agents and editors and printers who brought them into the world, the readers who scrawled their names on the inside covers. All of them wearing fun, old-timey clothing, and saying things like “Say, now, that’s one swell book.” And probably also having very bad teeth.

It wasn’t easy, culling the collection. But I managed, and now I’m left with two moving boxes of rejected (but very cool) books. Do I bring them to a rare / old book buyer? Offer them up for free on Facebook Marketplace? Honestly, I feel more inclined to give them a proper and dignified burial in the back yard: Here lie the remains of countless hours of human imagination, creativity, toil, pleasure and pain. Ashes to ashes, pulp to pulp.

Or maybe you want them? I’m quite serious. If you’re local to the Boston area, or feel like taking a road trip, they are yours for the taking: worthless and priceless, like so much that is good in this world.

All posts on my Substack are free, but writing is how I attempt to make a living. If you like what you read, please consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription to support my work. Or, consider buying my book. Thank you as always for reading!

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P.S. I’ll be teaching a 3-hour virtual seminar on Writing With Humor, via GrubStreet, on November 22. Check it out and register now! Become funny funny ha ha!

P.P.S. I’m continuing to build my coaching and editing business. If you or someone you know has a completed novel / memoir / nonfiction mansucript ready for professional review, or would like coaching, accountability and feedback as they work on a writing project, please reach out!

This post is dedicated to my high school friends. And also Calvin Hennick.

OK, people. Because I love you, and because some of you, like me, may have recently watched the new Billy Joel documentary, AND because I apparently love humiliating myself, I’m going to tell you about the first concert I ever went to: Billy Joel. The Storm Front Tour. 1990.

Actually, I’m not going to tell you about it. My fifteen-year-old self is. Because she wrote about the experience in excruciating detail, taking up a full six-and-a-half pages in her diary, including the inside back cover, plus a sort of valedictory (to the diary), Billy-Joel-themed word art piece:

I am already totally embarrassed. If you want to unsubscribe, I understand.

Those aren’t necessarily my favorite Billy Joel songs up there, mind you. I actually kind of hate “Goodnight Saigon.” It was really just meant to be a sort of razzle-dazzle, visual montage of abundance. Imagine animated graphics with the song names popping out here and there over concert B-roll. You seeing it now? Yes? Welcome to my 15-year-old mind.

So, um, yeah, I was a big Billy Joel fan in high school, to put it mildly. As were a lot of my fellow teens. (I would absolutely need two hands to count the number of my classmates who used “I’d rather laugh with the sinners than die with the saints” as their yearbook quote.)

I am still quite a fan, even though my husband makes fun of me for it. I get it though. Billy Joel is an incredibly talented songwriter and performer, and a few of his songs are among my very favorite songs, period. (She’s Got a Way, anybody?) BUT there is something iredeemably uncool about the guy, which taints his music with a little bit of ick.

Oh sure, he can wear sunglasses and jump off of pianos, he can pretend to be a working class rogue (Uptown Girl), he can do a weird tough-guy voice (Big Shot) or try to make us think he rides a motorcyle (Movin’ Out). But he never quite pulls it off. And yet, you get the sense he thinks he pulls it off. Which is one more reason he is not and will never be cool.

But I like his music, dammit. And I refuse to be ashamed. If I were to be ashamed of anything, it might be my rhapsodic, blow-by-blow description of his January 1990 performance at the Hartford Civic Center.

I would never subject you to the entire diary entry. But here are a few choice, representative excerpts.

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We begin thusly:

We went to the concert. I’m depressed now. My life is so meaningless. Actually, I’m less depressed than I was the 1st and 2nd days afterward. Anyway. During school the day of the concert I was so excited. Kurt K. in math class was telling me all about it and how great it was. After school I rushed to do some homework. Then I got ready - changed into my white & red striped shirt, jeans, boots, fake pearl necklace & earrings. I packed money enough for 2 t-shirts and dinner, my ticket, and a comb into the inside pocket of my jacket. At 3:45 I left for Joanna’s. Me, Jane S. and Joanna sat in the front seat of their van, Meg, Harry and Heather in the back, Meg’s sister Kara in the front.

Are you not riveted??

Apparently I wanted to relive every single detail of the experience through the journaling process—and also give myself the opportunity to revisit that magical night whenever I wanted. (Omigod, remember how you BROUGHT A COMB?? And how you and your friends were all IN VARIOUS SEATS IN THE MINIVAN??)

Also, let’s hear it for the fake pearls.

Other important pre-concert details I covered:

We had dinner at Wendy’s

I bought two concert t-shirts at $20 each, one for me and one for my brother

My friends and I bought lighters to wave during the slow songs

I bought a peanut butter Twix

Keith and Dave made fun of my bangs — probably the fact that they were, per usual, shellacked within an inch of their life with hairspray, such that they were essentially a single feathery sideswiped bang unit.

I also provided this handy diagram to indicate where each person in our group sat. Because someday I would want to know this.

But enough with the build-up. Let’s get to the account of the concert itself, shall we? Because here’s where things get really intense. And cringey.

I gotta say though? The writing itself is pretty good. Although I do a weird thing where I alternate between referring to Billy Joel as “Bill,” “Billy,” “Billy Joel” and later, “Joel.” Like I’m a Russian novelist.

All the seats gradually filled. Then smoke started pouring from behind the stage. Thunder sounded. The lights went off - we could just make out Bill & the band. They turned on the lights first on the band, then on Billy Joel sitting at his grand piano. The saxophonist ‘phoned for a while. He did ‘Storm Front’ first - it was hard to believe it was actually him! [Ed: Substack doesn’t let me underline, so I’m using italics instead. Not quite the same effect.]

He talked to the audience, which was great, everyone applauded & screamed no matter what he said. He even announced the lottery numbers! He then talked about how the Sound was polluted, giving fishermen trouble & sang Downeaster Alexa.

I should have added that song to the attempting-to-be-cool list: Billy Joel pretending to be a down-on-his-luck Long Island fisherman. (It is a catchy tune, tho. Like all of them.)

Let’s skip ahead a little bit now, to the part where it gets practically orgasmic. If you ever needed incontrovertible proof that the intensity of experiences is heightened in the teenage mind, here it is:

When ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ came on everyone stood up. No one in our section was standing [ed: What?] so we did and sang every single word! From then on we were up - Uptown Girl, Big Shot, Still Rock & Roll, Only the Good Die Young, I go to Extremes. Jane, Heather & I were going nuts! We kept just screaming the words and screaming & clapping & dancing. The lucky people in the front row were grabbing at his feet - a beachball was getting bounced around the audience and on stage where he’d kick it and spin it around. He danced - or tried to - but it was so cute & everyone loved it no matter what he did!

Oh ye gods! Take me back to that time when all was new, and life shone with the light of a thousand suns, and a beachball being kept aloft in a crowd was worthy of delighted mention in one’s diary!

We never knew we could want more than that out of life.

Ah, but there is a downside to it all: The sucking void in one’s soul that remains after the rapture has ended.

When I got home at 1:00 am the house was deafeningly silent. I slept in for period 1 the next day. That day & the next when I was at home I just listened to Joel’s music. [Ed: see?] It was so depressing! All the excitement, the noise, all these people all together - 10,000 of us loving Billy Joel, singing along, hearing him actually singing all these famous songs. It left this unfillable void in me. Jane S., Jo & I all felt this way, convinced that nothing could make us happy now. That was it, and now there was nothing to look forward to. Just the dull monotony of our existences.

I suspect this feeling of existential emptiness lasted at least until the weekend, when we most likely all got together in someone’s finished basement and ate Doritos and watched whatever we’d rented at Blockbuster.

Still…thinking back over the thirty-five years since that concert, I wonder: have I ever experienced that specific, rhapsodic sort of joy again? Have I ever felt quite so giddy, or so swept up in the collective effervescence of a crowd?

I don’t know that I have. I think maybe it’s only possible when you’re fifteen.

Thanks, Mr. Joel, for helping to make it happen. From one uncool person to another.

All posts on my Substack are free, but writing is how I attempt to make a living. Plus I’m saving up for Billy Joel concert tix. If you like what you read, please consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription to support my work. Or, consider buying my book. Thank you as always for reading!

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Well, hey there! It’s been a while. I was off on an Alaska cruise with my mom, and it’s taken me a minute to catch up on work, etc., and figure out what to write.

In my last post, I shared my apprehensions about the whole cruise thing (as well as my admiration for Vicki Stubing’s hair). As I expected, there were aspects of the experience that I did not particularly like—especially the number of other people who had the audacity to be on the ship with us: 1,900 passengers and 800 crew members, to be exact. (Apparently this is on the small side in the cruise ship world. Shudder.)

Our “small” ship in port

But as also expected, I had a pretty great time overall. The scenery was stunning (glaciers! mountains! JK Rowling’s big stupid yacht!), the shore excursions were varied and fun, and I found that I dug the overall vibe and feel of Alaska. Kind of like Maine on steroids.

We saw, like, all the wildlife, including the biggies (literally): humpback whales and, during the land portion at Denali National Park, grizzly bears, moose, and caribou. We didn’t see any salmon, as they hadn’t quite started running upstream yet, but we sure ate a lot of them. We also saw sled dogs, none of which we ate.

Alaskan husky puppy! Did not eat.

As for the ship itself: the service was excellent, the facilities were great, our stateroom was lovely, the food was quite good, and the programs on Alaskan wildlife, culture, etc. were informative and entertaining.

But there were aspects of the cruise—and I guess cruise culture?—that I found baffling. Like: What’s with the pricy jewelry? There was a store on board that sold all kinds of very expensive, heavy-on-the-gemstones jewelry, and hosted various promotional events. (“Tonight, guess the weight of the jewel-encrusted sea otter,* for a chance to win a $500 gift card!”) Also on board: a gallery full of paintings ranging in quality from mediocre to godawful, for sale at exorbitantly high prices.

Maybe there’s a special thrill to buying expensive things while on ships. I wouldn’t know; all I got was a $15 hat from the gift shop after I left mine in the van on the way back from our whale watch in Juneau.

It’s also strange to me that anyone would choose to do cosmetic procedures like getting fillers or botox while on a cruise (or any vacay for that matter). A facial I get. A massage I get. (And got!) But “Think I’ll address these marionette lines right after the mahjong meet-up!” Weird. But hey, cruise your own cruise, kids. I’ll be out on the deck with my binoculars and a cup of hot Dutch mulled wine, hoping for orcas. (I didn’t see any orcas.)

I see your on-board botox and raise you one glass of bisschopswijn

So. Yes. Cruise = good, though I don’t think I would do one to any other destination.

The hard part has been coming home.

Like many people, I have a tricky time readjusting to real life after long trips. In fact, the older I get, the harder I find it is. But this time has been especially rough, in part because instead of landing back in the middle of a solidly settled “normal” life, I feel like I’ve been deposited onto the edge of a cliff.

Correction: I feel like I’ve been living on the edge of a cliff for a few months now. Being away from it for a while, among the wildlife and glaciers, and then coming back just makes it that much clearer that this is where I am.

Almost exactly six weeks from now, we’ll be dropping our kids off at their respective colleges. This makes me immensely sad. There’s no other way to say it. I’m thrilled for them, of course, and I know they’re ready. But I’m not. There will be upsides, I know, but I also really like the phase of life I’ve been in for the past 18+ years.

I don’t know what’s at the bottom of this cliff I’m about to walk off of, or how hard the impact of landing there will be. I could be waddling along like a flattened Wile E. Coyote for a while. Don’t laugh when you see me. Do ask me if I want to go get a drink.

The kids' impending departure isn’t the only thing causing this cliff-edge sensation, though. My career is shifting, and I’m not quite sure where it’s headed. Our society is on the brink of huge changes, economic and otherwise, with the emergence of AI, and none of us quite know what the full ramifications of that will be. (Many of them, I fear, will not be good.) Living under the Trump regime, meanwhile, I often feel like we’re on the brink of a point of no return from the America we used to be. Maybe we’ve already passed it.

And, of course, it’s summer, which is always a slightly unsettled and discombobulating time, when routines are out the window.

Oh yeah, and menopause. I’m on the edge of that, too.

I much preferred being on the edge of this cliff. (Inside the train.)

Liminality, limbo, standing on cliff edges, being at sea (as opposed to being on the sea). It’s uncomfortable, and I wouldn’t choose it. I haven’t chosen it. But here I am. So I’m just trying to take it moment by moment, take solace in what’s solid, have faith (the coyote always un-flattens eventually!), and not freak the fuck out. I think for now, it’s all I can do.

All posts on my Substack are free, but writing is how I attempt to make a living. If you like what you read, please consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription (As little as $4.16666 a month! Cheap!) to support my work. Or, consider buying my book. Thank you as always for reading!

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*It wasn’t actually a sea otter, it was something else, I don’t remember what. A jaguar, maybe? I did, however, find this picture of a sea otter sculpture (not jewel-encrused) that is apparently part of the decor on another ship in the Holland America fleet. And I saw lots of actual sea otters during the cruise. They are extremely cute.

art

Think of this post as a “before” picture — a picture of me, about to go on a cruise to Alaska with my mom. Today.

She and my dad were planning to go on an Alaska cruise back in June 2020—it was booked and everything. But they never had the chance because, well, my dad died. (Although even if he hadn’t died at that particular juncture, the cruise would have been canceled anyway on account of it being June 2020.)

An Alaska trip has remained on my mother’s wish list ever since, and I am her traveling companion of choice, so, off we go!

Let me preface what’s to come by saying that I am very excited for the trip, as Alaska is on my wish list, too. (I don’t much like the phrase “bucket list.”) Plus, I’ll take pretty much any chance I can get to travel. I am also incredibly grateful to my mother (and late father) for paying for the better portion of the trip.

But here’s the “but” part: Going on a cruise has never, ever been on my wish list. Correction: going on a cruise on the ocean in a giant, Love Boat-style cruise ship has never been on my list. (In spite of how much I enjoyed watching The Love Boat as a kid, and wanted to be Vicki Stubing. Or at least have her haircut.) I do not love boats, nor do I love travel of the uber-commercial, uber-touristy variety. Buffets, lounge acts, motorcoaches—not my jam. I’m a more of a two-star-pensiones, hole-in-the-wall restaurants, public transportation and wandering aimlessly for hours traveler.

I am not a complete cruising virgin, mind you. Our family did a river cruise in central Europe last summer, and it was phenomenal. But that was a very small boat. (No, not boat; ship. They were very insistent on that.) It was not a skyscraper laid down sideways on the water. There were only around 200 passengers on board instead of 2000, and zero slot machines, med-spas (did you know you can get botox on cruises??), indoor pools, dance parties, or fitness centers. I think there might have been a stationary bicycle and some free weights somewhere, but I never sought them out. Thousands of steps walking around various European cities and calisthetics on the deck with Milosz the frightening Serbian fitness coach were good enough for me.

On the river boat ship, land was always visible and very close by, which my psyche appreciated, and walking on and off the boat while it was in port was as easy as walking in and out of a CVS, complete with automatic sliding doors. And while we were, regrettably, burning fossil fuel as we chortled up the Danube, this somehow felt less….unsavory…than what Holland America’s MS Noordam will be doing while we’re aboard: burning much larger quanities of fossil fuel while cruising past glaciers that are retreating as a result of climate change, and spewing fumes into / disturbing the habitats of the whales and seals and other wildlife we will be ooohing and ahhhing at from the deck.

If it were up to me, I’d have chosen a cruise on a smaller ship, with a smaller carbon footprint, responsibly sourced local food, and other such things that would allow me to delude myself into think I’m not part of the problem as I watch endangered sea otters frolic in microplastic-polluted waters. However, those kinds of cruises are much, MUCH more expensive. Shocking.

The other thing that’s making me apprehensive about this adventure, I confess, is the fact that it is going to take me out of The Bubble. As in, the bubble of mostly liberal (or at least liberal-ish) people among whom I live and work here in the Greater Boston area. Not that there aren’t any Trumpers around. Some live on our street, in fact. But I don’t have to be up close and personal and trapped on a vessel at sea with them for eleven days. I do not to have to inadvertently overhear them talking about illegals in the line for waffles or chuckling at the other end of the bar about blue-haired they/thems.

Am I completely fabricating these scenarios? Yes, yes I am. They are, I’m sure, very unlikely. MAGA hats and “I stand for the national anthem” T-shirts aboard are probably unlikely too.

The truth is, it’s not even so much the chance of hearing or seeing overt evidence of Trumpism among my fellow passengers that makes me feel grumpy; it’s just knowing it’s there—that many of my fellow glacier-gawkers (all of whom will no doubt look and act like perfectly nice people) will have voted for the felon.

This assumes, of course, that the passenger population—which I’m guessing will mostly be white, middle- to upper-middle class people in their fifties and older—is representative of that voting population in the United States writ large. We could do a little bit of fiddling and futzing here with assumptions about who chooses to take a cruise to Alaska, and what their political persuasions might be. But, bottom line, this trip will probably be the longest time I will ever spend in an enclosed space with so many people who voted for fascism.

As I write this, I’m feeling better about being on a very large ship.

To folks reading this who live and work among a politically diverse population, you probably think that mine are the rantings of a crazy person. But I assure you, I am not crazy. I’m just a coddled, liberal coastal elite who enjoys not having to spend extended periods of time with people who are OK with masked, plain-clothes thugs snatching brown people off the streets. Or who think it’s reasonable to accuse qualified women and people of color of being “DEI hires” while installing some of the least competent people on the planet to run the government. Or who think it’s totally cool to cut funding for scientific research and humanitarian aid, or to strongarm universities. Or who think trans and nonbinary people like my own child are a threat to…anything or anyone whatsoever. Or who aren’t even fucking paying attention, and/or don’t care.

I just don’t want to go on vacation with those people, you know?

I hate that this is the reality of living (and cruising) in America today—the constant, just-beneath-the-surface awareness of political division. The constant wondering: which side are you on?

It didn't used to be this way. Oh sure, I hated Dubya and the Tea Party. I’ve always been an ardent liberal, with strong political opinions. And yet I think I could have put politics aside to bond with a family of Bush voters on a whale watch or at a night of 80s music trivia on the Lido deck.

I don’t know if I’m capable of doing the same with known Trump voters. The moral differences are too stark and the stakes of what is happening are too high. Civility may be the best I can muster. And even that may be a stretch.

But maybe my apprehension about all this—the cruise life, the fossil fuels, my fellow passengers—is overblown. Maybe I will be so enraptured by the scenery and so transported by the endless food and alcohol that I won’t feel stressed out about the fumes being spewed or the food being wasted, or angry about the retirees watching Fox News in the stateroom next door.

Maybe.

What I know for sure is that I’m grateful for the adventure, and for the time with my mom.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

All posts on my Substack are free, but writing is my profession. If you like what you read, please consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription (As little as $4.16666 a month! Cheap!) to support my work. Thank you as always for reading!

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P. S. Give yourself three points for literary coolness if you caught the reference in this title.

P.P.S. I will proably be posting some pretty kickass Alaska pictures on Instagram over the next couple of weeks if you feel like following me there.

OK, first things first: When I looked up the lyrics to Beck’s Loser (that’s the song I’m quoting in the title of this post, Mom) to see if there were other tidbits I could borrow, I was bowled over to see that the line just before “I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me” is “soy un perdedor”— “I’m a loser” in Spanish. I never knew what the hell he was saying, but never bothered to look it up. Por qué did he throw a random Spanish phrase in the middle of the song? We’ll never know.

I’m not actually a loser. Not in the sense that I’m a lame-ass sad sack. Au contraire. What I mean is that lately I feel like I’m losing a lot of things. Or am about to. And I don’t mean my good pens—the Uni-Ball ones—although they are often elusive. I mean people. Routines. Normalcy. Collagen.

Seems like in the first half of your life, you gain and gain and gain—experiences, knowledge, teeth, scars, height, people. So many people—including, sometimes, ones you grow in your own body! But once you reach middle age, there starts to be a hell of a lot more losing. (Except when it comes to belly fat.)

Last week, my kids graduated from high school. And while I’m certainly feeling the gravity of this milestone on a broader level—the ending it represents, the new beginning it signals—I’m also aware of the many little losses that will come in the wake of it. Bake sales and open houses. Concerts and plays and proms. Homework papers and textbooks on the dining room table. Permission slips. (A welcome loss). The need to occasionally buy posterboard. Chatting with other parents at school events.

And let’s not forget the emails! Why, just a couple of weeks ago, I got an email from the superintendent saying that cucumbers involved in a recent salmonella recall may have been distributed to over 400 school districts in New England, including ours, and that the district had taken immediate action to remove all cucumbers from the recalled lot, as well as any others currently in rotation.

This is exactly the sort of treasured, parent-of-kids-in-school moment I’m talking about: being informed about deadly bacteria and the fate of rotating cucumbers.

At this point you may be thinking: Dios mio, maybe she *is* sort of a loser. But all those little losses, and cucumbers, add up to something very real. And when I think about the fact that it’s all vanishing, it’s a little punch to the heart.

I can’t post a pic of my kids at graduation or they’ll kill me, so here’s me—in one of their mortarboards, with my head looking weirdly large because of the angle—and my husband (with his eyes closed. Sorry, honey).

More and harder heart-punches lie ahead. Like the kids actually leaving for college. Like the accelerating death of the generation ahead of mine: parents and aunts and uncles and family friends I’ve known since birth. You know—the grown-ups. And Paul McCartney. Paul McCartney is going to die, and where does that leave us??? (Ringo too, but, well.)

There’s the ongoing sense of loss (and anger) that I’ve been feeling as I see the current administration and its supporters going after so many of the things that make (made?) our country great: checks and balances, due process, science, academic freedom, diversity, stable alliances. And decorum! I mean, I am no prissy ole pearl-clutching priss, but reading about the the public Trump / Musk slap-flight last week I just kept thinking: Could we get a little fucking decorum back in the executive branch?

So much is being lost, thanks to those actual losers.*

I think my recent feelings of sadness and anxiety around AI also have to do with a sense of loss. Writing has always been my superpower. I’ve been really good at it since an early age (just look at my killer poetry!) and over the course of my lifetime it’s become an increasingly bigger part of my identity. It’s also, in the case of copywriting, how I’ve always made my living. But now, with more and more people “writing” with AI (or thinking they can) especially in the corporate realm, my superpower doesn’t feel quite so super anymore.** And that’s a loss.

I guess I’ve also been feeling a sense of loss with regard to our digital existence more generally. I miss seeing people reading books and magazines on trains and in waiting rooms, instead of staring at their phones. (I miss me consistently doing the same.) I miss snapshots and photo albums. Postcards and letters. I miss seeing the infinite variety of people’s cursive handwriting, and the little window it offered into their nature somehow. I miss the feeling that came with knowing that millions of other people were watching the same TV show as you, at the exact same time.

I think what makes me saddest about this is the fact that these things are all still available, all still possible—yet we’ve moved away from them. They simply aren’t valued as much anymore.***

But I guess every middle-aged person who has ever lived goes through this sort of thing, don’t they?

Why did everyone stop wearing knee breeches? Do we no longer value the sight of a man’s calves? The curve of the musculature? The sharpness of the shin bone? Trousers do keep the legs warmer, I grant you, but at what cost, my good man? AT WHAT COST?

Sigh.

So, here’s the part in the post where I suppose I should talk about all the things I will undoubtedly gain in the years ahead (in addition to belly fat). New experiences and relationships and perspectives and projects and liberally red-pepper-flaked meals and blah blah blah blah blah.

Yes. But the losing’s still hard.

OK, fine. I feel a little guilty hitting you people with such a melancholy post on a Monday. So in conclusion, here’s a picture from the baguette contest judging tent at a French-themed street fair in Cambridge that the mister and I went to yesterday, as I am a Francophile and lover of bread. Just as a reminder— to myself as much as anyone—that the world is full of things that are wonderful and good.

All posts on my Substack are free, but writing is how I make my living. If you like what you read, please consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription (As little as $4.16666 a month! Cheap!). Thank you as always for reading!

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* If you feel the same way, find a No Kings protest near you to attend this Saturday, June 14. If you’re in the greater Boston / North Shore area, you might , which I’ve been helping to organize.

** I do not, by any means, think that generative AI can write as well as I do, and luckily, it simply can’t write personal writing of the sort I do here, on account of it not being a person. I don’t think it will ever be able to write truly good novels either. Crappy ones, sure. But there are already people who write those, too. :-D

*** Thank you to a climbing friend of mine, who may be reading this, who helped me articulate this notion of things we value no longer being valued in our culture / society, especially by younger generations, and the grief we feel as a result.