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. 

Time and place

I’m sitting on my patio right now, 9:45 on a 10/10 Saturday morning. Really, it is just beautiful out here - bright sunshine, flawless clear blue sky, temperatures in the high 60s with a lovely breeze rustling the leaves on the trees, with cicadas chirping and birdsong and a dog barking here and there the only other noise. 

My younger son and I are the only people home right now, but that will change in a few hours. He’s still sleeping, because this is one of his last few sleep-in mornings for some time. We’re taking him back to school today, and class and swim practice will start on Monday. Summer always passes by so fast. It already feels like September out here. 

The third year of taking your youngest child to college is definitely much easier than the first. I remember the dread-filled days leading up to move-in day in 2023, and it’s not nearly so bad now. He takes his car to school now and comes home every so often; and of course, swim season starts soon, and I love college swim season the way some people love NFL football. The boys team is swimming against Duke and Boston College in Durham next month, and I booked our room weeks ago. Part of me can’t wait. The other part would like to turn the clock back a few months. Well, that second part wants to turn the clock back a full year because I’d like to relive an optimistic summer untainted by ICE raids and military patrols on the streets of DC. But you know what I mean. 

*****

It’s Sunday now, just about 24 hours later and I am once again out on my patio writing about pretty much nothing. The weather is different today - soft and overcast and almost cool. The breeze is still rustling, though, and I’m still hearing cicadas (much more muted) and birdsong. 

Our son moved in yesterday. His quad suite is quite similar to the suite he had last year, and he’s sharing it with the same crew, one of whom has been his roommate since freshman year. I was happy to see them. We helped with move-in and unpacking and arranging the room, and then we took the boys out for dinner and to the neighborhood Safeway so that they could stock up on supplies and snacks. We were exhausted when we arrived home at 10. And now it’s kind of sad to walk past his neat and empty room at home. I’ll get used to it because I always do and because I have to - after all, at some point, he’s going to leave home for good - but I do like having all my people at home under my roof. 

*****

I’ve been reading a lot lately, so my next post - I promise - will be less about my daily life amid the changing seasons and more about books. Preview: The Sum of Us (Heather McGhee), Iris in Winter (Elizabeth Caddell), The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde), and The Adventures of Miss Barbara Pym (Paula Byrne). Four weeks, three centuries, two countries - proving that I’m capable of leaving the house and getting out of my own head for five minutes, even if only in a book. 

Cold water flat

It’s Sunday morning, our first morning home after vacation. It’s nice to be home. It’s nice to be in my own surroundings. We don’t have any hot water but that’s a minor and temporary inconvenience that will be remedied soon. And the people who say that cold showers are refreshing are pretty much correct, but I’m not sure I’d be so easygoing about this if the water heater was broken during a January cold spell rather than an August heat wave. Timing is everything. 

*****

We got home at 2:30 on Saturday. We unpacked immediately, and I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning an already pretty-clean house, doing laundry, swimming, and catching up on work. I had planned to remain completely offline until Tuesday but I’m glad I spent a few hours working. Now I know what I have to do next week, and knowing what I have to do is half the proverbial battle. 

And speaking of knowing what I have to do, the larder is bare, so it’s time to restock. I’m off to the grocery store. Details at 11. 

******

I yield to no one in my appreciation for a hot shower, but a cold shower on a hot day can be quite lovely too. It’s Monday now, and we expect to have the water heater repaired in the next day or so, but for now, we’re just fine. Washing in cold water is a good reminder that we’re lucky to be able to wash any time we want, even in cold water. Not everyone is so lucky. 

And if you are able to do it, then I can’t recommend strongly enough taking an extra day at the end of vacation. We went to a neighborhood party yesterday, and it was that much more fun knowing that I didn’t have to go to work the next morning. My son goes back to school on Saturday so we’ll maybe do some supply shopping, and then I’ll run a few errands and go swimming or walking (it’s quite cool today) and then make dinner at home for the first time since August 7 or so. I’m sitting outside, and the yard and patio are a mess after an evening thunderstorm, so I’ll start by cleaning up out here a bit.  

*****

As always, vacation has to end; and as (almost) always, I don’t mind that much. Work was hectic, of course, but I’m catching up. And cold showers notwithstanding, I’m still in the “it’s nice to be home” mindset. What’s not great is that I am one of the few people still hanging on to summer. My husband is hosting not one but two fantasy football draft parties in the next two weeks. The house, which was ship-shape on Sunday, is now a staging ground for my son’s college move-in on Saturday. And with the second cloudy, cool day in a row, the fall fans are out there with their transitional sweaters and their Starbucks cups. I don’t ask for much. Just please let summer be summer until Labor Day - which is, of course, on gosh-darn September 1 this year because 2025 can’t stop being an asshole for even five minutes. 

*****

Loath as I am to admit it (and I am very much loath to admit it), there are a few things about the transition from summer to fall that I do not quite hate. Take Tuesday night, for example. I finished work at 5:15 and did some quick dinner prep, and then I went to the pool. Because I am a dedicated pool denizen - a pool rat, as we say here in the neighborhood - I know what many people do not know, which is that in a big pool like ours, the water takes a few days to cool, even when the weather changes. This means that on Monday, a cool and cloudy day in marked contrast to the weekend’s intense heat, the water was still very warm. It remained cool through the night on Monday and Tuesday also dawned cool and pearly gray, with a little bit of rain here and there. People who are not in the know would assume that it would now be officially too cold to swim, but those people would be wrong. 

The air was cool enough that I could have comfortably worn long sleeves - maybe even a light sweater. Instead, I put on my suit and wrapped up in a towel and went swimming. There were, of course, a bunch of kids in the pool because they are also pool rats who know (and during the last week before school starts those kids would be swimming even if they had to break up ice on the surface) and one other lap swimmer. The water had cooled a bit more since Monday but it was still lovely - just chilly enough to shock the system a little bit on entry, and then quite comfortable a few laps in. Getting out was no joke, but I had two towels with me, and after a few minutes in the hot shower in the changing room and a few minutes wrapped in dry towels, I was right as rain. 

*****

It’s Thursday. We still don’t have hot water at home and the pool water is also pretty darn cold after a few days of chilly overnight temperatures. Swimming in the cold water on a cloudy cool day is nice but not as nice as swimming on a hot day with the water sparkling in the sun. And I’m finding that the cold showers that are really quite delightful at 8:30 AM on a hot day are far less delightful at 6 AM on a 60-degree morning. But I’m standing on my belief that I’m lucky to have clean running water at all, when so many people do not. And there’s nothing wrong with a little discomfort. There’s nothing wrong with starting the day with just a tiny bit of suffering. 

Still, I’ll admit that I was happy to see the box containing the needed parts, which arrived at our house yesterday; and I’ll be overjoyed when the technician actually comes to fix the water heater. The water was freezing this morning. I’m still a little cold just thinking about it. 

***** 

It’s Friday now. For the last week, I have lived with as close to pioneer conditions as I’m willing to endure - no hot water AND no washer (the washer, which had been on its last legs, gave up the ghost the day after the water heater stopped working). And now I am back in the 21st century, where I belong. After one last icy cold shower this morning (the water seemed to get colder every day) and one last day of cramming dirty clothes into the laundry hamper so that the lid would close, I am now equipped with a functioning water heater and a brand-new washing machine. I feel rich, and I am very excited for a warm shower later. Meanwhile, I am going swimming now, and I expect that the water temperature will have dropped a few degrees since my last pool visit on Tuesday. And that’s fine. It’ll take more than cold water to scare me out of the pool. 

Taylor Swift and Thomas Cromwell: Beach Week 2025

It's Beach Week!

Right now, it's Saturday August 9. It's 1157 and the car is packed and my husband is in the house doing his last minute checks, and we'll be on the road by 1202. 

The forecast for this week looks solid. It's quite hot today, bright and sunny, and it feels beachy even here in Silver Spring. The crape myrtle are at peak color, and Stone Harbor will be in wild full bloom too. 

*****

My sister is already in Stone Harbor. They arrive on Saturday morning even though you can't check in until 3. My sister in-law and her family are about 90 minutes ahead of us. My friend and her family have not left yet because she has a few canine and feline patients this morning. She owns her own practice. She's basically a 21st century James Herriot. But even a veterinarian needs a vacation. 

*****

We have a roof carrier, which I hate, and it's making an unsettling amount of noise right now. That's probably the only thing that's bothering me right now. There needs to be something. I'm not comfortable when I don't have something to worry about. 

*****

Traffic is dreadful as usual on 95 on a Saturday in August. But we just crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge and we're in New Jersey. We're listening to the Springsteen channel on Sirius XM as fitting, and Rosalita’s daddy is just about to miss his chance to get his daughter in a fine romance. 

*****

It's Sunday morning now. Five minutes ago, a flock of seagulls were squawking and screeching over my head and now they're gone. It was so loud I couldn't hear myself thinking. 

Now it's quiet and calm, with the only noise coming from the fishing boats on the bay a few feet from our deck, and a few Sunday morning bikers and runners and dog walkers. A lone seagull is perched on the roof on the house across the courtyard, and he appears to be watching me. I'm drinking coffee, and maybe he's hoping I'll bring breakfast out on the deck. Maybe a muffin or some toast or an egg sandwich. But I don't eat anything in the morning so that bird is out of luck unless he wants a nice cup of Cafe Bustelo. 

*****

Our rental condo is very basic, but nice. If I face west on my deck, I can see the bay. If I face east, I can see the pool. We're two blocks from the beach but they're densely built blocks so I'd have to climb up on the roof to see the ocean. But two water views is pretty good, and I'll get to look at the ocean all afternoon. 

*****

The weather is perfect here. The vibe, however, is unsettled. The Jersey Shore has always leaned MAGA but that element was quiet for a few years. Last year, I hardly saw any Trump signs or flags on the island - it was such a marked difference from 2016 and 2020 that I really thought that Kamala could win. Would win, I should say. 

It feels different now. And it's not as simple as flags and signs and red hats. I still haven't seen much of that. But the vibe is definitely off. Something doesn’t feel right. 

*****

Still, it was a perfect beach day yesterday, with 75 degree ocean water. I love swimming in the ocean, and I barely got in at all last year because we were here during a freak cold snap with ocean water temps in the mid 60s, very unusual for August. It was the talk of the town. But yesterday was perfect for ocean swimming. I used to love PG Wodehouse’s Jeeves and Wooster books, and I remembered a line from a letter from Jeeves to Bertie during a rare seaside holiday from the gentleman’s personal gentleman: “I had an exceedingly enjoyable bathe yesterday.” We, too, had an exceedingly enjoyable bathe yesterday - several in fact. 

It’s Monday now. The sun is out and the sky is pale blue and gold but it’s also quite cloudy so the sunlight is filtered. I haven’t looked at news coverage - online or on TV - since Saturday, but today, I’m anxiously monitoring the news. 47 is about to “federalize” the District of Columbia, and I dread the idea of the National Guard on the streets of DC. Martial law is not out of the realm of possibility, either. Whatever is in the Epstein files, it must be really bad, because DC is as safe as any other place. I am there all the time, and I never feel threatened or even uncomfortable, except when the Capitals lose to Pittsburgh and Penguins fans occupy the steps of the National Portrait Gallery. It’s all very wrong, and very upsetting, and it doesn’t feel right to be here looking at the bay and watching seagulls while all of this is happening or about to happen. 

*****

And it happened. 

It's Tuesday morning now. It's overcast and the water in the bay is the same pearly silvery gray as the sky. I love sunny beach days but I really love watching the bay and hearing the seagulls on an overcast morning. 

I texted my friends who work at CBO and the State Department to see if they were OK. My CBO friend was WFH but my State Department friend was in her office in Foggy Bottom, watching Guardsmen arrive. We're planning a girls trip to Baghdad because if DC is twice as violent as Baghdad then Baghdad must be the safest place on God's green earth. The whole thing would be funny if it wasn't a complete and utter outrage.  

Meanwhile here in Stone Harbor, if you didn't know what was happening, you really would not know what was happening. I guess that could be a good thing. 

*****

It’s Wednesday now. No matter what is happening in the world, Beach Week always passes with blinding speed. Wednesday is the day when we start to reckon with the passage of (vacation) time. We need to figure out what we want to do and where we want to go before the end of the week, which is coming sooner than we think. 

I texted a friend and colleague yesterday. We’re working on a project together, and I had an idea that I wanted to share with her before I forgot about it. I told her that it felt weird and wrong to be on vacation this week, with everything that’s going on, and she texted back that vacationing and resting and enjoying life are radical acts of rebellion in a world that wants us always busy and productive. True to a certain extent, I suppose, but my guilt feelings about vacation have nothing to do with work ethic or productivity. It just feels solipsistic to be out here swimming and biking and collecting shells with all of this (gesturing wildly at everything) going on. It feels like radical rebellion is the radical act of rebellion that’s called for in these circumstances. 

*****

It’s Thursday now, another near-perfect day in this near-perfect week, weather-wise. I’m sick with what I suspect is a mild case of COVID, which is apparently making an uninvited and unwelcome comeback. What else, 2025? Lay it on us. 

No, don’t. Never mind. Forget I said that. 

Yesterday morning, my younger son and his girlfriend, who was spending a few days with us, and I walked to 96th Street, the shopping and restaurant hub of Stone Harbor. The area between 95th and 99th Streets, a few blocks north and south and east and west, is filled with cute little boutiques and coffee shops and restaurants and ice cream places and everything else you’d expect to see in an upscale beach town like Stone Harbor. 

We had a particular destination - Coffee Talk, a coffee house on 97th Street famous for having hosted a very young Taylor Swift during her very early performing days. Taylor’s family vacationed in Stone Harbor, and the young Taylor sang and played her guitar at several local establishments. Coffee Talk, a retro 90s coffee house filled with art and comfortable couches and mismatched rugs, might be the only one of Taylor’s original venues that is still doing business, and there is - of course - a little display of Taylor photos and memorabilia. My son’s girlfriend, a huge Taylor Swift fan, wanted to visit and have coffee and drink in the Taylor vibes, and it was lovely. The kids enjoyed their pastries and drinks. I enjoyed their company and the retro atmosphere (authentic, since the place was actually established in 1995) and of course, a very sweet frozen mocha that was like having a milkshake for breakfast. And then later, social media was abuzz with talk of Taylor’s new album and her appearance on Travis Kelce’s podcast, so Taylor just dominated the conversation yesterday. Well, better Taylor than some other people I can think of. 

After an hour or so of visiting little stores and looking at clothing and trinkets, we started our walk back home, stopping first at my beloved Barrier Island Books on 95th. I overheard a man asking the bookseller if she had anything by Hilary Mantel and because Stone Harbor is a friendly place, I chimed in. “She’s one of my favorite authors.” 

“Mine too,” said the man. “Trying to sell my granddaughter on her,” he said, indicating a young woman who was browsing. “What’s your favorite?” he asked me.

“I love all of her writing,” I said, “and I might like her essays as much as her fiction. But the Wolf Hall trilogy is one of the best things I’ve ever read. It got me through the summer of 2020.” 

“See that?” he said, inclining his head in my direction to his laughing granddaughter. “Unsolicited testimonial.” 

“OK,” she said. “I’ll try her.” The bookseller found copies of Bring up the Bodies and The Mirror and the Light, but not Wolf Hall. The granddaughter said that she was familiar with Henrician and Elizabethan history, making it easily possible for her to enjoy the last two books in the trilogy without reading the first. They walked out with hardback copies of both books. Maybe I’ll run into them again, and I can ask the granddaughter what she thinks. 

*****

It’s Friday now, our last full day at the beach. A brief thunderstorm yesterday afternoon was the only flaw in a week of near-perfect beach weather. And it didn’t start until about 4 PM, not long before we’d have been leaving the beach anyway; and it was over by 7:30. 

The ocean water has been warm and delightful, if you don’t mind a lot of seaweed, and I don’t. I swam in the ocean every day this week and then swam in the pool right after the beach. And then there’s the lovely late afternoon beach siesta time when the rest of my household naps for a bit, and I enjoy the quiet alone time. First I spend a few minutes on basic housekeeping, and then I sit on the deck reading my book while my hair dries. I discovered yet another mid-20th century British woman author this week, and I’ll tell you all about her very soon. Right now, I’m reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, which I have never read before, and which seems very relevant right now. Now every time I look at Kristi Noem or Pete Hegseth, I’m going to wonder if there’s a painting in an attic somewhere. 

*****

Well that was quick. 

It's Saturday morning now. We were up at 7 and out of our beach condo at 915 and now we're on the road back to Maryland. I'll miss the beach and the lovely bay views from our deck but I'm happy to be going home. I miss home. I even miss work but I won't be back until Tuesday. I've always wanted to tack on an extra day at the end of a vacation and I'm doing it this time. It'll be good to have a summer day. 

There's not much summer left. My son returns to school a week from today. Labor Day weekend is in two weeks. Meteorological summer still has a month but I mark the end of the summer season by the pool schedule and the start of the school year. 

*****

Other than the bookends of the occupation of DC and the shameful Trump - Putin “summit" in Alaska, I haven't paid any attention to current events this week. Our beach condo had 3 TVs and I didn't even know how to turn them on. I didn't stream, scroll, or read any news coverage on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. I read Elizabeth Caddell, David Sedaris, and Oscar Wilde. I watched bits of movies and shows and baseball and football games with my husband and sons. It was nice not to see his face or hear his voice for a few days. A nice break. 

We're on Route 55 N right now, somewhere in the swamps of Jersey, with Springsteen keeping us company.  God willing we'll be home by 1. There's lots of work to do after a week away and I'm not going to slow down until everything is unpacked, washed, organized, and stowed neatly away.  It's nice to get away but there's no place like home.

Elements

It’s 10 o’clock on Saturday morning, and I’m sitting on my patio to let my hair dry in the breeze. The heat wave finally broke yesterday and this morning it’s sunny and cool but not chilly. This afternoon it will be warm but not hot. We’re not expecting storms or floods or stifling heat for the next few days. I like the heat, but this is a nice break for people who don’t. 

Yesterday, it was overcast and gray and cool - no warmer than 72 or so even at midday. I worked from home, and then I went swimming. During last week’s heat wave, the pool water had warmed to literal bathwater temperature. It was too warm, and if the water is too warm for me then it’s too warm for pretty much anyone. I was still swimming in it, of course, but swimming laps in 85 degree water is exhausting. 

But after Thursday’s storms and Friday’s cool temperatures, the water cooled a few degrees. It was still very warm, though, and of all swimming scenarios, warm water on a cool cloudy day is my very favorite. I finished work at 445 or so, and was in the water by 5. It was the best 45 minutes of the entire week. 

*****

It’s Sunday now. Yesterday was one of the quietest weekend days of this summer - the first in many weeks when I didn't have to do anything or go anywhere. It was lovely. I read a lot, and napped a little bit, and went swimming. Of course I also went grocery shopping, and did laundry, and cleaned the house and made a simple dinner. I need to have things ship-shape, even on a day off, and I do not have a staff. 

*****

I’ve been shopping too much. It’s like 2020 again, when waiting for packages was the highlight of my lockdown week. “Out for Delivery” - I loved clicking on a tracking number and seeing the Out for Delivery status.  And then there was the fun of opening the package and trying on a new sweater or moving all my stuff into a new purse. And believe it or not, the excess shopping didn’t hurt my finances at all, really. I was saving a lot of money elsewhere - I hardly ever needed gas, and we didn’t go out because there was nowhere to go - and even with weekly donations to food banks and shelters and other causes, I always felt like I had money to spend. 

Fast forward to 2025. My income has increased very slightly but my expenses have increased rather dramatically (although now we’re back to just one child in college, so that’s something of a relief) but I’m back to my 2020 shopping habits, and it’s time to rein it in a bit. For at least the next three months, I’m not buying anything I don’t need, except books. And I always need books so that’s not even an exception. 

*****

Well, we’ll see. That three-month embargo might start later this month because I’m on vacation next week. We’re only going to the beach (only, she says, as if a week at the beach is not quite good enough) and I might need a new Stone Harbor hoodie or t-shirt. Vacation shopping is very similar to vacation eating. It does not count. Check back with me on August 19. 

Yes, August 19 is a Tuesday, because for the first time ever, I am taking an extra day of vacation after we return from our trip. I’ve always wanted to do this, and now I have the time, and I’m going to do it. I have a lot to do so I’ll probably spend it running errands and catching up on everything I neglected during my week away, but that’s as good a way to spend a day as any other. Sometimes it’s nice to just have a day that’s just a day, especially in the summer, and especially when the summer is winding down so fast. The child who just came home for the summer (and who has been out and about every day and night as I suppose he should be) is returning to school on August 24. Labor Day and the Autumnal Equinox are meaningless - as far as I’m concerned, summer is over the moment a kid has to return to school. 

*****

As much as I hate the end of summer, I am also developing a grudging, slight affection for certain aspects of fall. The college swim season starts early this year, with an away meet against Duke and Boston College. A little weekend trip to North Carolina will be fun. I couldn’t care less about football, but I love hockey, and post-season baseball is fun, too. I like fall foliage. I like to sit next to an outdoor fire. I like to wear sweaters and jackets. And I love Thanksgiving

And that’s about it, really. Summer is the best, and it’s not even close. More than the warm weather and sunshine and swimming and long days, I love the freedom of summer, even if it’s illusory freedom. And it IS illusory freedom. It’s not like I take the summer off or anything. It’s not like I have a maid from May to September. It’s not like I stop being me. In fact, with one kid out of school altogether and the other in college and no longer in need of rides to school and practice and games and meets, I’m really no less free in the winter than in the summer. Summer just feels more relaxed. 

*****

It’s Thursday night now and vacation is just a day away. I’m very much looking forward to a week at the beach. My sister and her family and my sister-in-law and her family and my friend and neighbor and her family will all be there too. Separate houses, thankfully, because that would probably be more togetherness than I could take. Because I am the one person connected with everyone in this group, I expect to be pretty popular next week; even more so than usual, that is. The last time we were all at the beach together, I’d be on the deck having coffee at 8 AM or so, and my phone would start blowing up with messages about dinner plans. I learned quickly to just not answer those texts because I’d see everyone later that morning on the beach, and we could just figure it out then. Maybe I should just block everyone. 

*****

Friday, 5 PM. I’m officially on vacation now, kind of. “Kind of” because something hit the proverbial fan today and I’ll probably need to work for a bit on and off over the weekend, and maybe for an hour or two here or there during the week. It happens. It’s not the end of the world. 

Meanwhile, I’m done for today until or unless something else happens, so I’m trying to decide between a walk and a swim. Normally, this is the easiest decision in the world. Swimming is pretty much always the answer. But the temperatures have dropped quite a bit during this last week, and the water temperatures have fallen too. I swam on Wednesday after a couple of days away from the pool, and it was a slight shock to my system, which has become accustomed to swimming in Jacuzzi-like water. But I adjusted, and it was lovely. It’s no warmer today, but it’s been sunny all day so maybe the water has warmed up a degree or two. At the least, maybe it hasn’t gotten any colder. I think I just made my decision. I think I talked myself into the pool. I’ll report back later.