Undefeated

It’s Thursday. Thursday is a no-cooking night, because Thursday is when I do my old lady’s grocery shopping. And it would be a no-cooking night anyway because it’s about 100 degrees outside. I’m going to do the shopping, and then I’m going to go swimming. 

Those are the things I’m going to do. What I’m not going to do (aside from cooking) is to watch Trump’s crazy 2020 election temper tantrum. He’s going to have to sundown on live TV without me. I’ll hear about it later, I’m sure. 

*****

Two things happened this week: A crybaby Supreme Court judge complained about having to explain bulletproof vests to her 12-year-old child and a military helicopter carried JD Vance’s son to his golf lesson and back again. 

First things first. Amy Coney Barrett is a silly, trifling little twit, and you can tell her I said so. You can also tell her to visit her local public school and cry her crocodile tears at the kindergartners while they’re in the middle of an active shooter drill. You know what I’d give Amy Coney Barrett? I’d give her the very same protection that she would afford to schoolchildren who aren’t related to her. She is clueless, heartless, and the very definition of entitled. Before her testimony on Tuesday, I didn’t think my opinion of her could sink any lower. As it turns out, I was wrong. That’s what happens when the bar is in Hell. 

And JD Vance? This guy continues to mystify me. Peter Thiel must have a lot of money because I can’t think of any other reason why anyone - even Trump - would pick him as Vice President, nor any reason why anyone would have voted for him to be their Senator. Aside from being absolutely without any morals or principles at all, he’s just so so ridiculous. Even Amy Coney Barrett isn’t clueless or entitled enough not to know that you shouldn’t be commandeering military helicopters to take a kid to his golf lesson. Even Mike Johnson isn't thinking inappropriate thoughts about the way Joe Biden eats ice cream (much less expressing those thoughts out loud in front of a microphone FFS). Not to mention that he is the single most unlikable person in all of American politics, and yet he is next in the line of succession. Literally no one would ever want to have a beer with JD Vance, but he could still end up as President. Mystifying. 

*****

It’s Friday night now and not only did I not watch the speech, I didn’t even look at any news coverage. And I’m better for it, I think. It was a hot day today, and I left work a little earlier than usual, and it would have been a perfect day for a swim, but the pool was closed thanks to hazardous air quality. And as much as I wanted to swim, I’m glad we closed the pool. My kids used to be lifeguards at that pool and I wouldn’t have wanted them outside all day on a day like today. The lifeguards now are 15 and 16 and 17 years old and they look like babies to me. Those babies do not need to be breathing wildfire smoke for six hours. 

*****

It’s Sunday now. The air was better yesterday, and after very heavy thunderstorms all afternoon on Saturday, it’s quite clear today. It looks like the wildfire smoke won’t get us - at least for now. We just have to avoid the contaminated lettuce. 

*****

So it was a ridiculous week capped off by the very good news of the arrest of Andrew Tate and his brother Tristan. Both of them are monsters who deserve to be in prison and would have been except for the intervention of the Trump White House, which never met a rich white sex offender that it didn’t like. Thank goodness our extradition treaties are still in place (for now). At least the UK knows that rapists should be in jail no matter how many social media followers they have.  

This arrest not only makes the streets of Florida a little safer, it also supplied social media users with some of the funniest jokes since last summer’s adulterous couple at a Coldplay concert debacle. I’m so glad that Andrew Tate was wearing his kicky little capris with his dressiest little jewel tone going-out blouse when he got arrested, because those photos will never stop being funny. The only thing funnier is the photos of themselves in similar out-in-the-clerb circa 2010 outfits that women are posting online. Between diarrhea salad and unbreathable air, we might be losing on every front, but the internet remains undefeated. 

A turtle's shell

Did I mention that I got a new car? It’s a used car, of course, but it’s new to me. My older son’s car was on its last legs and he was going to get a new car, and then my husband suggested that we give my old car to him and then trade in his car to get a new car for me. I didn’t think I wanted a new car until he mentioned the idea, and then I was all for it. 

The new car is a 2022 RAV4. My old car, which is now my son’s new car, is also a RAV4, which I bought when my younger son got his driver’s license. He needed a car to use and so we gave him my old Subaru Forester, which he was thrilled to have. His friends teased him about his suburban mom car but my son has his head on straight. He understands without anyone telling him that receiving a family car for free is a great advantage and privilege. He grew up riding in the back seat of that car, and was happy to keep it in the family. Four years later, he’s still driving that Subaru. 

I always thought that I’d just replace that car with another Subaru. Then I test-drove a RAV4 and it was perfect from the moment I got into the driver’s seat. I am now a RAV4 driver for life. I love them so much. 

I bought my RAV4s at CarMax. When you shop at CarMax, you don’t go in looking for a super-specific thing. You see what they have, and you buy the car that’s closest to your requirements. There’s only ever going to be one of any particular car so it’s best not to get hung up on minor details. That said, I knew that I wanted a RAV4, and that I wanted a black interior, and that I wanted automatic everything and lane assist and a back-up camera and satellite radio. Within those pretty reasonable parameters, CarMax had several options, and I chose the one that was closest to the mark. 

The lane assist and camera and satellite radio are pretty common now but they seemed like the height of luxury to me after years of driving a solid but basic Subaru. I became accustomed to these luxuries very quickly, and now I never want to be without them again. The new car is also a hybrid. I give you my word that I drove that car all over the place for a week before the needle on the gas gauge dropped even a little bit below F. I’m getting mad gas mileage, yo. It’s amazing. 

*****

You never know how much you love your car until you’re forced to drive a subpar loaner, I tell you what. The new RAV4, as great as it is, has a slightly misaligned hood. This is apparently a known issue with late-model RAV4s. I didn’t notice it when I bought the car, but when my husband pointed it out, I couldn’t not see it. As it turns out, he noticed it when we were buying the car and I really can’t say why he didn’t speak up at the time but that is water under the proverbial bridge. 

Luckily, CarMax will fix anything that’s wrong with your new car for the first 30 days, free of charge. When they couldn’t adjust the hood perfectly, they sent it to a body shop. 

Also luckily, the loaner car is free, because the car has now been in the stupid body shop for at least a week. My husband tried to convince me not to bother with the loaner car. “They’ll be done with it in a day, and I can take you anywhere you want to go.” First of all, that man is never home so how is he going to take me anywhere and secondly, I have never put a car into a body shop and gotten it back in less than two weeks’ time. A body shop is a veritable black hole. It’s the Roach Motel. Cars check in but they don’t check out. So even though this car is subpar (but perfectly serviceable), at least it’s a car. At least I can still come and go as I please. 

*****

From the outside, these two cars are not very different - they’re both very basic, practical compact SUVs, like you see a million of every day. But the RAV4 is orders of magnitude better. It feels safer and it’s more fun to drive. And it has a certain indefinable turtle shell quality that makes me feel completely at home the minute I get behind the wheel and close the door. I know that there are fancier and nicer cars out there, but there’s nothing like a turtle shell on wheels. 

*****

I wrote all of that about a week ago. I picked up my RAV4 yesterday and God willing, I won’t have to be without it again for a long time. It’s so nice to be behind that wheel again. A turtle hates to be without her shell. 

Rules of Order

I have been the Secretary of the Board of our neighborhood association for three years now. I’ve been a Board member for six. Board members serve three-year terms, and I’m almost finished my second term, and I don’t have to run again (and I definitely don’t want to but that’s a long story that you don’t want to read right now). The problem is that people who are willing to run for the Board are few and far between and I feel that it’s my responsibility to remain on the Board until the rest of the group are more experienced (we have three members who are brand-new). I haven’t really decided what to do yet. If someone else wants to run for my seat, I’ll happily step aside. If not then I will run again but it will be my last time. 

But last night tested my willingness to even serve out my current term let alone run for a third. The man whom I wrote about here attended our monthly meeting, as he always does. His wife, who is the immediate past Secretary, also attended, as she always does. The two of them, who have lived in our neighborhood for many years and who know the association rules really well (because they wrote most of them) labor under a persistent delusion that the rest of us are idiots and that we need close supervision. They also believe that they are communicating their doubts about our competence in a subtle and discreet manner. They are wrong. 

*****

Long story short, before it’s too late - we are going to have to begin enforcing the rules of order. Our rules provide community members who are not on the Board with an open forum at the beginning of the meeting. During this time, anyone who wants to speak gets five minutes to say whatever they want. Members can also request a dedicated spot on the agenda. And then if they want to speak during the rest of the meeting, they have to be recognized by the Chair. And if we have only 15 minutes remaining in the meeting, the Chair might not recognize anyone who isn’t on the Board, especially anyone who is very very likely to speak for 14 of the remaining 15 minutes. We can’t allow people to turn every meeting into a free-for-all, for two very important reasons: I have to take notes during these stupid meetings, and keeping up with the legitimate business of the Board is enough. And I don’t want any meeting to run for even one minute past its appointed time.

*****

The President (of the Association, that is) is going to announce the new world order at the next meeting. We’ll see how it goes. In a little more than three years, it’ll be someone else’s problem, I guess. 

Land of the Free

It’s too hot right now, and that is saying something, coming from me. I actually really like hot weather, but today is too hot. I worked at home, which I would have done anyway but the base issued a maximum telework order so even if I’d not planned to WFH, I’d have ended up doing it regardless. 

The heat is hard to describe. Oppressive, suffocating, sweltering - all overused words, and all kind of inadequate. It’s sunny and clear, though quite humid; and very very still. Broiling might be a good word for the heat but it doesn’t adequately describe the humidity. And broiling is not a word that I would associate with the lethargy that comes over me every time I think about doing anything - anything at all. 

Today is July 2, and the high temperatures will hit at least 100 for the next few days. Donald Trump is threatening to give the longest-ever outdoor speech. If he does, then I hope he forces all of his evil henchmen to put on their little suits and to sit in folding chairs behind him. That’s the 4th of July those MFers deserve. 

*****

It’s Friday July 3 now, day 3 of the heat dome weather event. It’s 90 degrees outside right now, which isn’t all that hot for July, except that it’s 10 in the morning. 

Today is a holiday for me, and I’m going to do some things, but not many things. I’m going to make a nice big salad with some chicken breast and mixed vegetables. I’m going to shop for groceries. I’m going to finish reading one book and start on another. I’m going to swim. I’m going to do very little else if I can help it. 

*****

Well, America’s 250th birthday came and went. It was a rather low-key holiday. I helped with the neighborhood parade, and then I spent the afternoon at the pool, with my sons and their friends, which was lovely. Generally, I don’t ever just sit still in a pool because even on a hot day, I get very cold in the water unless I’m moving. But with air temperatures in the low 100s and water temperatures in the high 80s, hypothermia was not a concern. I swam for a while, and then I just remained still in the water. I even read, with the Kindle propped on the deck. When I finally got out of that pool, my whole body was pruny. 

My husband had to work all evening, and my kids had plans with their friends, so I stayed in. I ate salad and ice cream, which is really a perfect diet during extreme heat events. I read my book and watched a few episodes of “The West Wing.” My husband came home at 11 and for some unfathomable reason, he wanted to watch Trump’s speech. I sat through the first few minutes but went to bed before he was finished speaking and found out this morning that he didn’t manage to get the fireworks started until after midnight. Sad! Happy 5th of July. 

*****

Last week’s social media discourse among people my age was the contrast between 1976 and 2026. I grew up in Philadelphia, and the Bicentennial was like having the Olympics, the World Cup, the major party conventions and maybe a Papal visit all in one year. It was a big deal, with massive parades and tall ship flotillas and concerts and block parties and celebrations, official and unofficial. Every house was festooned with flags and draped in bunting. People painted red, white, and blue star/stripe designs on telephone poles and fire hydrants and anything else that paint would stick to. The Bicentennial Wagon Train passed through my neighborhood on July 2, and we stood three or four deep on the sidewalks, waving to the passing wagons, with water ice and pretzel vendors pushing their carts through the crowds. It was a fun time to be a child. 

This year's children got a sad little broken-down "State Fair," an algae-ridden Reflecting Pool, a Trump speech, and day-late fireworks. They deserved better. But this is the generation that will be running the country in 2076, and I have faith that they will do better. I won't be alive in 50 years, but God willing the US will see a Tricentennial with leaders worthy of what this country was meant to be but has never quite been. For now, it's back to work as we begin year 251. 

Procedure

I had my second colonoscopy last week. It was terrible. 

Well, actually, it was great because it’s really nice to know that I don’t have colon cancer. So I shouldn’t complain, but I will because ClenPiq? What the FUCK? 

If you have never had a colonoscopy, you might not know that the procedure itself is a breeze. It’s the prep that is terrible. The prep involves cleaning out your colon with some kind of strong laxative - usually a prescription medication. You do this the day before the procedure, along with consuming nothing but clear liquids. It’s just as disgusting as it sounds. 

Since this wasn’t my first time, I thought I knew what to expect. But as it turns out, different prep solutions have different effects on people and the one that was prescribed for me this time made me sicker than I have ever been in my life. I didn’t think it was possible to throw up that much. And how do I put this? Let’s just say that the stuff did what it was supposed to do. My body was completely drained. 

When I had little kids, a thing that always amazed me was how they could suddenly and violently bring up everything in their little stomachs and more, and then bounce up hale and hearty and ready to play. Vomiting is traumatic for me. If I’m sick one time, I’m down and out for at least several hours. If I’m sick, oh let’s say 10 times in a row, then I want to find a hole and crawl into it and cease living. That’s what happened to me on Wednesday night into Thursday morning. I had to be at the surgery center at 1 for a 3 PM procedure appointment. I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink, and that wasn’t a problem because I couldn’t even drink water at that point for fear of vomiting again, which I was determined not to do. After a shower, I just sat in bed wrapped in a blanket, letting my hair dry, and waiting until it was time to leave the house. 

*****

You know those little stretchy soft terrycloth hospital socks with the grippy soles that come in pastel colors and are packaged by the pair in little plastic bags? I love those socks, and now I have a new pair. Don’t tell me that there’s no upside to a colonoscopy, because those socks made last week’s ordeal almost worth it. 

*****

Montgomery General Hospital has some pretty robust patient security protocols. I arrived at the surgery center early, and they put a wristband on me pretty much as soon as I checked in. Every single person I spoke to asked me for my name and DOB and my doctor’s name and the procedure I was scheduled for, and every person checked the bracelet to make sure I was telling the truth. 

They were also really nice to me. I like to think that I’m a person who prefers not to be fussed over, and this is generally true, but in my weakened state, I didn’t mind a little bit of fussing. They gave me a hospital gown and the aforementioned socks and when I had changed, they placed me on a gurney with a pillow and a warm blanket, where I waited for a bit until it was time for them to roll me into the surgery suite. Then they gave me another warm blanket. At this point, I was very tired and very comfortable and I was hoping that there would be a bit of a wait so that I could just take a nap. But just as I was about to sleep, the nurse-anesthetist came to administer the propofol, which gave entirely new meaning to the word “nap.” I remember taking one breath and thinking that I felt a little out of it, and then I remembered nothing until I was awake again and sitting up. I was offered apple juice or ginger ale and crackers, but I only wanted water. I didn’t remember anything about the procedure but I vividly remembered the vomiting that preceded it and I desperately did not want to bring on a recurrence. 

Thankfully, I was fine - both from a “keeping the remaining contents of my stomach in place” standpoint and from a general health standpoint. They left me to rest for a bit, and then it was time to get dressed and go home. They put me in a wheelchair (another hospital protocol), rolled me out to the sidewalk, and I got into my husband’s waiting car and went home, where my fuzzy socks and I did absolutely nothing for the rest of the day. 

*****

That was all, I’m sure, far more than you ever wanted to know, but if you read my last post, then you will be bound to admit that I did threaten to write about my colonoscopy. I keep it real around here, but I also give fair warning when necessary. And after that, caveat emptor. 

It’s a week later now, and I’m back to normal. Even better than normal, really, because I feel pretty upbeat and positive - not just because of the not having cancer thing, which is great; but because I have been putting this thing off for months and months and it’s so great to have it over with. Euphoric is not too strong a word to describe my post-colonoscopy mood. If I start to feel down again, I’ll put on my fuzzy hospital socks and remember how lucky I am to have a clean bill of health. 

Metrics

After 12 years of dedicated Fitbit use, I finally gave up my Fitbit, and I don’t miss it. I don’t like the Fitbit integration with the Google industrial complex, and I wanted to return to an analog watch, like the Timex Snoopy watch that my husband bought for me a few weeks ago, just because. As I’ve mentioned before, I love Timex watches, and this one is a return to my Timex roots. Is it silly for a 60-year-old lady to be wearing Snoopy on her wrist? Possibly. Do I care? Absolutely not. 

*****

Even though I don’t track my step count anymore, I’m pretty sure that I’m maintaining the same daily mileage. After 12 years, I am very familiar with the amount of walking it takes to reach the daily 10,000-step goal, and I continue to walk that much every day, more or less. 

And I’m tracking several other streaks, too. Streaks are rather important to me. I swam for seven straight days, a very short streak ended by a thunderstorm. That’s the thing about a summer swimming streak - even with the best intentions, you’ll lose your streak as soon as it thunders. That’s the rule. 

My maximum Wordle streak was 177, a figure that I’m trying to match and then surpass. I’m at 34 now, so it’s going to be a while. My Connections streak is at 20, but my maximum with that game is only 42, so I could surpass that in a few weeks. Connections is a harder game, though. Winning 43 straight will not be easy. 

Then there’s writing. I write every day, and I mean every day, except when I don’t, because I forgot yesterday. I just completely forgot. I hadn’t kept a day by day count but I had written every day for months. So now I start over. Every new streak begins with the first day, which is today. 

*****

And that lasted one day. I skipped writing yesterday, quite deliberately, because I had a colonoscopy and didn’t feel up to anything afterward. Thankfully, my results were good; and thankfully, it’s over because holy cow, it was awful - not the procedure itself, which was fine, but the prep, which made me so sick that I still don’t feel like eating, even though today is Friday and my last solid food was on Tuesday. I’ll write all about it later. Fair warning - it’s disgusting and I won’t spare the details. 

I’ll get to that tomorrow. Today begins the new writing streak - yes, me threatening to gross you out with a 0/5 review of ClenPiq as a colonoscopy prep method does so count as writing. I’ll start a new swimming streak this weekend, too, but the weather forecast is not promising, and I’ll be lucky to get three straight days. But my Wordle streak is up to 36 now, and my Connections streak is at 22. I’m unstoppable. 

Volunteer

I had a very odd conversation on Monday. I’m the Secretary of our neighborhood association’s board of trustees, and people occasionally call me to ask a question or make a suggestion or complain about something. Of the complaints, about 40 percent are reasonable and/or actionable, and about 60 percent are not. 

This last call falls into neither category. A woman called me at 3:30 PM, and I asked if I could call her back. She said that she would not and could not possibly provide a name or number and that email was also completely out of the question. “Well, I’m still at work and I can’t talk right now. So I’ll need at least a number to call you back,” I said. The woman said that she was disabled and needed an answer to a few questions, and I told her that I would be happy to help but that I can’t do association work when I’m at my job and that absent a phone number, I’d have no way to reach her. She sighed and asked me when I might be available to talk. I told her any time after 5:30, and I braced myself for that phone to ring at 5:31. 

That phone rang at 5:31. She summed up our earlier brief conversation, and said that she was blind but that her “assistant” (in scare quotes for a reason) had noticed that her neighbor had a very tall, very oddly constructed fence. She wanted information about the neighborhood covenants to see if the fence was too high. 

Neighborhood covenants are a sticky little wicket, given that some of the early HOA covenants from the 1940s and beyond restricted communities by race. Our covenants, however, are the more garden-variety type that govern things like accessory dwellings and sheds and driveways and of course, fence height. Those covenants exist but we do not enforce them. Our Board is all-volunteer, and it exists primarily to maintain our shared property - the pool and parking lot and tennis courts and basketball court. 

We went back and forth on this point. She felt very strongly that we should take a very active role in enforcing aesthetic standards, and I told her that as volunteers we had neither the time nor the inclination to police our neighbors’ properties, and that our county has enforcement mechanisms that she can make use of. As per our name, I pointed out, we are a recreational association, not a homeowners’ association. 

She was not nice, and I got less and less nice as this very unpleasant conversation dragged on. I finally told her that I’d said all I could say and that I was going to end the call, and that if she wanted another Board member to call her, I’d make sure that happened but that she’d have to give me a name and number. 

That’s when she saw fit to tell me that she was actually the interpreter for the actual homeowner she’d been pretending to be. I should probably have picked this up on my own because at one point in the conversation, she said “I’m reading the newsletter right now and it clearly states that you are the homeowner’s association for the neighborhood.” As a blind person, she would not have been able to read from our little community newsletter, which is not offered in Braille. 

She claimed that not only did she not have to disclose her status as an OPI (on the phone interpreter, which I learned is the term) but that she was obliged not to do so. This isn’t true. I looked it up. Not only is an OPI obliged to disclose her status to her interlocutor, she is also obliged to say exactly and only what the person she is interpreting for says. Not only was she not interpreting verbatim (because a blind person is not reading aloud from any newsletter), I suspected that she wasn’t even in the same room with the blind woman. I think this woman might very well be an assistant or interpreter or whatever for a neighborhood resident, but I also think that this call was nothing more than an opportunity for a person who wanted to pick a fight about fences and other nonsense. 

******

Did you think this was all there is to this story? Oh no, I’m just getting started. Part 2 begins with the retired head of the association who is also a retired Congressional Budget Office lawyer. He likes to remain very very involved, and we are generally all very deferential to him because he’s done a great deal for the community. He also has a huge ego and a rather thin skin. 

Just to be respectful, I emailed him to ask if my interpretation of the law regarding OPIs was correct. Bear in mind that this email was clear and detailed, outlining the entire situation. This man, who for years has labored under the impression that I’m one of the dimmest bulbs in our community chandelier, responded that I should just ask the woman to email him and that he’d help her with her questions. 

I know that this man thinks I’m an idiot, and I’ve never cared enough about his opinion to disabuse him of this notion. But he didn’t even bother to read my email, because if he had he’d have known that A. the woman refuses to communicate via email and that B. she also refused to provide a name or any contact information of any sort, making it quite impossible for me to follow up with her and ask her to email our elder statesman. 

Do you think that this man was chastened in any way by my pointing out his obvious failure to read my email? Well let’s see. Here is his second response, verbatim: 

It is best that she emails me. We are away, will be back before July 4th.  I also can chat with her at that time. Can you get her name, address and phone number, email?  Tell her that she needs to communicate with me?  That you have said all you can?

This is a man who has consistently over a period of 15 years or so let me know in ways that I’m sure he believes are subtle but which absolutely are not subtle, that he thinks that I’m not very bright, and that I should just let the grownups handle things. And I have never pretended to be a mastermind, not for a moment - however, I do possess basic reading comprehension skills, and the most basic of reading comprehension skills would be all that’s necessary to understand why both of his responses to me, but especially that second response, are the work of an idiot. 

Smug in the knowledge that one of us is indeed an idiot, and that the one is not me, I responded as follows: 

I did tell her that I've said all that I can. And as I mentioned, she absolutely refuses to provide a name or contact information. We went back and forth on this point. She called from a private number so I don't even have the number saved in my phone. And as I also mentioned, she will not communicate via email. If she calls me again, I can give her your phone number with your permission. I'll see if someone else can answer my question about rules for interpreters because I'm still curious. 

His response was curt: 

Yes, she can call me. Here’s my number. 

And that’s how I knew that I’d finally gotten through, because whatever else this man is, he’s never rude; in fact, he disguises his contempt for morons like me with exaggerated and verbose courtesy. This man loves to use his words, spoken or written. The very brevity of this response proves that I have done what literally no one else in this community has ever done in the last 40 years: I left him speechless, so to speak. I’d just as soon not have wasted my time on any of this, but I’ll be riding the high of shutting this person up for the next few days. Pro tip, genius: Read the email before you respond. 

Here she comes back

It’s the middle of June now and it’s finally hot, and I mean hot. High temperatures for the last few days have been in the mid 90s with the kind of densely humid air that you don’t so much breathe as absorb. Throw in some ice cream, a graduation party or two, and a pool that’s finally warm enough to swim in, and you have what could actually pass for summer. 

Current events are much as they have been throughout this year. The terrible news is constant, but there are bright spots. The Iran war keeps running hot and cold, and the Epstein conspiracy appears to be even worse than we thought (and it was already really bad), and Elon Musk is now a trillionaire, which is a thing that should not exist. On the other hand, it’s been really fun watching New York celebrate their beloved Knicks. And Trump’s name is coming off the Kennedy Center today! And far be it from me to ever wish for bad weather, but maybe it’ll rain on his MMA birthday party on Sunday. 

*****

This year is the first year since 2007 - since Bush 43! - that we haven’t had any connection to our neighborhood swim team. My older son started swimming in 2007 and my youngest aged out of summer swimming in 2023, but then he came back as a coach for the 2024 and 2025 seasons, which meant that he lived at home and went to daily practices and Wednesday night B meets and Friday night pasta parties and Saturday morning A meets, and so our household routine felt very much the same as it had every summer for 19 straight summers. 

Now he’s living in Virginia - not far from home, which is nice - and coaching a big-deal summer team in Division 1 of the Northern Virginia Swim League. It’s a big promotion for him and he’s making a lot more money and he’s excited about doing something new, so I’m happy for him. But a hot Saturday morning in June with no one in the house running out the door to a swim meet? I’m not used to this. 

*****

And I’m a little sad about it, and about many other things. My mental health has not been so good lately, for a lot of reasons with which I will not bore you. Except that I will still rail about evil billionaires and even more evil would-be dictators - they are not the only reason why I’m depressed but they’re not helping matters, either. But swimming outdoors on a sunny day fixes a lot of things, and I felt much better yesterday after a swim. I don’t really swim in the winter anymore, so I’m working my way back on speed (from slow to less slow) and form and endurance. Yesterday, I did about ⅔ of my usual lap swim and I’m a little sore around the shoulders. But I’ll get back up to speed, so to speak. 

*****

It’s Sunday morning now, and I didn’t go to Mass. Maybe next week. I’m very happy for New York and the Knicks, even though Philadelphia and Washington are my cities, and I don’t pay much attention to basketball. Let’s call it East Coast Urban Solidarity - Boston and Philadelphia and Washington reserve the right to hate New York’s guts but the rest of the country better show some respect. Our New York family has been through a lot, and they deserve this win.They have the best mayor in the United States, and now they have a sports championship. Good for them. 

Later today, we’ll go to a graduation party for one of my younger son’s best friends and his older sister (who also graduated with her Master’s degree). His parents are our very dear friends too. This is one of the very few parties that I would not miss right now. And I’m hoping that the threatened thunderstorms don’t materialize because even though I’d love to see Trump’s birthday party ruined, I don’t want it to rain on my friends’ party. Maybe there will be a little microclimate event with derecho storms right over the White House. That would be nice, and fitting. 

*****

The weather held, for both the graduation party and for the $60 million taxpayer-funded birthday party for the worst octogenarian in the world. A MAGA MMA fighter insulted the former First Lady because nothing else he has to say would get any attention whatsoever, and I’m sure that everyone laughed when literally no one in that audience is worthy to be in the same room with Michelle Obama. The good thing is that last night it was too hot outside even for me, and I’m sure that it was miserable for everyone sitting in the seats surrounding that stupid octagon. I hope so, anyway, because I’m just that petty. Mrs. Obama once famously said “When they go low, we go high.” And I respect her for that, but from now on when they go low, I go subterranean. 

*****

It was nice while it lasted, that little summer blast. I shouldn’t complain because most people really prefer the weather we’re having now - sunny and very dry and breezy and not at all humid and rather cool. But it’s summer, and I love hot hazy summer days. I went swimming last night and the water was still warm, but the air was September cool. Getting in the water was fine. Getting out was not. And that’s a metaphor for a lot of things, isn’t it? 

Revolution on paper

I have this little book journal that I received as a free Barnes and Noble member gift. It has a cute little book patterned jacket, a section for a list of books, and then individual pages for each book, with spaces for the book’s title, author, publisher, publication date, and genre and then the rest of the page for the reader to write her notes or reflections on the book. Earlier this year, I thought that it would be fun to actually use the book journal but predictably, it became another anxiety-fueled compulsion; just another item to add to my to-do list. But then I did something very much unlike me - I just stopped. I put the book journal back on the bookshelf, and I went on my way rejoicing. 

*****

Last night, I attended the monthly meeting of our neighborhood association’s board of trustees, of which I am a member. We usually meet on Godforsaken Zoom but now that the pool is open, we met in person at the pool pavilion. Maybe it will be warm enough to swim someday, but that’s a conversation for another day.

It was nice to see everyone in person. I took notes by hand rather than on my Chromebook, which made it easier to participate in the discussion, but when it’s time for me to type up those notes, I might be questioning my life choices. My handwriting is not so good. 

When I wasn’t taking notes, I was looking at our treasurer’s notebook. If I could have taken pictures of that notebook, I would have, but that would have been weird. Still, though, that notebook was photogenic. It was a hardcover journal, possibly a Moleskine, with a ribbon bookmark and an elastic band to secure the cover. When the notebook was closed you could see the very clear demarcation between the crisp and undisturbed virgin pages and the pages that were already filled, slightly crinkled and puffy. When the notebook was open, I saw pages completely covered with tiny delicate script, from end to end and top to bottom. As the pages turned, I saw neatly aligned bulleted lists of things to do, with the completed things carefully crossed out. It was really quite beautiful. I wanted a closer look. I wanted to see if this notebook was mainly for work or if it contained her entire life. 

It was the latter. Oddly enough, someone else was as interested in that notebook as I was, and that person asked about the notebook, which meant that I got to hear all the notebook lore without having to be the weirdo who asked about it. 

The notebook owner seemed pleased by the question. “It’s a bullet journal,” she said. Of course! That’s where I recognized those hyper-organized pages with their bullets and check marks and other tiny symbols. “I need to write everything down,” she said, “and it’s much better if I keep everything - work, personal, kid stuff, volunteer stuff - in the same notebook.” 

Having tried the bullet journal method a few years ago, I know that it doesn’t work for me. Or rather, it does, but it becomes a compulsion-driven job in itself, just like the abandoned Barnes and Noble book journal turned out to be. It’s tempting, though. That notebook made me want to go home that minute, start with a fresh new notebook (I have several in reserve at all times) and to turn that new notebook into a gosh-darn work of art. 

*****

Thanks to social media, I know that I am definitely not the only person preoccupied with notebooks. Even in that quite small meeting on Tuesday, at least one other person was interested enough in someone else’s notebook to actually ask a question about it. Thank goodness I’m not also obsessed with pens because that could run into money. My favorite pens are the classic 4-color Bic pens that I have loved since I was 8 years old, and they’re pretty inexpensive. 

The thing is that those 4-color pens are perfect for bullet journaling because you can color code without switching pens all the time. They’re also great for making decorative little scrolls and doodles. And if I start keeping an organized bullet journal-style notebook, I’ll definitely improve my terrible handwriting because I won’t want to mess up my nice notebook. 

*****

I don’t carry a notebook everywhere I go. I always have a pen (usually several) and I can always find a scrap of paper if I need to write something down. If I need to really write something when I’m away from my laptop, I just use my phone. But I’m tired of my phone. I’m tired of phones in general. Everyone is. Maybe I’ll go out there and throw my phone into the nearest fountain like Andy Sachs at the end of The Devil Wears Prada.  Maybe other people will throw their phones into their neighborhood fountains. Maybe that’s what will start the revolution. 

Untimely reviews

Chris Rea’s “Fool (If You Think it’s Over)” is one of those songs that I can’t skip through. If it starts playing on the radio just as I’m parking, then I’m going to sit in the car until it’s over. 

This song was popular in 1978. I was 12, and I remember hearing it all the time and not particularly liking it. I liked up-tempo pop and disco at the time. “Fool” is not quite a ballad but it’s not really a pop song either. And something about it felt off. At 12, I was quite aware of creepy men, and I thought that the song’s voice was that of a creepy older man chasing after a young girl. But I was wrong. The lyrics that I thought were creepy turned out to be actually really sweet when you know the backstory. And thanks to the internet, I know the backstory. 

I hadn’t heard “Fool (If You Think it’s Over”) in literally decades, but it played on the radio one day, and I listened to it all the way through for the sake of nostalgia. And then something about the song grabbed me, so I listened to it again, and then again. Then I looked up Chris Rea, who was a pretty successful singer and musician in his native England. When he wrote “Fool (If You Think it’s Over),” he hoped to convince Al Green to record it, but the record company liked his demo recording and insisted that he record the song himself. It ended up being his only hit in the US.    

The real story, though, is the song’s inspiration. Chris Rea wrote “Fool” about his younger sister, Paula, who was heartbroken after her breakup with her first boyfriend. “The pains of 17/unreal they’re only dreams” is just the sort of infuriating thing a know-it-all big brother would say to a younger sister. But it’s clear somehow that he doesn’t mean “unreal” in the sense of imaginary or unimportant. The singer knows that the girl’s pain is real in the moment, but he also knows that it won’t last and that it won’t have any real impact on her life.  He wants her to know that she’ll move on and that things will get better. 

Context changes everything. “I’ll buy your first good wine..ooh we’ll have a real good time” was the line that made me think that the song was about a predator trying to groom a young girl. Instead, it’s a brother promising his younger sister that there’s so much more ahead of her - both good times and bad - than a teenage romance. And now, every time I hear that song, I imagine a brother consoling his younger sister over a bottle of wine. And I imagine the young girl cheering up and realizing that her brother is right and that the boy wasn’t worthy of her in the first place. And I imagine that the brother and sister actually do have a real good time. I hope that Chris and Paula Rea had a real good time. 

*****

During the early pandemic months in 2020, I started to watch “The Americans,” and I didn’t make it past episode 1. After a brutal rape 20 minutes in, I turned it off, absolutely furious. I’m tired of sexual violence as a plot point. Oddly enough, those of us who have actually endured it (and trust me that there are more of us than you think) don’t find brutal rape scenes very entertaining. 

Anyway, I started watching the show again recently. I skipped that scene, knowing that it was coming, but of course there was other sexual violence to come. And the almost lost me again, and not only for that reason. I just had a hard time believing in some of the period details and in the premise itself. But it started to grow on me. A few episodes in, I began to see how well it captures the period; not so much in visual details (but many of the visuals, especially the fashion, are spot-on)  but in the settled comfortable certainty of the upper middle class characters and their unshakeable belief in the mid-century idea of America. Then I watched three consecutive episodes when I was sick (again!) and the constant sex and violence and family drama felt repetitive. 

But the acting is absolutely brilliant. Keri Russell and Matthew Rhys and Noah Emmerich and the brilliant Alison Wright and Annet Mahendru. And while I still think that the sexual content is largely gratuitous and exploitative, the story and the pacing and the world that it creates are absorbing and compelling. Bottom line: This is a show best consumed a little at a time, with long breaks in between. 

Side note about Matthew Rhys - I’d heard somewhere that he was Welsh, but I’d never seen him play anything but Americans - mostly cold-blooded killers or dour misanthropes (I loved his performance as Lloyd in A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood). I guessed that maybe he was born in Wales but raised in the US. Then I saw an interview with him, and that man is as Welsh as Dylan Thomas and also an absolute delight. I imagine a director saying something like “I need an actor to play a remorseless, pitiless murderer and/or an absolute miserable son of a bitch” and the casting director responding “I know! Let’s get that charming Welsh chap who sounds like he spends his days singing with his friends in a cozy seaside pub!” Uncanny. Matthew Rhys is really good at his job. 

*****

Our neighborhood civic association sponsors a summer movie series. “Song Sung Blue,” a movie that I assiduously avoided when it was first released, was the summer’s first selection, and I went for two reasons: My friends asked me to go, and no one else was home so what else did I have to do? 

Why did I try to avoid this movie, you might ask? Because I grew up hearing Neil Diamond all day every day and even though I still like him (how can you not), I didn’t need to see a movie about crazy Neil Diamond fans. I lived with one. That was my whole childhood. At one point in the movie, the Neil Diamond tribute singer portrayed by Hugh Jackman argues with his manager, trying to make a case for “Soolaimon” as the band’s opening number. “Nobody knows Soolaimon!” the man yells. “I fucking know ‘Soolaimon,’” I thought to myself.  I haven’t heard “Soolaimon” in decades but I bet I remember every note. 

The movie is based on a true story, and was different and much better than I expected. Kate Hudson deserved that Oscar nomination. I might even listen to some Neil Diamond today. 

*****

I just finished reading Leaving Aberdeen, a memoir by Estell Sims Halliburton. Mrs. Halliburton is a Black woman who was born on a sharecropping plantation in Mississippi in the 1940s. Her memoir tells the story of her early childhood picking cotton and living in a plantation shack through her family’s first real home in the town of Aberdeen to her first year in college at Tuskegee to her first summer in New York City as a 19-year-old on her own for the first time. That summer then turned into years, as the young Estell takes a break from school, works as a model and bookkeeper and store clerk, and marries a young soldier who ships out to Vietnam shortly after their wedding day. 

Halliburton’s writing style is uneven, but in a good way. She veers back and forth between formal and colloquial language, and the tone is inconsistent. Sometimes, she just recounts events as she recalls them. Sometimes, she places those events in the context of the Civil Rights Movement and other major historical events of the mid-20th century. The emotional tone varies, too - from her righteous anger as a Black woman who came of age in the Jim Crow South and learned that often, the North wasn’t any less racist; to love for her husband, children, parents, siblings, and friends. The book reads as if it was written in spurts, a few pages here and there as time permitted. The resulting variations in tone and voice make it very readable and human and moving. 

The young Halliburton family seemed to have had a rich and interesting life as working people and parents in 1970s New York, and I was surprised by their decision to return to the South. Mrs. Halliburton wrote a second memoir about the family’s life in Atlanta after the move, so I’ll read it and find out if it was the right decision. I do hope so. I’m invested now. 

*****

I started this as just a little journal of short reviews - a song, a movie, a TV show, a book - and then I realized that it reads like I spend all my time reminiscing about the 20th century. And I do. 

No, I really don’t. I don’t miss most things about the 20th century. But I do miss believing that I lived in the greatest and most benevolent country in the world. I miss the world in which everyone knew more Neil Diamond songs than “Sweet Caroline.” I miss pop music on AM radio. 

This happened on Wednesday

Weather forecasts are just guesses now, aren’t they? Last week, forecasts called for partial sun on Monday and then sun on Tuesday and Wednesday and beyond. Then the target just kept moving. It rained all day on Monday and Tuesday, and today (Wednesday) also started with rain that was supposed to turn to thunderstorms, which were supposed to end around 4 PM. It’s lunchtime now, and it’s neither raining nor sunny. It’s trying to decide. I’m hoping it will decide in favor of sun or at least clear skies, because we’re going to see Mr. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band for one of the last shows of the Land of Hope and Dreams tour. I’m very excited, and we’re going, rain or shine. The show is at Nats Park and our seats in Section 109 Row GG are under an overhang, so we should be fine unless it rains horizontally. And I’m not saying it won’t rain horizontally. It’s 2026. Anything could happen. In this brave new world, the weather forecast is “go outside and see what’s happening - that’s your forecast.” 

*****

As it turned out, our seats were in 129, not 109; and Row GG is NOT under an overhang in Section 129. It was clear and sunny when we arrived at 6:45. The lights went down at about 8:03 and Bruce appeared on the stage, opening the show with Edwin Starr’s “War,” with the whole stadium singing along. The rain started during “Born in the USA,” the second song; and it continued on and off throughout the evening. And it didn’t matter. The rain was heaviest during “Streets of Minneapolis,” but it didn’t stop 41,000 people from screaming “ICE OUT NOW.” 

This tour was very different from his last tour less than two years ago (we saw him in September of 2024). The setlist was a mix of protest songs and love letters to 20th century America. Bruce delivers a mid-show monologue decrying the Administration’s many crimes and misdemeanors, each sentence ending with “and this is happening now.” This was the first time I have ever seen him sit down during a show. 

*****

It’s Friday evening now, and today was the first completely sunny and dry day in over a week. It was bright and clear all day, with a nice breeze and temperatures in the low 70s. A perfect day, really. It might have been nice to have today’s weather on Wednesday, but in retrospect, I’m glad we had rain. There was something special about being out in the rain. I didn’t see one single person abandoning their seat to find cover and I didn’t see one single person leaving the stadium early. We all know that something extraordinary was happening, and we were all in it together. For three hours, we were all citizens of the United Free Republic of E Street Nation.

***** 

Of course, I’m sick once again for the third time in a month, and I have to think that maybe three hours outside in the rain dancing and singing and yelling at the top of my voice might not have been the wisest course of action for me and my broken-down Temu immune system, but I’ll get over whatever this is. And it was worth it. 

Updates

Do you know how many times my doctor’s office has texted me in the last few months? No, neither do I. I have lost count. 

I actually really like my actual doctor. She’s great. And her office is good too. It’s cheerful and pleasant, very conveniently located, with nice people at the front desk. But the nice people are not the ones who are texting me all the time. MedStar has a very eager team of AI-powered little bots who send me incessant reminders to complete their surveys (absolutely not), pick up my prescriptions (the pharmacy also texts me), get my blood work done, and schedule follow-up appointments. It’s a lot. 

After putting it off repeatedly, I finally scheduled my colonoscopy, which is happening at the end of June, about six weeks from now. Do I need the pre-operative and pre-anesthesia instructions now? Do they really need my consent forms submitted electronically six weeks ahead of the procedure, especially since they’ll probably make me do them again in pen and ink? And do I need reminders about this very important paperwork every single day? Well, to be fair, the answer to that last question is probably yes because I’ll avoid medical paperwork until someone forces me to do it or until the end of time, whichever comes first. But the constant reminders are exacerbating my already entrenched resistance to completing paperwork and complying with medical instructions. 

*****

“Entrenched resistance” is actually a good way to describe my attitude toward pretty much anything right now. I complain about every single task - silently, of course, because no one wants to listen to that. But I have to hand it to myself because other than cooking every day (again - absolutely not), I’m still doing almost everything else I need to do, and I’m doing it well and on time. I’m maintaining a good front. I’ll even deal with the pre-anesthesia forms. Just not today. 

*****

The pool opens on Saturday, marking the official start of summer, normally my favorite season. But I’m not looking forward to it as much as I normally would. My son won’t be home for most of the summer. It’s not the same. Everything seems off. But at least we get a three-day weekend. 

*****

The day after I wrote this was the day that a short but very intense heat wave rolled into the DMV. I went to work on Monday and when I went outside at lunchtime, the glass door of my building sighed and hissed a little as I opened it to step out onto the track for a short walk in the 95-degree heat. The air was dense, almost saturated with humidity. Even the military people were walking - not running, not doing calisthenics, not flipping giant tires across the soccer field - just walking. That is how hot it was. It was amazing. Even when everything feels all wrong, summer is still summer. 

But it’s 2026, so even summer is going to mess with me a little. It’s Tuesday now, and about 92 degrees at 6 PM. Forecast for Wednesday? 93 and sunny. Forecast for MDW Saturday? 58 and raining. It’s also going to rain on Sunday, with temperatures in the low 60s. On Memorial Day itself, it might climb all the way to 70. 

Maybe it won’t rain. The pool has been filled for several weeks now, so the water will have warmed up quite a bit. If the overnight temperatures don’t drop below the mid-50s on Thursday and Friday night, it might be just bearable for swimming on Saturday. I’ll report back. 

*****

I worked from home on Tuesday and I couldn’t log in. After a few unsuccessful tries, I got the dreadful and dreaded “CAC is blocked” message, leaving me with no choice but to get in my car, drive to the badging office, and get someone to help me. I almost walked out the door without the said CAC card, which would have been a fun thing to discover just as I reached the gate. Thankfully, I remembered it, and then spent the whole ride to work worrying that maybe I’d been fired and that no one had told me. But I got through the gate with no trouble, and after a few anxious minutes in the badging office (anxious because I was parked illegally - the badging office people are quite lovely), I had a working CAC card and an unticketed car and I returned home to work, rejoicing all the way. 

It’s Wednesday now, and intensely hot again. We expect thunderstorms later in the day, followed by a sharp temperature drop. It’s a good thing that I don’t do the whole “pack clothes away for the season" thing, because it seems that I will need summer and winter clothes available at all times; sometimes both on the same day. El nino, your timing is terrible. We live in interesting-enough times without the constant weather drama. 

*****

It’s Thursday and I’m working from home again but I’m not actually working right now because my computer is taking a little break. More about that in a few minutes. 

Yesterday it was sunny and blazing hot. Then it rained and rained and rained and now it’s pearly gray and cool. Internet joke that I wish I’d thought of: Maryland weather went from 95 to 58 so fast you’d think it spotted a state trooper. 

I got another text message from MedStar, warning me that this would be my last text message and that if I didn’t respond, they’ll be left with no choice but to call me. Say less, bro. You could have just done that in the first place. Meanwhile, just as I finished scoffing at that text message and put the phone down, my computer displayed a dodgy, fake-looking pop-up notifying me that I had 60 seconds to save my work before it shut down on its own. This pop-up looked like every phishing scam ever presented in every DoD cyber awareness training module ever. Blurry outline, garish colors, low-resolution font, little yellow exclamation point triangle - the whole shebang. 

Without much time to react, I tried to get a screenshot of the dodgy pop-up and I managed to get it but the computer shut down before I could send it to anyone. And before I could react any further, the computer turned itself back on and started a series of updates. And those updates took almost two hours. 

There’s a lot more to this story, but I’m bored just writing about it so I will spare you from reading anymore. Cutting to the proverbial chase, it was a legitimate update, and several other people experienced the same thing, and the computer is fine now. The end. 

*****

Time to wrap this up. It is Memorial Day Weekend Friday and between the 55 degrees and cloudy weather that’s better suited to late October and the general all-around garbage pile that constitutes modern life at this moment, it really doesn’t feel like MDW, except that we will be attending a graduation party on Sunday. And I might try to swim tomorrow, but not if I’m the only person in the pool, and what other idiot is going to try to swim outdoors in this weather? This is the extent of my weekend plans, and I don’t mind. I might even do the stupid colonoscopy paperwork. Or maybe I’ll install some updates. I’m sorely in need of updates. 

Bibliography 2025 - BLTN Edition

I never did finish my 2025 book list. I’ve become very lax about tracking and documenting my reading, and now I’m looking at a list of what I read last year and I’m finding two things: There are several books that I read and vividly remember but never added them to my list; and there are books that are on my list but I barely remember a word of them. 

Does it even matter? Some people just read books and move on and never even think about adding titles to a list or writing down their thoughts about the books they read. Those people aren’t me, though. It bothers me that I haven’t published a 2025 book list and so I’m going to do it now, just as we’re approaching the middle of 2026. Better late than never. So here’s the list: 

The Hard Crowd (Rachel Kushner)

We Want Everything (Nanni Balestrini). I’d never have picked this up if I hadn’t read Rachel Kushner. It’s about social upheaval and revolution in 1970s Italy, and it’s great. Whoever came up with the phrase “Become ungovernable” must have read Nanni Balestrini. 

The Let Them Theory (Mel Robbins). What was she thinking, you might ask? Click the link and find out. Five eye rolls. Highly unrecommended.

The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde). This was my first time reading Dorian Gray, and I went in knowing nothing other than what everyone knows, which is that Dorian Gray remains ever young while his portrait in the attic ages hideously. And rightly so, because as it turns out (SPOILER ALERT), Dorian Gray is an absolutely hideous person. I’d expected that he would be vain and selfish and trifling and dishonest, but he’s a straight-up murderous monster, lacking in all human decency. He’d be right at home in 2026. 

The Beauty of Everyday Things (Soetsu Yanagi). I’ve actually not yet finished this book. It’s on my coffee table, and I read it a page or two at a time. It’s a series of essays about ordinary household objects made by Japanese craftsmen and artisans. The essays and accompanying photographs are quite beautiful - inspiring, too - and I like his Yanagi’s idea that patterns and technique and their limitations are prerequisites for beauty, not hindrances. No one, not even a genius, is endlessly creative. Structure is helpful. But I hate his blithe dismissal of the craftspeople themselves. He insists that craftspeople are artisans NOT artists, and that anonymity is essential to their work. He disdains the idea that a craftsperson should try to put her personal stamp on anything she makes. He seems to believe in a permanent underclass who should quietly work their lives away creating beauty and comfort and ease for their betters. Another one who'd be right at home in 2026.

Demon Copperhead (Barbara Kingsolver)

David Copperfield. Charles Dickens.

Family and Other Calamities (Leslie Gray Streeter) and Trespasses (Louise Kennedy)

The Crow Trap (Ann Cleeves)

Mansfield Park (Jane Austen)

Iris in Winter (Elizabeth Caddell)

The Pursuit of Love, Love in a Cold Climate, and Don’t Tell Alfred (Nancy Mitford)

The Truths We Hold and 107 Days (Kamala Harris). I read the first book early in the year, amid the early Trump 2.0 chaos of DOGE and USAID and plane crashes, when people on the internet were seriously, with a straight face, asking why Kamala wasn’t “doing something about all of this.” Never mind that Kamala actually asked for the chance to lead, by running a near-flawless campaign for President. Never mind that she warned us - repeatedly and clearly and convincingly - that everything that happened last year and that is happening now would in fact happen. And never mind that 76 or so million Americans looked at the smart and compassionate and principled and accomplished Black lady and the 34-count pu$&y-grabbing corrupt racist insurrectionist felon and said “yeah, we’ll take the White dude.” Kamala was RIGHT THERE, ready to lead, and this country said “no thanks, we like the conman.” Yes, it’s been almost two years, and no, I am not over it. 

Lovely One, Ketanji Brown Jackson. I often wonder what it’s like for Justice Jackson to finally fulfill her highest ambition, only to be surrounded by the six worst Supreme Court justices in history. And Justices Kagan and Sotomayor, too - but at least they had a chance to serve when the Supreme Court wasn’t a wholly owned subsidiary of a corrupt Executive Branch. Anyway, it’s a very good book. I just finished Uncommon Favor, Dawn Staley’s memoir, and there’s a common thread connecting them. Both of these women knew what they wanted to do from a very early age. Both of them knew that they were extraordinarily gifted. Both of them were singularly dedicated to pursuing their goals. And of course, both of them had to be twice as good as white men to get half as far. 

Black Widow (Leslie Gray Streeter) and The End of the World is a Cul de Sac (Louise Kennedy)

The Sum of Us (Heather McGhee). I’m not sure why I didn’t write about this before, because it is very good. I have always been impressed with Heather McGhee when I’ve seen her on discussion panels, and I am consciously trying to read more books by Black authors, especially women. McGhee’s central thesis is in her subtitle: What Racism Costs Everyone and How We Can Prosper Together. She touches on some of the same themes that Heather Cox Richardson wrote about in Democracy Awakening, which explains what Richardson calls the “liberal consensus,” the social welfare system that pulled us out of the Depression and made America free and prosperous in the post-war years; and its gradual dismantling beginning with Ronald Reagan and continuing through the first Trump administration. McGhee covers this as well, but with a much closer examination of the role of race in the dismantling of the social welfare system and the ways in which Reagan and others in the public and private spheres exploited racial fears to hoodwink the so-called “white working class” into believing that equality for Black Americans would equal poverty and deprivation for them. Sadly, their tactics worked and continue to work, to everyone’s detriment. We really could have a just society and a fair distribution of wealth, but only if we understand that racism is the major obstacle. 

Ten Days that Shook the World, John Reed. As I mentioned here, I re-read Ten Days after watching Reds for the first time right after Diane Keaton died. Fair warning - this post touches on pretty much everything, so don’t expect a book review. 

Erasing History: How Fascists Rewrite the Past to Control the Future, Jason Stanley. God, I spent a lot of 2025 neck-deep in fascism, didn’t I? No wonder my brain is in the state it’s in. Anyway, this book touches on some of the same things that Heather McGhee and Heather Cox Richardson and Timothy Snyder and Anne Applebaum have covered in their recent books, with a bit of a narrower focus. Stanley examines a specific tactic of fascists - the rewriting of history, the flooding of the zone with bullshit, making it harder to tell truth from lies; and of course, the framing of oppressors as victims. It’s DARVO on a macro scale. Jason Stanley and Timothy Snyder are both in Canada now. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to characterize their departure as fleeing the US. I worry about HCR sometimes.  

I read a few other things here and there, too. I listened to an audiobook version of Jonathan Alter’s His Very Best, a biography of Jimmy Carter. I don’t consider that I really read it, not because I don’t think listening to an audiobook is reading (keep me out of that debate) but because I didn’t really pay attention to the recording. I ended up buying a copy of the book, an actual copy, because it was right on the front table of a new locally owned bookstore that I really like. The parts that actually penetrated the brain fog when I was listening were quite good so maybe I’ll actually read it this year. If I do, you'll see it on my 2026 book list. God willing, I will publish that sometime before the end of 2027.