I think that I shall never see

I’m looking out my window right now, the corner window in our living room that has my favorite view of the trees in our neighbors’ yards, for several houses up the street. It’s a picture postcard October day. The sky is as blue as it gets without even a hint of a cloud and leaves are falling and the breeze is blowing through the branches and the gold and red and orange and green leaves are rustling. Someone is revving an engine somewhere; close enough that I can hear it but far enough away that the sound is faint. Otherwise, it’s very quiet. 

Two of the trees I’m looking at - an evergreen of some sort and a deciduous tree right next to it that looks like an oak - are extraordinarily tall. Sometimes they scare me. A high wind could take any of these big trees down, and someone’s house would go with them. It’s happened before. But mostly, I just love looking outside and seeing the sun stream through tree branches 30 feet high. This neighborhood is almost 60 years old, and those trees have been here since the beginning. Those trees are almost as old as me. 

*****

I sometimes wonder how I used to do all of the things I used to do. I worked part-time when my kids were young, but I returned to full-time work when my oldest started high school 10 years ago. I worked in the office every day, and then I came home and made dinner. I had several volunteer jobs. I went to every swim meet and every baseball game and every band concert. I was still in school during my part-time years, and my husband worked all the time, at odd hours. If I wasn’t working, I was cooking something or cleaning something or driving kids somewhere or teaching catechism or officiating at a swim meet. I was relentless. I was a force of nature. 

At 60, I’m still working full-time, and I expect to continue working for at least five more years. I HOPE to continue working for at least five more years. I like working in general, and I love my job. Working is easy. Working is a blessing. 

But nature and I have a different relationship now. I'm not so much of a force of it anymore. 

*****

It's Saturday afternoon now and we're driving home from the Eastern Shore after a swim meet at Salisbury. I'm riding shotgun now but I was the driver this morning and the Bay Bridge crossing was somewhat less terrifying than usual. It was clear but a bit overcast so there was no sun glare. It wasn't raining. It wasn't windy. Both spans were open so I didn't have to face oncoming cars. And traffic was light so I didn't have to worry about getting stuck at the top of the bridge. It was fine. 

Does that seem like a lot of fuss over a bridge? Maybe, but that bridge is four miles long and 200 feet high at its highest point, and everyone in Maryland is scared of it. There's actually a drive-over service for people who can't bring themselves to drive over the bridge themselves, and they do pretty good business. That bridge is no joke. 

*****

Leaves changing color and college swim meets and hockey - we went to our first Capitals game of the season, so it really is peak autumn. The Irish Channel on Friday night was a whole Capitals fan vibe, but it was a family of Wild fans getting up to leave who waved us over to grab their table. “We saw you come in before the other people waiting so we wanted to make sure you got a table,” the man said. We thanked him and he said "Hey, Minnesota nice, right?” 

"If you were Penguins fans,” I said, "you'd have looked us right in the eye as you ordered another round.”

“And if we were Rangers fans," he said, “we'd have stayed here all night just to spite you." We all laughed. 

My older son was with us, and there was another older couple with a young woman sitting in the booth directly across from us. The man and the older woman appeared to be in their 70s, and the young woman could have been any age from 24 or so (my son’s age) to late 30s. Everyone that age looks very young to me. She could have been the couple’s daughter or their granddaughter, depending on their age and hers, but I guessed that she was their daughter. The three of them had the self-contained family intimacy of late-in-life parents with their treasured only child. They weren’t dressed for the game, and the mother spoke with an Irish accent so I imagined that they were just out for a nice dinner and a few pints and some live music. They seemed lovely. 

Really, almost everyone in the Channel seemed lovely. Most of the patrons were Capitals fans, with a few Minnesota supporters in their green jerseys. I’m glad our jerseys aren’t green. The non-hockey crowd were dressed for a casual October Friday pub night - colorful sweaters and t-shirts and hoodies and well-worn jeans. Almost no one was in work clothes - so many people are furloughed right now that the Friday night happy hour felt much more like Saturday afternoon. It was much quieter in general than usual, and the Metro trains were practically empty, but the people who were out and about were in good spirits. And we didn’t see a single Guard member. 

*****

I missed the protest on Saturday, but I got to honk my horn and wave at the protestors in Salisbury. It had not occurred to me that there would be protestors in Salisbury, the largest town on the very red Eastern Shore, but I was delighted to see it. There were hundreds of people holding signs and wearing crazy costumes and funny hats and t-shirts, all smiling and friendly as they peacefully exercised their First Amendment rights. And then the next day, the President of the United States shared an AI-generated video of himself wearing a crown and piloting a bomber with “King Trump” painted on the side, dropping tons of excrement on protestors. 

And I’m not even mad. I can’t muster even the slightest outrage over that gross video. Honestly, it was one of the most honest and forthright statements that has ever come out of this administration. Donald Trump hates America and most of its people, and if he could fly over American cities dropping actual shit bombs, he would absolutely do it. The White House social media team is just telling it like it is. They’re keeping it real. 

*****

October just started, and it’s already almost over. It’s time to figure out our Thanksgiving plans. It’s time to do my Christmas shopping. Everything seems up in the air right now, though. Everything is in flux, and I can’t decide what to do from one minute to the next. 

Still, it’s strangely comforting to know that the world is a mess because it always has been and it always will be. And it’s also beautiful and it always has been and always will be. It’s a week later now, and I’m back at my window. It’s another picture postcard October day. The trees are a little less green and a little more gold and orange and red than they were a week ago. They’re still rustling in the breeze and the sky is still clear blue. There’s not a shit bomb in sight, at least not now. 

Three Days that Did Not Shake the World

I do love a three-day weekend, even if it’s for a minor holiday - especially if it’s for a minor holiday, because I don’t have to shop or cook or decorate for Indigenous People’s Day. It’s just a nice little break. It’s a lovely Saturday morning, sunny and cool but not cold and very autumn-like. I’m still not reconciled to the end of summer, but I’ve been sitting outside for an hour, and nothing has bitten me, so I have to acknowledge that fall isn’t all bad. And I do like to wear sweaters. 

*****

I keep thinking about October 2024, the gosh-darn good old days, when I had 99 problems but Donald Trump being President wasn’t one. I never thought that he COULDN’T win but I did think that he WOULDN’T win. I was hopeful, even optimistic. I miss the October 2024 version of me. 

*****

It’s Sunday now, rainy and gloomy and very October-ish. It’s a soup-making day, so I’m going to make some soup. Yesterday turned out to be a rather nice day. I did my usual Saturday household tasks and errands, and we spent most of the afternoon hanging around outside in the absolutely perfect early fall weather. Then we went to the movies. 

*****

I’ve never read any of Thomas Pynchon’s novels, but I think I’ll read Vineland, which was apparently the inspiration for the movie we saw last night, “One Battle After Another.” That movie was insane (and insanely long), but very good. I’m sure that Leonardo DiCaprio and Sean Penn will be nominated for all the big awards, but Regina Hall is the one who stood out for me. She’s only on screen for a short time, but her performance as the kind and courageous revolutionary Deandra was beautiful and memorable. DiCaprio was very good, too, as was Teyana Taylor as the revolutionary femme fatale Perfidia Beverly Hills. Sean Penn was Sean Penn. He’s fun to watch, if nothing else, and the rest of this cast was more than equal to his scenery chewing. 

*****

It’s Monday now, and I’m not working because it’s a holiday. Today is Indigenous People's Day, FKA Columbus Day. When my children were growing up, IPD was never a school holiday. Instead, it was open house day because so many Montgomery County parents work for the government in one way or another, so it was a good time for parents to visit their kids’ classrooms. My husband and I also always went out for a late morning breakfast on IPD. We'd eat eggs and toast and laugh about how mad our kids would be if they knew we were at the Tastee Diner without them. 

The Tastee Diner is gone now, may it rest in peace. Our kids are grown, but the IPD breakfast tradition continues at our beloved Silver Diner. Eggs and toast taste so much better with diner coffee in a thick white mug. 

*****

I went shopping yesterday. It was raining, and so the mall was as good a place to go as any other. I don't shop in actual stores very often, and maybe I should, because I left that mall empty handed, which is perfect because I don't need a darn thing. Nordstrom has some very nice clothes right now, and I tried things on but nothing inspired me, and so I went home with all my money. 

And I did make soup, and then found out that no one else was going to be home for dinner. This was also perfect because now I have a huge pot of soup and I don't have to cook anything tonight. Soup is always better the next day, anyway.

*****

My husband had to go to work after our late breakfast on Monday, and it was a gloomy wet day, perfect for hanging around the house and watching a movie, so that’s what I did. I had never seen “Reds” before, and so I watched it in honor of Diane Keaton. My feelings about this movie are complicated. First, it was quite brave of Warren Beatty to make a 3.5 hour epic about the Bolshevik Revolution, when “Doctor Zhivago” was not all that old in 1981, and comparisons were inevitable. BLUF: “Reds” is very good, but “Doctor Zhivago” is better. 

Things that I really liked about “Reds” - I loved all of the witnesses’ first-hand stories, but I cannot understand why Beatty didn’t identify them onscreen. Maybe they didn’t want to be identified. Once a radical, always a radical. I also loved the great acting (especially Maureen Stapleton as Emma Goldman), beautiful cinematography, and amazing dialogue. But of course, misogyny is always going to be one of the biggest stars of any movie made in 1981. Louise Bryant, played by Diane Keaton, comes across as whiny and entitled and a little boring. John Reed (Warren Beatty directed himself), on the other hand, comes across as selfless and heroic and charming. But Louise comes through at the end, so maybe the perceived misogyny is just my imagination. 

See? I’m gaslighting myself now. 

Warren Beatty as John Reed is one of those performances that makes me think that the actor wishes that they were the character. I thought the same thing as I watched Brad Pitt play Billy Beane in “Moneyball" (one of my favorite movies), and Morgan Freeman playing the President or the Speaker of the House in who knows how many different movies. Julia Roberts won an Oscar for “Erin Brockovich” because she wanted to be a tough working-class broad sticking it to the man. I can watch “Hidden Figures” any time because Taraji P. Henson and Octavia Spencer and Janelle Monae played it as though they wanted to be Black female mathematicians at NASA in the Jim Crow south. I bet Warren Beatty still thinks it would have been cool to be an intrepid American reporter witnessing the Bolshevik Revolution first-hand. 

*****

I was sad on Monday night. I should have done more this weekend, I thought. I should have had people over, or gone hiking or done something memorable.  But I’m in survival mode right now, like the rest of non-MAGA America. At least I made soup, right? At least I went to the movies. The Capitals beat the Islanders and the Rangers. I read Nancy Mitford and added two more books (Vineland and 10 Days that Shook the World, which will be a re-read) to my TBR list. I took the money that I would have spent at the mall and donated it to our local food bank. It was a nice though not spectacular weekend; a quiet little interlude. Sometimes, that’s enough. 

Artifice

Have you heard about “work slop”? Work slop is AI-generated work product that looks really pretty and professional but is actually - wait for it - slop. LinkedIn is all abuzz about work slop. People are shocked - shocked! - that people who would use Gemini or ChatGPT to write their memos or their slide decks or their data tables would also not bother to check their work and to correct what doesn’t make sense. 

Not long ago, I was handed a pile of work slop. Someone asked me to edit a document and I realized just a few words into the first paragraph that I was reading something whose only human contribution was the initial AI prompt. I had to rewrite it completely. 

Part of me felt vindicated. AI thinks it can take my job, does it? Well until they come up with a generative AI application that can write like a human being who actually uses and understands the English (or any other) language, good luck to it. 

But I’m me, of course, so I immediately imagined a worst-case scenario. The WCS is my default setting. What if AI becomes so dominant that it no longer needs to try to mimic us, because we will be mimicking it? What if we all end up speaking and writing - and even thinking - in the language of AI-generated social media scripts and marketing collateral? 

*****

A few months ago, I read The Portrait of Dorian Gray for the first time. Dorian Gray was published in 1890, so we can’t say that preoccupation with the superficial and desire for an unnatural level of physical perfection are 21st century phenomena. Oscar Wilde recognized obsession with youth well over a hundred years ago. I wonder what he would have made of Kristi Noem or Martha Stewart or that crazy tech CEO dude who spends millions of dollars trying to stay young forever (unsuccessfully, I might add - he’s in his 40s, and he looks like he’s in his 40s - he could have achieved those results for free). 

I’m thinking about how AI would figure in a modern retelling of Dorian Gray. Maybe instead of a portrait, there’d be an AI double who would deteriorate with age while the real Dorian Gray built billion-dollar electricity-gobbling data centers and exploitative gig work platforms and sports betting empires and cryptocurrency exchanges. The forever-young Dorian Gray would have 1b followers on social media watching him hustle and grind and self-optimize, and wondering how he manages to never look older than 21. The AI Dorian Gray would look like Stephen Miller at age 80. Real Dorian would employ Blackwater mercenaries to guard the safe room where the holographic AI Dorian is projected on a wall, aging in real time. 

Look at me, out here writing fan fiction. 

*****

“Have you ever heard about the dot com bubble?” That was my 24-year-old son to me at dinner the other night. Yes, I had heard about it. I lived through it lol. My son believes that we’re sitting on top of an AI bubble, and he can’t wait for it to burst. He might be right. If enough people have to read and edit the kind of “writing” that I dealt with this week, and if enough people start to notice that their electricity and water bills are much higher than they should be, and if enough older people like me understand that AI is a big part of the reason why their new college graduates cannot find jobs, and if everyone finally realizes that the AI edgelords actually don’t have our best interests at heart, then the AI backlash could gain steam. 

I read somewhere that Microsoft “invested” in OpenAI by giving them “credits” for free use of Microsoft supercomputer labs. Microsoft then claimed those credit redemptions as “revenue.” If one company claiming an imaginary multi-billion dollar “investment” in another company and then calling that company’s use of its imaginary credits “revenue” isn’t the clearest ever example of fake accounting, then I don’t know anything about anything. And I don’t know anything about anything, really. The stock market and the futures markets and the currency markets have always been black boxes to me, completely incomprehensible. But I have a grasp of the basics, and one of the basics is that bubbles that burst are usually built on dodgy financial practices. 

*****

It’s all very grim, but despite my initial WCS projection, I am uncharacteristically optimistic, at least about this one thing. I think that people are going to push back, and we’re not going to let AI take over and do all of our thinking and creating for us. Other than a certain very creepy college professor, I don’t know anyone who actually wants to watch Tilly Norwood on screen. 

One day out of 107

Oh what a time to be alive in America. I’m reading 107 Days, Kamala Harris’s memoir of her 107-day presidential campaign and my gosh, I cannot believe that this all happened just a short year ago. Less than one short year, we are 70 percent down the road toward the fascism finish line, and the rest of the road is downhill and icy (in more ways than one). 

I was about to say that I can’t believe how bad it’s actually been, but I absolutely can and do believe it. I’ve been expecting the worst since 2015, pretty much since the day Trump came down that infamous escalator. Ten years later, he is still wreaking havoc and still riding escalators and every day is proof of the idea that you can be shocked and unsurprised all at once. Every day, I’m shocked by what these people are doing to this country, but I’m never surprised. 

*****

One of the many things that I find really humbling is that when I read books about recent history, I will realize as I’m reading that I remember little or nothing about episodes that were huge news just five or ten years ago. Same thing goes for biographies of contemporary figures, people I think I know a lot about - I find that I know pretty much nothing. But I read VP Harris’s earlier memoir, The Truths We Hold, just a few months ago, so I was pretty solid on her biographical details. As for the historical details of the 2024 campaign, I found that I remembered pretty much everything Kamala Harris describes almost exactly as she describes it, and as though it all happened yesterday. I mean, it DID happen yesterday, relatively speaking - it’s not even a year since the 2024 election. But it also seems like part of a bygone era. When I look back to the very recent time just before the 2024 election, it feels like I’m looking across a deep chasm, like we have crossed a line from the before time to now that we’ll never be able to cross back again. 

*****

107 Days is written in short diary-like chapters, titled for the number of days remaining until the election. Most of the entries have an in-the-moment or just after the moment quality. The book reads as though Kamala Harris still hasn’t really processed the events of the summer and fall of 2024, and she probably hasn’t. Most of us haven’t. Some critics have complained that she blames others for the campaign’s (few and far between) mistakes and for the “loss” to Trump, but that is nonsense. I think Kamala Harris was near-perfect in that campaign, but she made a few minor mistakes as anyone would, and it feels like she’s still beating herself up over those mistakes. 

A few takeaways: Tim Walz is great but she probably should have gone with Mark Kelly or Josh Shapiro or even Pete Buttigieg even though he wasn’t on the short list. The Venn diagram of people who won’t vote for a Black woman and people who won’t vote for a gay man is a closed circle, so Buttigieg would not have harmed the ticket, and he is the smartest, sharpest politician in the United States. Mark Kelly is also brilliant, and he’s tougher than Walz. Kamala is 100 percent right that Tim Walz was far too nice to JD Vance during that debate; and that’s partly because he is a decent man who is nice to everyone but it’s more because (like a lot of politicians) he is still playing by the rules of two decades ago when we thought that “both sides” had the country’s best interests at heart. This is no longer the case. 

*****

My son had a swim meet at Gallaudet University the weekend before the election last year. Gallaudet has an absolutely terrible swim team but the Gallaudet meet is great. Some of their swimmers are completely new to the sport, and it’s amazing watching them compete. Last year, a Gallaudet swimmer who is almost 30 years old took over two minutes to swim the 100 freestyle. Both teams applauded enthusiastically as he finally finished, jubilant and exhausted. 

We walked from the NoMa-Gallaudet Metro stop to the Gallaudet aquatic center, just about a mile. It was a gorgeous autumn day. Harris-Walz signs were everywhere, right next to Halloween decorations that hadn’t been taken down yet. People were out walking and sitting on their front porches. People smiled and waved at us as we walked by, and we smiled and waved back. Marymount won the meet, of course, because a lot of high school teams would beat Gallaudet. The walk back to the Metro was just as lovely as the walk to Gallaudet, with the autumn sky turning pink and orange and purple and the leaves crunching underfoot on the tree-lined neighborhood streets. But that’s not why it was a perfect day. 

*****

107 Days does not end happily, as we all know. As much as I enjoyed this book, I did not enjoy reliving the night of November 6, 2024, when Kamala Harris and her team and all of her supporters watching the returns on TV realized with growing apprehension and eventual horror that Donald Trump had “won” the election and that we were facing a second Trump presidency. And everyone knew that the second Trump term would be far worse than the first, and everyone who knew that was right. 

When I think about how much has happened in just a few short months, I think back to that Saturday in November, walking the neighborhood streets from the Metro to Gallaudet and back and smiling back at all of the smiling, hopeful faces, and feeling not exactly sure but extremely optimistic about the prospect of Kamala Harris as our next President. It was a beautiful day. 

Deadline: A week in autumn

It's payday, and I didn't get paid. Well, actually, it appears that I did get paid; or rather that a direct deposit was generated for me, but the money never made it into my checking account. 

My bosses are looking into this, and I trust them. I trust our new Oracle payroll system a lot less; and my little local bank, which was just acquired by a large regional bank, I don’t trust at all. But no matter who is responsible for this little snafu, someone has my money, and I would like to have it back, especially since I fully expect to be furloughed in a few days. 

*****

But let's talk about the good news, shall we? College swimming kicks off today, and we're on our way to Durham NC for Marymount vs. Duke vs. Boston College. Duke and BC are both D1 teams so Marymount is the most under- of underdogs. But do not count them out. Those Saints have heart, I tell you what. 

*****

It's Saturday now and we're on our way home, a long drive on a very rainy day. The Saints finished last at Duke, as expected, but there were some good swims, especially from our freshmen in their first college meet. My son did well, a little off his best times, but very solid for the first meet of the season. His medley relay split was especially good, faster than both BC swimmers. 

And I got paid, too, thankfully. I'm spending money like a highly paid person with rock solid job security and not a care in the world, as opposed to what I am, which is a mid level individual contributor for a nonprofit quasi government foundation who is about to be placed on unpaid leave in literally days. I should be hanging on to every dollar. Instead I'm out here taking road trips and staying in hotels and having dinner and drinks in a bar at 930 on a Friday night. Reckless is what it is. 

*****

The paycheck issue was resolved, followed immediately by another minor financial issue - minor enough that it won’t really hurt me but involving enough money ($300) that I can’t just let it go. I’d tell you all about it here, but I won’t because it’s boring. But if I haven’t gotten the responsible corporation to give me back my $300 by the end of the week, then I might need to write about it in detail and at considerable length, just to assuage my feelings and to feel like I’m sticking it to the man. You have been duly warned. 

It’s Sunday morning now. It’s peaceful and quiet, though very messy, in my backyard - it rained hard all day yesterday and the patio is a little bit of a disaster. I’ll clean it up momentarily. Meanwhile, yesterday was just a very difficult day for many reasons that I also won’t write about here because the reasons are pretty much all in my head and you’ve probably seen just about enough of the inside of my head. I certainly have. Meanwhile, I’m probably going to be temporarily (one hopes) unemployed in 48 hours, so let me just go shopping. 

LOL. JK! 

Maybe. 

*****

It’s Monday morning now, and I would ordinarily be working right now but I am having technical issues that I am waiting for the service desk to resolve. 

Other than that, today is a better day. I did buy one little thing, a little thing that I don’t need but that also didn’t cost much money. I pulled myself out of yesterday’s funk with a whirlwind of housework and yard work and grocery shopping and cooking. And the aforementioned frivolous shopping, of course. Now I just have to worry about whether or not I’ll have a job after tomorrow, and that’s honestly the least of my worries given all of this (gesturing wildly, as usual, at everything). 

Meanwhile, I’m working from home today but it’s 8:40 and I still can’t connect to the network so I might have to go in. I’ll change into work-from-work clothes, and I’ll try again at 9, and then I’ll just go to the office. Honestly, I’m probably better off leaving the house today anyway. 

*****

I did end up going into the office. The VPN problem was universal, but the onsite network was fine. Even though I got a late start and even though I was distracted, checking for updates on budget negotiations approximately every five minutes, I powered through quite a bit of work. Then I went home and cleaned an already-clean house. And of course, I kept obsessively checking my phone for news updates, with MSNBC on the bedroom TV. 

I know, I know. I can’t do a gosh-darn thing about the budget or the appropriations bill or the continuing resolution or whatever the heck we are calling it today. At this point, the House Republicans are not even in Washington, which makes a shutdown at midnight tonight a near certainty. And I’m not all that worried about it from a financial perspective, because I have money in the bank, and I have a working spouse, and we’ll be fine. The uncertainty is challenging for me. I don’t like not knowing what I’ll be doing tomorrow. And if a shutdown goes on for longer than a few weeks, then I will have to start worrying about money. 

But not today. It’s Tuesday. It’s still September. If it happens, it happens, and everything will be fine. And now, I’m going to go touch grass or read a book or something. 

*****

Well, what do you know? The government did shut down, and I still went to work. I learned at about 6:30 on Tuesday night that I had been added to the essential personnel list (yes, even contractors can be essential personnel) and I reported for work as always. And because I work for a foundation and not directly for the military, I’ll be paid as usual. It’s a relief.

Oddly, traffic this morning was heavier than usual. The base looked much as it always does, which didn’t surprise me as much as the traffic, because NSAB is a medical center, so it operates as usual during government shutdowns. There are certain functions associated with my job that I cannot perform during the shutdown, but I’ll be covering for a few furloughed Federal employees, so I’ll be quite busy. I’m very grateful that I’m still working. If the shutdown drags on for weeks like the last Trump shutdown, then they’ll probably have to furlough me at some point, but in uncharacteristic fashion, I will worry about that if and when it happens. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. 

Chair parkour

A temporary infirmity is an inconvenient but helpful reminder to take care of ourselves and to be mindful of our limitations. It’s not that I’m out there running marathons or anything but I’m careless sometimes. I do stupid things like stand on rickety chairs to reach high shelves. I try to carry everything from the car to the house in one trip. I stand up too quickly and abruptly. 60-year-old ladies can’t do crazy things like that. We have to be careful.


Yes, this is a comment about a specific thing that happened, and not just general fitness and wellness advice, which I don’t provide because I am not qualified. Do NOT follow me for more fitness and nutrition advice.


Anyway, do you remember when your grandparents used to talk about hurting themselves by sleeping the wrong way or getting up out of a chair too fast? Yeah, they were not exaggerating. It turns out that you actually CAN hurt yourself by standing up too quickly, which is what I did a few days ago, and I’m still recovering.


I don’t even know exactly what happened. I woke up on Wednesday morning feeling just fine, and then later in the morning, I sat down and then stood up and all of a sudden my lower back was just a spasming knot of pain. I went about the rest of my day pretty much as usual, except that I moved more carefully than normal and I took frequent stretch breaks. I went to bed early. I took ibuprofen. But it was worse the next morning, bad enough that I took my first sick day in a year. I felt very guilty about this, and I have no idea why. My boss is very cool, and I know that no one faulted me for taking a day to rest, but there it is - you don’t have to be a Protestant to have Protestant work ethic guilt.


*****


The very nature of this injury is embarrassing. It’s literally an insult added to an injury. It’s indignity piled on top of infirmity. I can’t claim to have hurt myself moving furniture or playing tennis or skiing. I have to look people in the face and tell them that I’m recovering from a chair-sitting injury. Jesus. Old age can fuck off.


*****

It’s Sunday now, and my back still hurts but I’m recovering. I’m about 70 percent better, and I expect to be in full working order in a few days. A little more stretching, a little more rest, a few ibuprofen here and there, and I’ll be as right as rain, if rain is right. Who makes up these sayings, anyway? Now I just have to adjust to the unfortunate reality that standing up out of a chair is now as dangerous as parkour.

The Adventures of Miss Barbara Pym

I’m reading so slowly lately. It wasn’t that long ago that I plowed through a book, sometimes two books, in a week. Now I’m lucky to finish a book in two weeks. And it’s not because I’m so busy that I’m reading slowly. I’m just distracted. I can’t concentrate. All of this (gesturing wildly at everything) is a lot. But I did finally finish the book that I’ve been reading for the last two weeks: Paula Byrne’s The Adventures of Miss Barbara Pym, a literary biography of one of my very favorite authors. 

*****

I’m not sure why England in the 1930s and 1940s and 1950s is such a calming alternative to the present. Things were a lot in pre-war and wartime and postwar Britain, too. Maybe it’s because I know now that everything turned out OK; whereas I have no idea if things will turn out OK here in the United States in 2025. It’s an evolving story. It’s a fluid situation, as they say on the news. 

Also, I’m on the fence about literary biographies. I’m not sure it’s fair to an author to dig through her personal diaries and papers and then try to connect events in her life to events in her books. Or rather, it’s absolutely 100 percent fair because everything that’s in writing is discoverable - especially if the writer published it. And it’s also a reasonably accurate way to examine an author’s life. Most of Pym’s characters were based on herself and her friends, to varying degrees. That’s true of most fictional characters. We can only imagine so much. 

Muriel Spark, another of my favorite 20th century British authors, wrote a memoir called Curriculum Vitae. I read Muriel Spark for the first time when I was young - I found old hardcover copies of Memento Mori and The Girls of Slender Means at Lame Duck Books, a used bookstore in Philadelphia, and then I made a point of reading everything she wrote. I bought Curriculum Vitae the moment it was published in 1992, and read it in a day, and was then astonished to learn that critical reviews were mixed because critics felt that Spark was vague and selective in recounting the events of her life. Duh! Of course she was vague. Of course she was selective. We all tell others what we want them to know. 

So my objection to literary biographies (not that it stops me reading them obvs) has nothing to do with fairness or accuracy - it’s just that I don’t always get the point of writing about writers, period. I’d rather let them speak for themselves. 

*****

But back to Barbara Pym and her adventures.  BLUF: Barbara Pym was an interesting person who lived a rather complicated life. Something I never knew about Miss Pym (and would have preferred not to know) is that as a young woman, she was briefly infatuated with early Nazi Germany. She wasn’t the only one, of course; and unlike Diana and Unity Mitford, she soon saw the truth about the Nazis. Still, this was a shocking lapse in moral clarity for a writer with so much understanding of history and human nature. 

Barbara Pym was also unlucky in love, falling for one unsuitable man after another. She allowed men to treat her badly, and she was  a bit of a stalker. But she was intensely curious about other people in general, not just men with whom she was obsessed. What sometimes crossed the line into stalking often just started as people-watching. 

*****

Characters in the Pym novels set in the immediate postwar years through the early 1950s were preoccupied with economy; and so was Barbara Pym herself. Everything was in short supply, especially food and clothing; and housing was very scarce in London and the other cities where so many buildings had been damaged or reduced to rubble in the bombing raids. Pym and her sister, Hilary, both Oxford-educated upper middle class women who worked full-time (Barbara Pym had a job with an academic institute in addition to her writing, which made very little money during her lifetime), still had to borrow furniture for their first flat in London, and also had to be careful with their everyday expenditures on everything from clothing and food to electricity and heat. Pym’s diaries often mention prices and economizing measures. 

*****

Barbara Pym’s work fell out of favor during the late 50s and 60s, and after publishing six novels, she went a long time without publishing anything. And then just when she thought her career was over, she was back in fashion almost instantly following the appearance of a now-famous Times Literary Supplement issue dedicated to the most overrated and most underrated 20th century British authors. Pym was the only author to be mentioned twice as underrated - by Lord David Cecil and by Philip Larkin. Almost overnight, Barbara Pym was in demand again, with reissues of her previously published books and new interest in publishing previously rejected manuscripts. She won awards and was inducted into prestigious literary societies and appeared on TV and radio programs and was generally the toast of the English-speaking literary world. 

*****

Barbara Pym died of cancer in 1978. Her diaries and literary papers are held in the Bodleian Library of Oxford University, where the young Barbara Pym read and wrote and studied and flirted and cried when she was a St. Hilda’s College undergraduate in the 1930s. She was one of the greatest English language novelists of the 20th century - because, and not in spite of her focus on the lives of ordinary women. Read Byrne’s biography of Pym, by all means - it’s very good writing about a really interesting person - but read her novels first. There are at least three Barbara Pym novels that I haven’t gotten to yet, and I intend to remedy this forthwith. 

60

I generally avoid video content on social media. I don’t bother with Instagram reels, and I don’t even have a TikTok account. I mute or unfollow people who post too many videos on Threads. But I make a few exceptions, and one of them is the We Do Not Care Club. 

If you’re a woman anywhere between the ages of 35 and 75 or so,  and you’re on the internet in any way at all, then you have probably heard of the WDNC Club. A Black woman in her 40s started posting videos of herself, just listing all of the things that she doesn’t care about anymore, and as other women shared their own IDNC stories and videos, the trend grew. The idea is simple - as mature women, we no longer have to care about what others think about our looks, our clothes, our families and homes, our dinner tables, our kids’ college plans, or anything else about our existence. I like these videos. They’re very funny. And these - middle-aged and older ladies who don’t care anymore - are my people. 

*****

On Tuesday morning, I woke up and realized: I’m 60 years old today! 60! An age that once seemed very old indeed and that now is just my age. 

*****

How does it feel to be 60? IDK, same as it feels to be 59, I guess - but definitely not the same as it feels to be 50. I’m much better at accepting people, including (especially) myself, as they are. 

*****

When I was young, I remember hearing from older women that attention from men, a thing that you take for granted if you’re a reasonably healthy average-looking young woman (as I was) is no longer a given once you’re older. “Invisible to men,” they would say. “Once you’re in your 40s, you’re invisible to men.” 

First of all, this is true. It happens in your 50s, really, not so much in your 40s - but it happens. By your late 50s, you’re pretty much invisible to most men except the men you know and live with and work with. The thing is, though, that this new invisibility, which young women are warned of as an impending disaster, is actually a blessing from the Lord Himself. Being invisible to strange men is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.  

*****

Ten years ago, I probably would have told you with a straight face that I didn’t care about what other people thought of me, but that would have been a lie and a pretty obese lie at that. I worried about everything when I was 50.  Now, I just worry about my kids and my husband and my mother and my work and my bills and the state of the world - but those are all important things. I only worry about important things. The things that I don’t worry about (that I flat-out don’t care about) far outnumber the things that I do worry about. It’s pretty nice. It’s good to be 60. 

911

It’s September 11. I'm working from home today, and even though it’s a really bad idea, I have news on in the background. 

Since it’s the 9/11 anniversary, the networks (alternating between MSNBC and CNN) covered the memorials at Ground Zero, the Pentagon, and Shanksville, PA. But the murder of Charlie Kirk is dominating every broadcast. 

It feels like we crossed (yet another) Rubicon yesterday. I don’t know why. Certainly, political violence is nothing new; and people die at the hands of gun-toting maniacs all the time. And as of this writing, I can’t even be sure if it was political violence. The shooter is still at large. Charlie Kirk was an outspoken MAGA activist, but he wasn’t a politician or an elected official. I think it’s likely - probable - that Mr. Kirk was targeted for his political beliefs, but I don’t know this for sure. No one other than the killer knows for sure, though the usual people are out here blaming “violent rhetoric on the left” as if there’s no such thing as violent rhetoric on the right and as if people don’t die by gunfire every day, for all kinds of reasons but mostly for no reason at all. 

Charlie Kirk’s beliefs were abhorrent to me, but murder is always evil, 100 percent of the time, no exception. Gun violence is always bad, 100 percent of the time. Charlie Kirk did not deserve to be murdered. I’m sorry for his wife and his young children and his parents and everyone else who loved him. I’m even more sad and sorry for my country. 

C-Suite

“Aiming for the C-suite, Claire?” This was the opening gambit of a LinkedIn DM from someone who - OBVIOUSLY - does not know me at all, even though he went right for the first name without so much as a hello. Anyway, no, I’m not aiming for the C-suite or any other suite that involves me directing anyone’s work other than my own. I’ve been a manager, and I’m not doing it again. Bro, absolutely not. 

*****

I didn’t respond, obviously. The person messaging me was recruiting students for an MBA program. I can think of a few things that I want to do less than return to school - for an MBA no less! - but only a few. And a five-minute review of my LinkedIn profile would have made this perfectly clear. He’s casting a very wide net, I guess, which is perfectly fair, but he needn’t expect a response from me. I’m a busy woman. If I engage in online correspondence with every joker who wants to recruit me for something, then I’ll never have time to sit around and write about absolutely gosh-darn nothing. 

*****

Well, not nothing. For example, yesterday (yesterday being Saturday making today Sunday) we set up a table at our annual community yard sale in the pool parking lot. I don’t recall ever having done this, even though we’ve lived here for just over 20 years, but my husband said that we did do it one other time, and I have no reason to doubt him. The yard sale was more fun than I expected. I set up a bin marked with a “Free Stuff” sign. I also had a little collection of those ceramic figurines that come free in boxes of Red Rose tea, and I invited little kids to pick one each. The kids were delighted to dig through the free stuff bin for treasures, and they were even more delighted to pick out a ceramic figurine. Three of the figurines were puppies - those were the first three to go. But there were also bears, Christmas trees, a bunny, a mermaid, and a sand castle. All of them have new homes now. I imagine that they’re displayed on children’s shelves or secreted away in treasure boxes. 

Oh, and we sold some stuff too - personal items and clothes, household items, books, a few gadgets, this and that. Some people bargained for lower prices - perfectly fair at a yard sale - but a surprising number of people just handed over the asking price for whatever they were buying. At the end, we gave some things away - including two flower prints to a fellow yard sale merchant who’d had a very slow morning, and who said that getting those prints made the whole morning worthwhile; and a couple of cute canvas tote bags and zipper pouches to my teenage girl neighbors, who were very pleased to have them. Then I tossed everything that remained in the free bin into the dumpster. I just can’t tell you how cathartic it is to launch things into a dumpster, one by one - especially when it’s a big dumpster, and you have to really fling stuff to get it high up enough to clear the top. That might have been the most fun I’ll have all week. Meanwhile, we had a very pleasant morning with neighbors, we cleared out some clutter, and we came home $128 richer. A resounding success. 

*****

We went to dinner on Saturday night with my husband’s mother and his sister and her family. It was a birthday celebration for my husband (September 4) and me (September 9). My niece made me a birthday picture - a white kitten in an ice cream cone with sprinkles. I love it so much that I put it in a frame. And then my sister-in-law and I each had exactly one more margarita than we should have. By the end of the evening, I was legitimately overserved, which is something I haven’t been for a very long time, and I don’t plan to be again anytime soon. 

I really should have suffered more on Sunday morning than I actually did. The FO was not nearly as bad as the FA warranted. Still, I slept a little later than I wanted to, and then woke up panicking about everything I needed to do. And then I just got up and did everything - no dilly-dallying, no shilly-shallying, no wasted time. By noon, I had blazed through a long list of chores, including prepping dinner and hanging up my now-framed ice cream kitten. 

What is better than getting everything done and then looking back with satisfaction remembering that feeling of overwhelm, knowing that it’s in the past? What is better than turning your to-do list into a done list? Nothing, that’s what. Gosh-darn nothing. Between the successful yard sale on Saturday and the burst of efficiency on Sunday morning, I felt like an absolute boss. You know what? I probably DO belong in the C-suite. 

Some days you wake...

 “Some days you wake and immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong, it's just the suspicion that forces are aligning quietly and there will be trouble.”

Jenny Holzer

*****

Glenstone is a museum smack dab in the middle of the DC suburbs; Potomac, to be exact. Potomac, if you’re not familiar with the DMV, is a very wealthy suburban community  - one of the wealthiest in the United States, in fact. Potomac is filled with magnificent houses set on beautifully landscaped multi-acre lots. Winding roads wend their way past golf courses and private swim clubs and private schools. Everything is nicer in Potomac - even the supermarkets and hardware stores and pharmacies are fancy and exclusive-looking. 

Before it became a museum, Glenstone was just one of Potomac’s many expansive private estates. And it still is - the owners, apparently, still live on the property. About 20 years ago, they turned acres of their land into a museum and nature preserve and outdoor sculpture gallery. They built galleries to display their enormous collection of modern and contemporary art, and they created trails and paths through the nature preserve. They added a few parking lots and a visitors’ center and bookstore, and indoor and outdoor cafes. Then they opened the whole thing to the public, absolutely free - free admission, free parking, free umbrellas to borrow for rainy days, free wheelchairs to borrow, free golf cart rides to and from the visitors’ center for those in need - the cafes and the bookstore are the only places that cost anything. I’m not a fan of billionaires and as a rule, I think they shouldn’t exist (as billionaires, that is - no objection to their existence as humans) but if you’re going to be a billionaire art collector, this is the way to do it. 

*****

We pulled into the parking lot at Glenstone just a few minutes ahead of our ticketed arrival time at 11 AM. Even the parking lot is pretty - shady and surrounded by trees, with interesting rocks as parking spot markers. From the parking lot, you walk to the Arrivals Hall, where a friendly staff person asks if you’ve been before. If not, they offer a helpful orientation and hand you a map and guide, and then you’re free to explore. 

From the Arrivals Hall, you walk a beautiful path through meadow-like landscaping. I’m not very good at recognizing plants and flowers, but there’s definitely a huge patch of heather. It feels like you’re walking through a heath or a moor in a 19th century English novel.  As you walk the path, you’ll see a big sycamore tree on your right, marked on the map as The Sycamore Tree. It’s an impressive tree, so maybe it merits that capitalized title. On the left, hills rise, and at the top of one hill, you can see Jeff Koons’ Split-Rocker, a giant sculpture of a creature’s head, which is covered with live vegetation that changes with the seasons. Split-Rocker is colorful in the summer, and green in the spring. Apparently, Glenstone has a guy whose main job is to oversee the replanting and irrigation necessary to keep Split-Rocker blooming in the spring and summer. He’s doing a good job. 

Glenstone has paths and trails. The paths are gentle, flat, winding little paved roads through the meadows. Paths take you to the Pavilions, where the temporary exhibits are displayed; and the Gallery, the more permanent collection; as well as the Cafe (indoors) and Patio (outdoor coffee shop). I visited with a friend who has health issues that make climbing and difficult walking all but impossible, so we kept to the paths. Next time, I’ll climb a few of the trails, including the one that takes you to the base of Split-Rocker, which is huge even from a distance.

*****

The Pavilions are a group of low, stark, gray buildings in the middle of the meadow. Well, it looks like a group of buildings from the outside but they’re all interconnected inside. I didn’t know most of the artists whose work is currently on view, except for Jenny Holzer (quoted above) and On Kawara and Cy Twombly. There’s a pretty large collection of Jenny Holzer’s word art and her huge enlargements of formerly classified documents about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, obtained via a FOIA request; and her electronic art. There are five Cy Twombly sculptures assembled from very old white-painted found objects. I’d have liked to see some of his paintings, too, but the sculptures were very cool. I can’t explain why. 

I was happy to discover some new-to-me artists, too; especially Jaune Quick-to-See Smith and Brice Marden and Robert Gober, whose single piece was a full-room installation with running sinks and walls covered with hand-painted forests with tiny prison-like windows at the top and stacks of newspapers here and there on the floor. It was strangely peaceful in that room. 

*****

When you’re at Glenstone, surrounded by wildflowers and verdant meadows and trees, it’s possible to forget where you really are - but not for long. Past the Sycamore Tree and the Pavilions, you can see the roofs of neighboring Potomac mansions. I’m sure that in the winter, even more of Potomac is visible from Glenstone’s grounds. Still, it’s a calm and beautiful place that feels set aside from the world. I plan to go back soon. I want to get a little closer to that giant flowering head. 

Nothing but blue skies

Our old lady is back. After a few months in rehab and assisted living, she’s back at home like she never left. I talked to her last night, and I’m grocery shopping for her today. 

I might have mentioned before that our old lady (she’s not just mine how; our whole family owns her) is a hoarder, and when she went to assisted living, she authorized her attorney to hire a cleaning service to clean out her house and a contractor to do some repairs. She’s happy with the repairs, but not happy with the clean-up, because, as she keeps telling me, “All my stuff is gone!” I think that this was the point, and I’m not sure what she expected when she hired the cleaning service. Maybe she thought they were going to pick up each old newspaper and magazine and knickknack and dust it off and then arrange all of the clutter so that it looked pretty. Anyway, I’m staying out of that mess. My job involves two things: offer a listening ear (this is the hard part) and deliver food and supplies. I will resist any and all attempts to expand my portfolio. 

*****

It was nice while it lasted, “it” being the few months break from the weekly shopping and grocery delivery service. I’d honestly forgotten how much of a pain it was. She buys too much stuff; rather, she makes me buy too much stuff. Still, I’m glad she’s OK. She sounds like her old self on the phone, like she’s regained her strength. I’ll have to regain mine so that I’m equal to the gallons of bleach and warehouse orders of canned goods. I think she’s a doomsday prepper. I think she’s stocking up the bunker. 

*****

I did her shopping last night, which was Friday, making today Saturday. It’s also Labor Day weekend, my very least favorite national holiday. We’re enjoying an unprecedented stretch of beautiful weather here in the DMV - just endless sunshine and blue skies. Our crape myrtle is almost finished blooming, and the leaves on the trees are beginning to turn. I haven’t been swimming for five days now  - overnight temperatures have been dropping into the 50s, and it’s just been too cold. So today, I spent the morning and early afternoon at the Glenstone Museum, a place I’ll be writing about in more detail. I don’t have much use for billionaires, but I’ll make an exception for Mr. and Mrs. Rales. That is how to be a billionaire.

*****

Another beautiful day. I don’t trust it. This now 7-day stretch of clear, spotless, sunshiny blue skies is just as bizarre as the long stretches of bad weather this spring and early summer. Something is up. The hammer is going to fall, I’m telling you. 

Oh, don’t listen to me. What do I know? Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing. I always get weird around Labor Day. Summer’s about to end and I’m never ready for summer to end. 

It’s Sunday now, and while I normally love the Sunday of a three-day weekend, I make an exception for LDW, which I hate. Hate is a strong word, but it’s the correct one. 

But I don’t hate everything about this weekend. I’m sitting on my patio at 10 in the morning, listening to birds and cicadas as a lovely breeze dries my hair. Someone is using some kind of power tool. I don’t know what it is - it’s not a lawnmower, It could be a chainsaw or maybe a leaf blower. I don’t mind it, really, but the noise is coming from at least a block away. Maybe I’d mind if it was next door. 

Well, that’s all I have for today. My head is in a really weird place. Time to move. 

*****

Do you know that feeling of getting out of a swimming pool and feeling cooled all over and how your body retains that coolness for hours afterward and you feel just completely clean and refreshed? I wanted that feeling yesterday, but I didn’t think I could stand the cold water. It turns out that I could and I did, but only for a few minutes. I went in up to my shoulders and I paddled around for a few minutes - I didn’t even put my head all the way in - and it was enough. The swimming part wasn’t the best, because I really like to swim - but the after-swimming part was perfect. 

I’m trying to turn that into a metaphor for something. But poetry is not my lane, so I’ll stick with prose. A few minutes in the water is better than no minutes in the water. Sometimes, good enough is good enough. 

It’s Labor Day, the only national holiday for which I have no use whatsoever. I’ll get my last few minutes in the pool a little later on, but now it’s time to get dressed and join the protesters on Georgia Avenue. Sticking it to the man will make me feel better. The weather, at least, is perfect. 

Eldest daughters

I keep thinking that I’m going to run out of obscure mid-20th century English women novelists to read, and I’m sure I will eventually, but not yet. Not today. I just discovered Elizabeth Caddell and I’ve never even touched Ivy Compton-Burnett. It’ll be years before this genre runs dry.  

Elizabeth Caddell was born in India in 1903 to a British officer and his wife. Based on my first experience with her, the delightful Iris in Winter, she wrote comic society novels - more light and silly than Barbara Pym, less unhinged than Margery Sharp, less cynical than Muriel Spark, but similarly preoccupied with social mores amid the routine of everyday postwar British life - especially food.  You can’t read Barbara Pym or Muriel Spark or Margery Sharp or Elizabeth Caddell without wanting a boiled egg and toast and maybe a nice cup of tea.

Iris in Winter’s titular character is the younger and more glamorous sister of Caroline, a young widow who has settled in the fictional country town of High Ambo. Caroline, a placid and peaceful person, would probably have been quite happy to keep in touch with her boisterous sister and her outrageous brother Robert and his young fiancee by mail and telegram, but the whole crew come and descend upon her, leaving her to contend with a very busy household full of lively and interesting and and slightly crazy close relatives who naturally expect her to feed them all and clean up after them all and generally upend her quiet life to accommodate them. 

*****

Did you know that August 26 was National Eldest Daughter Day? As an eldest daughter myself, I approve of a day dedicated to recognizing us. Iris in Winter spoiler alert: Caroline is an eldest daughter, so of course she welcomes her crazy siblings and takes care of them and cleans up after them, literally and metaphorically. What else is she going to do, let them starve? 

*****

LIke almost every other female protagonist in a post-war British novel, Caroline is preoccupied with food - procuring it and preserving it and preparing it and making a little go a long way. Caroline notices with dismay that Iris and Robert and Polly consume far more butter and sugar and milk and eggs than their combined rations allow, and it falls upon her to figure out how to stretch their food stores to keep everyone fed. And of course, no one other than Caroline gives a thought to housekeeping or economy, except for sweet, spoiled Polly, who tries to help with the cooking, predictably making a mess in the process. 

*****

On Sunday, my husband hosted a fantasy football draft at our house. I helped him arrange everything; and about an hour before his guests were to arrive, I asked him if I could do anything else to help, and he said “No, just do me a favor and don’t make any messes.” 

Excuse me? Have you met me? I’m an eldest daughter and I have never made a mess in my entire life.

*****

OK, back to the book. When Iris, an aspiring young reporter, comes to High Ambo on assignment from her editor, she meets a handsome young schoolmaster on the train from London. She falls in love with him, and is utterly flummoxed and confused when he doesn’t immediately fall in love with her in return, because most men do immediately fall in love with young, beautiful, charming, fashionable Iris. Why wouldn’t they?

Meanwhile, the school where the young schoolmaster teaches is struggling to remain afloat, and the insufferably arrogant and selfish Robert ends up saving it. Lots of other things happen, too - Caroline and Iris befriend a charming little band of schoolboys, who help with repairs in exchange for the occasional treat (everyone in postwar Britain is obsessed with food), and Iris is nearly arrested for sneaking into the wrong house to steal back an umbrella that had been earlier stolen from her by a kleptomaniac old man, and the flighty and whimsical Polly goes missing for a bit. It's all very screwball comedy. 

But everything turns out as it should and everyone ends up where they should be, or at least close to where they should be Ideally, Iris and her beloved schoolmaster would finish their courtship in a Margery Sharp novel, and they’d be married and on a plane to New York by the end. Caroline would spend the rest of her quiet life arranging jumble sales and inviting the curate for tea in a quiet Barbara Pym London suburb. Robert and Polly would end up at Blandings Castle or at Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Dahlia’s country home. Aunt Dahlia would try but fail to evict them and then she’d force Bertie to come down from London so that Jeeves could get rid of them for her. But even Robert would be no match for Lord Emsworth.