Emerald City

We’re going on vacation this week. We’re leaving on Thursday rather than our usual Saturday; and we’re going to Seattle, not the Jersey Shore. I’m excited to be doing something different. I love beach weeks but we spent our last two vacations at the beach, and it is time for a change. 

I don’t love the Thursday to Thursday schedule, but airfare was really significantly more expensive for Saturday flights; so much so that it made a schedule change very much worthwhile. And what I really don’t love is a 7 AM outgoing flight, forcing me to do absolutely all of my packing the night before because 4:30 in the morning is no time to pack for a trip. But the 7 AM flight is one of the cheapest direct flights, and I really wanted a direct flight, so there it is. We’ll gain time on the flight out and so we’ll arrive early in the day. 

*****

I haven’t been to the West Coast in a long time - since 2000 - but I remember that we woke up early every day because we were still on East Coast time. Our flight leaves at 7:10 AM and arrives in Seattle at 9:45 AM, and we have no official plans for that first day so we’ll just get to hang around and explore a bit. 

As always on the day before a long trip, I’m feeling a vague sense of dread and unease. It’s homesickness in advance, which I promise you is a real thing. But I’ll be over it the moment I arrive at the airport. For now, it’s time to think about what to pack and perhaps more importantly, what to leave behind. I’m taking two purses with me, and I already know which two, and that is half the battle. Now I just have to pick a jacket or maybe two, and three pairs of shoes. Everything else will be pretty easy. 

*****

It's way too early on Thursday morning, and I'm on my way to Dulles Airport. We hired a local man who runs his own little private taxi service, and he picked us up in a spotless Toyota Highlander at zero dark thirty. I'm in the back seat and we're about to exit the Beltway to 66 to pick up the Dulles Toll Road. There's an absurd amount of traffic on the road for what is essentially the middle of the night, but that's the DMV for you. 

I finished a crazy amount of work yesterday and then I turned on my out of office, shut down my computer and went swimming for an hour. The water was perfect. Then I came home to narrow down my jacket and shoe selections. 

I thought about packing carry on only, and I was serious this time, I'm telling you. But I just couldn't decide what to leave behind so I pulled out my suitcase and packed pretty much everything. I'll probably wear only about half of what I brought but I don't care. If you're going to check a bag you might as well fill it up. That checked bag is costing me $45 and I am getting my money's worth. 

It's 0515 now and we're about to pull up to the Delta terminal. More later. 

*****

After a very easy and trouble free flight, we landed in Seattle at 940 local time. We retrieved our checked bags and then bought Orca cards for Seattle public transit, and boarded the Link light rail for the trip downtown. 

Public transportation from the airport to our hotel neighborhood was my older son's idea. Like me, he loves public transportation. Unlike me, he romanticizes it because he didn't grow up taking the bus and the subway literally everywhere. It was possibly not the best idea to take the train with a week's worth of luggage but it's all good. We got there. 

It was too early to check into our hotel so we parked our luggage and set out to explore. My husband and I both worked at Nordstrom when we were young and so we wanted to see the original Nordstrom store. It was quite beautiful. I really miss old fashioned downtown department stores. 

We are planning to visit the Space Needle, of course, but my younger son suggested that we visit the Skyview Observatory in the Columbia Center building first, and he was not wrong. It's the tallest building in the Pacific Northwest, and the observatory has a 360 degree panoramic view of the city. Sadly, smoke from the Spokane wildfires obscured the view of the mountains but Seattle is beautiful even without the mountains. 

*****

At 4 o'clock, we finally checked into our hotel. We were exhausted. But we regrouped.

*****

We're in a Ford Transit passenger van right now, with a small group of fellow tourists, on our way to Deception Pass State Park. Our driver and tour guide is a very lovely young woman named Karen, who seems to absolutely love her job. After a morning in the park, we're going out on a boat to see whales. Whales! It's a beautiful day, and I'm so excited. 

*****

We saw whales! We sailed out into the Salish Sea from beautiful Anacortes, in a very comfortable little touring boat with indoor cabins up and downstairs and lots of sightseeing room on the deck. And there were so many sights to see. We saw dozens of bird species, including an osprey in flight, which is apparently unusual. We saw seals and sea lions swimming in the icy water and then warming themselves on sunny rocks. And then about an hour into the cruise, we saw Scuttle the Humpback Whale, diving and surfacing. Scuttle showed us his whole tail, which is how the naturalists on board identified him. They are very proprietary toward their beloved humpbacks. 

It was November cold on the bow of the boat, but having been warned, I was dressed for it as were most of the other people. The sun reflecting on the water wasn't warm enough to burn off the mist rising off the surface, and the effect was quite spectacular. We stayed in place for a bit, watching Scuttle dive and waiting for him to surface again. I could have done that all afternoon. 

After another 30 minutes of cruising, the captain came over the PA to announce that orcas had been spotted and that we were going to try to get as close as possible. People had returned to the cabins but everyone scrambled to get back on the deck to find a good viewing spot. We saw the first flash of black and white, so quick that I wasn't sure if we'd seen anything at all. But it was a pair of orcas, who obliged us by surfacing over and over, showing us their eye spots and their dorsal fins and their black and white bellies.

*****

I'm not an outdoor person. I'm outsidey but not outdoorsy. But that day of hiking and whale watching was one of my favorite ever vacation days. 10/10. 

*****

Yesterday, we visited the Space Needle, Museum of Pop Culture, and Chihuly Gardens. The MCP was dull. Chihuly, which I had been quite ready to skip, was pretty spectacular. And the Space Needle, no matter what anyone says, is wonderful and absolutely worth a visit. The Monorail and the Space Needle, both constructed for the 1962 World's Fair, are quintessential symbols of mid century American energy and optimism and while I don't pretend that 20th century America was perfect or anything close to it, I do miss the energy and the optimism. 

*****

It's Sunday now, and we're going to a Mariners game. We like baseball and we try to see a game when we're on vacation in another city. We've gone to baseball games in Boston, Chicago, Toronto, and even Seoul. Now we'll see a game on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. The Mariners are playing Tampa Bay so it'll be easy to cheer for the hometown team. Florida can suck it. 

*****

That might have been the most fun baseball game I've ever attended, and I have been to a lot of baseball games. There's a lot of energy at T-Mobile Park and in the surrounding neighborhood.  Sadly, the Mariners did not win but we got to sit in the shade and watch baseball and eat soft serve ice cream out of little plastic souvenir baseball helmets. We walked the two miles back to our hotel, passing through Pioneer Square, a wild neighborhood that reminds me of University City in Philadelphia when I lived there in the 80s. A 10/10 day. 

It's 7 AM on Monday now and we're up and dressed and out in the world, at least two hours earlier than normal for a vacation day. We're on a mini passenger bus heading toward a YMCA near SeaTac airport, where our Mount Rainier tour is picking up its last two passengers. We're excited about this little expedition. 

*****

Well Mount Rainier is just the most astonishing thing, and I'm so glad I got to see it. After a stop at Fred Mayer (about which I could write a whole page itself) to buy lunch and snacks, we arrived at the famous Mount Rainier National Park gate at about 1100. Our tour guide, Erika, is a serious outdoorswoman who has been to Rainier hundreds of times, beginning in her early childhood, and she drove the bus capably and fearlessly up the mountain roads. I wouldn't even want to drive my car in that park. We stopped at Longmire, an original park site that includes the Longmire Inn and a small visitors center and some bathrooms, all in the famous National Park architecture style - “parkitecture." Those buildings reminded me that National Parks are one of the greatest things about the United States. 

We kept driving, and caught our first glimpse of Rainier, still capped with snow. Mount Rainier, I learned, is the snowiest place in America. Last year was a bad year, with under 500 feet of snow. In a typical year, 600 feet of snow falls on Mount Rainier. I can't even fathom this. 

We finally reached Paradise, the most popular spot in the park. It is aptly named, with meadows full of wildflowers and incredible views of Rainier and the freshest, clearest air you can imagine. We hiked to Myrtle Falls, which would be a very easy little walk at sea level. But at 6000 feet, it's a legitimate hike. We saw a little black bear on a meadow high above the trail, so high that I almost wondered if I was seeing things. But everyone saw that bear, who didn't give us a second look. My sons, who took a more challenging hike up the mountain, also saw an elk and a marmot, who sat on a rock and chattered at the visitors. 

We ate our picnic lunch at the Paradise Inn, an early 20th century rustic grand hotel that allows visitors to sit at tables in its beautiful old lobby and on its huge wraparound porch. I imagined wealthy families vacationing there 100 years ago and just for a moment, I thought about having been born too late. But my ancestors would not have been vacationing at the Paradise Inn. They'd have been cooking the food and cleaning the rooms and taking care of the grounds. I was born at exactly the right time. 

*****

We arrived back in Seattle at 6 PM. That was the only night that we stayed in. I went swimming and then soaked in the hot tub and after a shower, I sat in my bed and read my book and watched TV for the rest of the evening. An altogether excellent day. 

*****         

That takes us to Tuesday. We finally made it to the Public Market, and just by happenstance, we ended up having lunch in the same restaurant where Tom Hanks and Rob Reiner had lunch in “Sleepless in Seattle.” The lunch was fine but the atmosphere and the view and the experience were outstanding. Just a lovely little place. I loved the Market with its artists and vendors and musicians and a guy who writes poems on an old Smith Corona typewriter - you give him a topic and he writes you a poem. I'd have asked for a poem on the topic of the year 2026, but there was already a long line of poem customers so I didn't get a poem. 

We went to the Aquarium, which was OK. I don't like seeing wildlife in enclosures. But it was fine. Later, we took a sightseeing harbor cruise. The young tour guide, a Seattle native, was knowledgeable and funny and he seemed genuinely happy to tell us about his city. It was from him that I learned that Mount Rainier is only visible from Seattle about 90 days per year. “We say that the mountain is out," he said, “and we don't take it for granted." Neither did we. 

*****

It's our last day in Seattle. I'm sitting next to two German ladies, waiting for the ferry back to Seattle from Bainbridge Island.  When we got off the ferry, we were greeted by an older lady protesting the Trump administration, all by herself. A few of the hundreds of ferry passengers looked askance at her but most of us cheered and waved and smiled. 

We were the first people in line for the return ferry to Seattle.  After the last passenger disembarked, we started to board, until the German lady yelled at us for not waiting for the official order to begin boarding. As it turned out, she was right, but I took offense at her tone, which was martial to say the very least. But other than the order-barking Prussian military officer, it was a perfect ride. I love the Washington State ferry line. And Bainbridge Island is a lovely little place. 

*****

And it was a lovely trip. We're on the plane now, in line for takeoff from Sea-Tac. It's 750 AM and we've been up since 430. I find that I like the early flights, even with the stupidly early wake up time. Boarding began at 640 for a 720 takeoff but I guess there's a lot of traffic today. It was misty early this morning, and even a little drizzly, but the sky is clearing now. Maybe we'll get one last look at Mount Rainier as we take off. Maybe the mountain is out today. 

*****

It’s Friday now. I took today as a vacation day, and I’m so glad I did. There’s always so much to do after a trip, and it’s nice to have an extra day to catch up and organize things.

Right now, I’m sitting on my couch catching up with bill-paying and email; and of course, finishing this little chronicle of my week. Our flight home yesterday was very quick and despite a slight mishap (our driver, who had been told multiple times that our return flight would land at National and not at Dulles, still went to Dulles), we were home by 5 PM local time. I started unpacking and doing laundry immediately because if I’d sat down, I wouldn’t have gotten up. By 7:15, I was on my third load of laundry. I’d unpacked everything and put away my suitcases and I’d also dusted and vacuumed the house. After a short swimming break, I finished the laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and curled up in my pajamas with a cup of tea. It was nice to wake up to a clean house this morning. 

*****

I didn’t feel well for most of the week. I'm not sick. I've just been in a lot of pain, and also not in a good place mentally. I hope to feel better soon. But I'm grateful that the pain and sadness didn’t stop me from enjoying a pretty wonderful trip. So long Seattle - it was my first visit but I hope it won’t be my last. 

A week that was

It’s raining right now, a full-on summer storm with wicked thunder claps and flashes of lightning and very heavy rain. I was at the bookstore with my mother and we made it almost home before the sky opened up. I’ve always liked that expression. I like the idea of the sky just opening up. 

We’ve had plenty of rain this summer, but this is the first time we’ve had an old-fashioned early evening thunderstorm in a long time. This is the kind of thunderstorm that people used to watch from their front porches and say “We really needed that,” as the storm would break the heat and humidity. 

It wasn’t actually that hot or humid today - low to mid 80s and just a little bit hazy. But the sky had that unnatural brightness of a sunny day just ahead of a storm. This storm was inevitable. It was all but guaranteed. 

*****

By 7:45 or so, the storm had passed and the sky had cleared, and we even had a little bit of evening sunshine. Then the clouds returned just before it got dark. 

As I mentioned, my mom is here for the week, and she can’t do much that involves moving around. Her mobility issues make it hard to get her from place to place, and then hard to be in the place once we’re there. I drove her right up to the front entrance of Barnes and Noble and put my flashers on while I got her and her walker and cane out of the car. Then I went and parked. When I got inside the store, I found my mother sitting in the seat of her walker, from which she almost couldn’t stand up. After half an hour of browsing (she bought a cookbook) she was ready to return home. We didn’t do very much for the rest of the evening. 

*****

It’s Thursday now, my mom’s fifth day here. She leaves on Sunday. 

I love my mother, but she is difficult, and having her here is difficult. She refuses to sleep in a bed, so we make up a couch in the living room for her, and she goes back and forth between the couch and a recliner in the family room. Meanwhile, she brings two full suitcases and multiple tote bags, so the spare room, which she uses only as a dressing room, is filled with her stuff. Basically, every room in the house is her bedroom. The disorder is hard to cope with. 

My mom jokes that she likes to come here because I wait on her hand and foot. Only it’s not a joke because I do - partly because she has a hard time getting things for herself and partly because she’s my mother and a guest in my house. But it’s a lot. Yesterday, I made lunch for the three of us - myself, my mom, and my younger son, who was visiting for the day. I told my mom that I would be making lunch, and I told her what I was making, and I told her when it would be ready. When I told her that it was time for lunch, she said “Oh, I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. Hmmm, what do I want for lunch?” Note that I had already announced the menu and that I wasn’t offering additional selections. But she didn’t want to eat what we were eating. She asked for cheese and crackers instead. 

Yes, I gave her the cheese and crackers. I’m not going to let her starve, for crying out loud. 

“Hmmm, what do I want for lunch?” Like she’s in a diner. Sheesh. 

*****

Like a lot of older people, my mom keeps her own hours. I feel bad leaving her on her own when I go to bed but she always seems quite happy to be left with her games and late-night TV, and I can’t be up and awake all hours of the night and then expect to function the next day. She goes to bed late and she gets up fairly early (8:30 is early for someone who was up until 3) and she naps on and off throughout the day. I worry sometimes that she’s bored but there’s only so much I can do to entertain a grown person when I have a job to do and a household to run. 

Maybe one day she’ll tell me she’s bored, and then I can tell her to go find something to do, or I’ll find something for her to do. 

*****

And that’s what it is, isn’t it? We become their parents. We tell them what to do, what to eat, when to go to bed (she doesn’t listen, but I still tell her to get to bed by midnight). They act like recalcitrant toddlers or rebellious adolescents, refusing to eat the food we cook and watching videos and playing games long past midnight. 

It’s Saturday now. My mom wanted to go to a flea market or farmers market or maybe drive around and look for yard sales. And that would have been just fine except that it’s 11:10 and she’s just in the middle of her leisurely cup of tea and the farmers’ markets and yard sales will be over by the time I get her out the door and in the car (which is a process in itself). So instead, we’re going to the local antique row to poke around in little shops. Then we’ll have lunch somewhere. Then we’ll come home and I’ll settle her in front of a movie or something so that I can swim for the first time since Monday. 

We’re taking her home tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. I feel bad even writing that sentence but there it is. The disorder and disruption are getting to me. My house is a mess and the TV is on, loud, all the time, and I’ve run out of ideas for how to feed and entertain a grouchy octogenarian toddler. 

*****

We ended up going to the Kensington historic shopping district, a cute little cluster of boutiques and bookstores and antique shops right in the middle of beautiful old Kensington, Maryland. It was just the thing. I dropped my mom off in front of a shop that she wanted to visit, parked in the Maryland National Guard Armory parking lot a few blocks away, and we spent a few hours poking in and out of shops, and then having iced tea at an outdoor cafe. The tiny shops of Kensington are not the best place for a walker, but my mom maneuvered around reasonably well, and thankfully, all of the shopkeepers and other shoppers were very nice to her. She enjoyed herself thoroughly. We came home in the heat of the afternoon, and after I found a movie for her to watch (“Murder on the Nile”), I went swimming for the first time in several days. 

I never take swimming for granted. I’m always aware of and grateful for proximity and easy access to our lovely old neighborhood pool. But what I do tend to take for granted is the general ease with which I live in my body. I changed into my suit, wrapped myself in a towel, and was out the door and in the water in five minutes. I swam laps for 35 minutes, showered, came home and put on shorts and a t-shirt and let my hair dry as I made tea for both of us. We watched the last few minutes of the movie together and then during the 30 minutes or so that it took her to get ready to go out for dinner, I changed, folded a load of laundry, straightened the house, cleaned and swept the kitchen, and then waited for her on the couch, where I’m writing this right now. 

It’s an extraordinary gift to be able to move freely. That’s the takeaway from a long and hard but still-good week. And there’s no point to having that gift - absolutely no point at all - if you’re not going to use it to take care of the people who need taking care of. Still, now that my mom has gone home and I’m among people who can take care of themselves, I’m going to let them do exactly that for the next few days. The question “what’s for dinner?” will go unanswered for the next few days. Even the caretakers need a rest now and then. 

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.