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. 

Semi-sick day

It's Wednesday afternoon, and I just finished work. I worked at home today. I haven't been in the office all week and I won't be in the office until Monday because I have bronchitis. I've been sick on and off for weeks - weeks,  I tell you! - but according to the tests administered by urgent care two weeks ago, whatever it was was not COVID, strep, or flu. I had hoped for strep because then they'll give you antibiotics. I'm a big fan of antibiotics. Antibiotics always work. 

It got better and then it got worse and then it got a little worse until I was up in the middle of the night coughing so that the neighbors could probably hear me. Back to urgent care again, where I had a chest x-ray because the nurse didn't like the look of my pulse ox, and it turns out to be bronchitis. They gave me doxycycline, methylprednisone, and some cough suppressant thing the name of which I cannot remember. Oh for the good old days when a doctor would order pathetic specimens like me to the seaside for a month. But I'll take the drugs, and I'll be fine in a few days. 

Work time, sick time, down time

It’s Thursday morning, and I’m home sick. I might have COVID, or I might have strep. I’m going to go to the neighborhood urgent care in a few minutes. I hope I test positive for strep because then they’ll give me antibiotics. I really feel quite terrible. 

Yesterday was a very busy day. I didn’t even have time to write. But a person I’ve worked with for four years told me that she’d always thought that I was in my mid-40s and was shocked to learn that I’m actually 60. And then a very distinguished speaker at a symposium that I was supporting was carrying the very same purse that I was carrying that day. I was winning on every front. As they say on the internet, you can’t tell me nothing. 

OK, it’s 11 AM, and I’m still hanging around the house. Time to get a move on. My throat is absolutely killing me. 

*****

Well, it was nothing, so why did I feel so terrible? Tests for COVID and strep and flu all came back negative, even though I had a fever and the doctor said that my throat was very inflamed. I was a little disappointed, honestly. I know that a Z-Pack would have cured me. Plus, it's always nice to have official validation.  

It's Friday and I'm at work now. I don't normally blog when I'm at work but whatever virus I have seems to have infected my stupid computer. It won't sync my Google Drive files and my browser tabs keep closing on their own, and now it is taking a hot minute to restart. Just remember, little computer: an antibiotic won’t do a thing for a virus. Drink lots of fluids. Get some rest. 

I rested yesterday, too. I worked for half an hour, and I did the bare housework minimum but I spent most of the day on the couch and in the backyard, just sitting and reading and sleeping and watching British murder mysteries on TV. I feel 50 percent better today, but my throat still hurts. I'm not at all convinced about the negative strep result. I should demand a recount. That strep test was rigged. 

*****

The computer did finally restart and the rest seemed to have helped it because it stopped behaving badly and allowed me to finish my workday. It’s Saturday now. I’m on my way out to a nice little neighborhood anti-concentration camp rally. Do I want to be spending my early old age fighting fascism in the gosh darn streets? No, I do not, but I also didn’t spend a good part of my childhood reading about concentration camps and gulags for nothing. I’ve been pretty much preparing for this moment for my whole life. I trained for this. 

*****

That was fun. Less than 90 minutes holding my little sign and waving to the people who honked and waving even harder at the three people who flipped us off. They’re so cute, with their little middle fingers. Then I ran errands and went home. That’s Saturday in the Year of Our Lord 2026 - post office, protest, Safeway, and back home. 

*****

Well, that was something, wasn’t it? The entire line of succession shows up at the annual dinner of the White House Correspondents Association, an organization held in universal disdain by the Trump administration, and a shirtless gunman gets past security and fires shots before he’s taken down by the Secret Service but not before one of them takes a bullet from his own colleague. And then minutes later, dozens of MAGA personalities tweet in unison about the desperate need for a billion-dollar ballroom. And then they catch the guy and the Acting Attorney General announces that the suspect was “targeting administration officials” because of course he was, he said so right in the inscriptions on the bullet casings. And I’m guessing that it’s case closed, and we won’t hear another thing about this guy or his failed “assassination attempt.” Well at least we know that gilded ballrooms are the solution to gun violence. I’m sure they’re planning to build one in every school in America. 

*****

After a few days of summer preview weather, the temperatures dropped and the sky clouded over, and we had a weekend of chilly gloom suitable for hibernation. I didn’t hibernate for the whole weekend, but I did take a few hours on Sunday afternoon to just hang around in comfortable clothes, just being a person at home. It was nice. It’s Monday morning now, bright and get-up-and-go sunny. And once again, I am blogging during my work day, because once again, my computer is taking a little downtime. It’s in the middle of a very long update that I started as soon as the pop-up appeared, rather than waiting until it forced me to. So while my computer finishes its little self-care routine, I’ll finish this little patchwork quilt of random observations and notes. The computer updates are 92 percent complete now. Time to get to work. 

Be right back

It’s a rainy Sunday morning, 20 degrees cooler than yesterday. I’m going to Mass in a few minutes, and I should get up and get dressed. And I will. But right now I’m writing, with TV news in the background. I think I wrote something yesterday about the Strait of Hormuz being open again, but I was behind the times because it’s closed again. Apparently, the Strait of Hormuz is like one of those twee little boutiques on 96th Street in Stone Harbor. It’s open when it’s open. If you plan a little shopping trip to the Strait of Hormuz, maybe you’ll be lucky and the doors will be open. Or maybe you’ll show up to find the “Sorry you missed us, be back soon!” sign, even though it’s 3:30 PM on a Tuesday. The Strait of Hormuz doesn’t care. It knows that you need it more than it needs you. It’ll be back at 3:30 - 4 at the latest. Just relax. 

*****

Someone on social media called our distinguished FBI Director “J. Edgar Boozer,” and now I’m questioning every joke I’ve ever made because I will never top this. 

I haven’t read the Atlantic story and probably won’t because I can’t afford any more subscriptions. But they don’t strike me as a careless publication, so I’m sure their story about Kash Patel was very well-sourced and meticulously reported. And we all saw how he behaves around alcohol on camera for the whole world to see, so we can just imagine his behavior when he’s out of the public eye. But we won’t have to imagine because the Atlantic is not going to settle that lawsuit, so everything will come out in discovery. Something tells me that Kash is going to drop the matter rather than sit for a deposition. He’s a fool, but he’s not stupid. 

Well, he is kind of stupid, but he’s not stupid enough not to know that discovery for his $250 million lawsuit will open cans of worms that he very badly wants to keep closed. 

*****

In other current events, my spring anxiety and depression are back with a vengeance. I’m coping by eating chocolate and spending money. I’m great. Everything is great. Everything is fine. 

*****

I have two finished posts - one about wristwatches and another about a book - that I could just publish today. But there’s a lot going on - too much to keep up with, really - and I feel like I need to write about what it’s like to be alive as an American in the middle of the year 2026. But I’ll publish the other ones soon. Analog wristwatches and early 20th century English literature are not exactly the most current topics right now, but maybe sometimes it's better to look backward. 

Testing

Today at work, we had a test of the “Giant Voice” base-wide alert system. My office is in an odd little out-of-the-way spot, on the third floor with an open walkway outside. We call it the Crow’s Nest. It used to be that we couldn’t hear the Giant Voice up there in the Crow’s Nest. We could hear the alarm, but not the actual announcement, unless we went out onto the walkway and strained our ears. Well let me tell you that the Giant Voice works just fine now.. I’ll hear that Giant Voice in my sleep. Holy cannoli

*****

Oh and speaking of holy. The President, such as he is, is doing the most to force people to choose: Christianity or MAGA. Jesus or Trump. It’s getting interesting. Meanwhile, he appears to have confused Pope Leo with the Mayor of New York, because Popes don’t have much influence on law enforcement and crime policy. The Pope might be “weak on crime,” but he’s probably not weak on blasphemy. Side note: I work in a medical school, surrounded by doctors, and not one of them has ever appeared at work in a long white robe with a scarlet stole. 

*****

There’s always a bright side though, and that is that the memes coming out of the Dr. Donald Jesus debacle are top-tier. Hilarious people all over the internet are finding ever more creative ways to roast the “I thought it was me as a doctor” claim and each roast is better than the last. 

And the Pope Leo crashout continues. Yesterday, the brilliant JD Vance extended his winning streak by telling a nearly-empty arena that the Pope needs to watch his step when he’s commenting on theology. Nice work, Thomas Aquinas. Good way to sell your new Catholic conversion memoir. You’re a genius. 

My favorite thing is how news media thinks they're covering a Leo-Trump "feud." Pope Leo is not feuding with anyone, especially not the likes of Donald J. Trump. His Holiness is out here saying stuff like “war is bad, love one another, pray for peace” like pretty much every Pope since the last Pope Leo. Trump then comes back with a clever rejoinder something like “Shut up, bro, you suck and you wouldn’t last a second in the UFC octagon.” This morning, as a little social media joke, I posted an offer of $50 to the first reporter to ask Karoline Leavitt if the President is suffering from PDS (Pope Derangement Syndrome). By the end of the day, eight commenters had offered to match the $50. And that offer remains valid. We will pay up. 

***** 

It’s Thursday morning now and I'm sitting in the doctor's office waiting for the scheduler to come in. I have been putting off my colonoscopy appointment. Considering my very long history of medical avoidance, it’s hilarious that I work at a medical school. Do as I say, not as I do. 

Anyway, I’m going through with it now. I actually had a colonoscopy in 2019 so I know it's not a big deal. The day before is dreadful but the procedure itself occurs during a deep sleep brought on by really good drugs. And then you wake up and go home and eat your first solid food in 24 hours. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Everything is fine. 

*****

Actually, things might be temporarily fine. Israel and Lebanon reached a cease fire agreement and the Strait of Hormuz is open again. We went to war to accomplish the same conditions that existed before this war started, at the cost of many lives and many millions of dollars, but if this cease fire gives innocent people a reprieve, then it's all to the good. 

*****

It's Friday now. I feel like it wasn't a particularly productive week, but I accomplished quite a bit. I'm just always distracted. I've always been scatterbrained and easily distracted but I'm hanging on by a thread now. 2026, man, you know? Thank God for Pomodoro timers and lists and sublists and Google reminders. Maybe I need my own Giant Voice just to keep me in line. Good luck, Giant Voice. If a Giant Voice can prevent me from going off on tangents every five gosh darn minutes then it would be money well spent. 

*****

Risen

Dawn Staley, college basketball coach: “He is risen.” 

Donald J. Trump, President of the United States: “Open up the fuckin’ Strait, you crazy bastards, or get ready to live in Hell.”

Happy Easter, amirite? 

*****

We are just home from Easter Mass. I’m trying to get back in the habit of attending Mass every week, rather than whenever I feel like it because I seldom feel like it. I’m still mad at the American Church because I hold it largely responsible for the cancer that is MAGA, but I don’t want to disappoint Pope Leo. I know he keeps track. 

Easter has never been my favorite holiday, coinciding as it does with crippling Spring anxiety. But there’s the silver lining - Spring isn’t bothering me a bit this year. The Year of Our Lord 2026 has been one long panic attack, and Spring can’t hurt me. Do your worst, Spring. 

No, don’t. That was just a joke. As you were, Spring. Carry on. 

*****

On Friday night, my fellow Philadelphia public school graduates and I were ready to ride at dawn for Coach Dawn Staley. As they say on the internet, we do not play about Coach Staley. 

I had hoped that South Carolina would win yesterday, but Coach Staley and her team will be back. And as always, her post-game interview was pure grace and generosity. Win or lose, Dawn Staley is what Philadelphians call “a class act.” 

I was surprisingly invested in college basketball this weekend. My son and I spent part of Sunday afternoon glued to the DIII men’s final between the University of Mary Washington and Emory University. UMW is a Marymount sports rival, including basketball and swimming (the Saints beat the Eagles this year, for the first time ever), and we were all in for them. The last few minutes of that game were heart attack-exciting, and Mary Wash came away with the heroic buzzer-beater win. I love DIII sports. 

*****

And the rest of Easter was lovely, too. Dinner was very good, and everyone ate and enjoyed themselves. As much as I hate everyday cooking, I do love hosting holidays. I love watching my people enjoy the food and festivities that I make possible. 

*****

It’s Monday morning now, a day off for me. I had a dream in which I looked up at the sky above my house, and it was suddenly filled with hundreds of military aircraft. An Air Force jet, flying very low to the ground, ascended suddenly just as I thought it would crash on my neighbor’s lawn. That’s when I woke up. 

*****

The rest of Monday proceeded without incident. A family lunch out that included both sons and my nephew was the highlight of an altogether pretty good day. I read my book, I went outside and touched grass, I went shopping, I followed Artemis II, and we ate Easter leftovers for dinner. 

And now it’s Tuesday and the weekend is really over and the President is threatening to level an entire country. He makes empty threats all the time, so maybe he’ll back down under some fake pretext. God, I hope he’ll back down, or that someone will stop him. But he’s bloodthirsty enough to do it, and no one seems able or willing to stop him from doing whatever he wants. 

*****

Well, that was a day. Thank God that we didn’t blow up a whole country, I guess. Dodged bullets aside, though, the United States (the entire world, really) is in the clutches of an absolute raving madman, an evil and unstable non-genius who is going to keep threatening mayhem until he gets bored with idle threats and decides to just kill us all and let God sort us out. JD Vance is on yet another taxpayer-funded European vacation so he will not be leading a 25th Amendment charge today; and I don’t think one single member of Trump’s Krusty Kabinet Krew would support that effort even if Vance had the courage to initiate it. We’re trapped in a semi driven by an orangutan. The orangutan didn’t drive us off a cliff yesterday, but we’re still locked in the truck, and that fucking orangutan still has the keys. If only we had other government institutions or structures - something like branches - that could oversee the White House. If only there were some sort of system of checks and balances. 

*****

And now we’re threatening the Pope? How does that even work? Do they plan to assassinate him and install a pretender in a new seat in Washington, where Vance and Hegseth can keep an eye on him? Or are they planning to send an armored division into the Vatican to do battle against the Swiss Guard? I would not put either option past these raving lunatics. And now I hear that not only is Pope Leo not coming for the America 250 celebration (leaving us with nothing but WWE and another half-assed Trumpy parade), he’s apparently planning to avoid the United States altogether until Trump and his henchpeople are no longer in power. The threat must be real because Pope Leo of the South Side of Chicago does not strike me as a person who is easily intimidated. Meanwhile, now that Coach Staley received a proper apology, we’ll need to ride for Pope Leo instead. Don’t come for this Pope unless you want to fight every working class Catholic in the United States. We will throw hands even if we’re holding rosaries. 

*****

Such a week it’s been. It’s Friday now and who knows what the insane clown posse has in store for us this weekend. I will not speculate. Coach Staley is (as always) right - He is risen. What’s the worst that could happen? 

Do NOT answer that. 

On the barricades

I came out for my fifth protest on Saturday; not just my fifth protest of Trump 2.0, but my fifth protest ever in my sixty years of life. I’ve always admired people who take it to the streets, but I never felt moved to do so myself until January of 2025. 

I didn’t go to the big march in Washington DC. I went instead to my local neighborhood protest. We gathered in front of a shopping center on Georgia Avenue, old people and middle-aged people and parents with young kids carrying homemade signs. A few people wore No Kings t-shirts and hats, and there were one or two costumes, but most of us looked like we were just stopping off to protest for an hour or two in between Saturday errands, which is actually exactly what I was doing. I showed up at 12:30 and I was out at 2. 

It was rather cold out there on the proverbial barricades, with high temps in the 40s and a pretty brisk wind. A lady in her 70s had brought a huge bag of red handmade Norwegian hats, and was handing them out to anyone who wanted one. I didn’t take one. I’m not a hat person. But I loved the idea and I appreciated the gesture. 

Another lady, who was unfortunately standing next to me, kept up a running commentary, interrupting herself every few seconds to yell at passing drivers to honk their horns, making helpful horn-honking gestures so that they could understand her even if they couldn’t hear her. Most of them did honk their horns (and would have, even without the encouragement). About 80 percent of the drivers who passed us honked and waved. About 15 percent studiously ignored us, staring straight ahead and not looking at us for a second, even when they were stopped at the light. 

That leaves the actively hostile five percent, jeering and waving their stupid little middle fingers as they passed. Some dumbass yelled something about Trump Derangement Syndrome, which certainly exists but it’s not what that guy thinks it is. Another guy drove by twice, yelling “Domestic terrorists! You’re all domestic terrorists! This is terrorism! This is an insurrection!” He was holding up his phone as he was driving, trying no doubt to get pictures and video to turn in to the FBI. After the second pass, the police stopped him, and he went on his way. I was glad to see him go. He seemed a little unhinged and I would not have been surprised if he’d brandished a gun at us. Psycho. 

*****

Did we make a difference? I don’t know. I think that 8 million people nationwide are thought to have been out on Saturday. Based on US population estimates of around 340 million, that puts us well over 2 percent of the population, but well short of the 3.5 percent that historians say is the tipping point for mass movements. So we’re getting there.  

It made a difference for me, at least, to be doing something other than doomscrolling and raging at the injustice of it all. It was nice to connect with other people. It was nice to see how many of those other people felt the same way I do. It was nice to go home afterward and warm up a bit before going out to a late lunch/early dinner with my husband. I know that public protests aren’t always easy and pleasant, but that one certainly was . I just hope that I’ll have the courage to continue even when it gets dangerous. 

Neighborhood children

I was writing something yesterday; something about wristwatches and freedom from digital tyranny. I’m at an impasse with that post. It’s not quite cooked yet. I’ll probably finish it but I have to clarify my ideas first. I can’t just write about my watch. 

Wait, maybe I can. 

*****

Instead, I’ll write about spring. It’s late March in Maryland, and it’s truly spring. We’ve cycled through all four seasons at least three times in the last few weeks, but spring is about more than the weather. Our forsythia are in full bloom right now, and our daffodil bulbs came up, and our cherry trees are just a day or so away from peak bloom. We have just a few days of overlap between forsythia and cherry trees in bloom. I’m predicting that it’ll happen on Friday. I’ll report back. 

Spring is also the season of longer days and evening daylight. I stayed outside walking until after 7 last night and it was still daylight when I arrived home. In the winter, I always feel like shutting myself in at 5 PM. It’s nice to have more outside time. 

*****

I was about a block and a half from home at 6 PM, just wrapping up my walk, when I noticed a small group of people clustered together on the sidewalk, surrounding a little boy who appeared to be about 9. The boy had taken a turn on a friend’s much-too-large scooter, but lost control and wiped out on the asphalt. Thankfully, he was with friends and able to get out of the road and onto the sidewalk. 

The boy’s friends and two passersby were all trying to convince him to stand up and start walking home, but he remained on the sidewalk. The other kids told me what had happened, and a man and his young daughter were encouraging the boy (I will call him Jose) to get in the car and ride home with them. I offered to walk him home or to ride in the car with him. He just kept shaking his head. His hand and arm were bleeding, and he also had blood on his shirt that turned out to be from a scrape on the scooter’s sharp edge. 

Eventually, Jose (who turned out to be 11 and a 6th grader at the middle school that my sons attended) stood up and started to walk toward the neighborhood park where he’d left his backpack and jacket. The other boys and I walked with him. Jose’s hand had started to swell and I kept encouraging him to go home and take care of his injuries, and he kept refusing. 

At this point I wondered if he was in an abusive situation and afraid to go home. When we reached the park, Jose sat down at a picnic table, and said no once again when I asked him if he was ready to go home. I was very worried at this point, and I didn’t really know what to do other than to stay with him. A man who was with his two very young children approached us and asked if we were OK. I explained the situation briefly, and the man yelled to his wife to keep an eye on the kids while he ran to his car for a bottle of water. 

Jose seemed grateful for the water. We encouraged him to wash his hand off first, and then he drank the rest of the bottle. The man and I tried again to get Jose to go home, and he said that he’d go “soon” but that he needed to “chill a little” first. We were at our wits’ end. 

Then moments later, two older kids showed up, a boy of about 15 and a girl about 13, who turned out to be Jose’s cousin and his sister. They were out looking for Jose  because he was late getting home, and his mother was worried. The cousin yelled to someone I couldn’t see, “I found him. I’ll text her now!”

Jose sat upright. “Dude! Do not text my mom!” 

“What are you talking about? She’s freaking out. You can’t just leave her out here thinking you got killed or something.” He started to compose a message. “Wait!” Jose yelled. 

Jose’s sister chimed in. “What is your problem?” 

Long story short (too late, I am well aware): Jose’s mother had forbidden him to ride on his friend’s electric scooter, knowing that exactly what happened would happen. Jose did not want to deal with the ensuing fuss, and he was also afraid that his mother wouldn’t let him hang around outside after school anymore. 

Jose’s cousin told him that he could go home with them, or that he’d text his aunt, “and then she’s gonna come running over here with bandaids and shit.” His cousin, obviously a very smart boy, knew that the embarrassment of having your mother fuss over you in front of a bunch of other kids was far worse than the inevitable maternal freak-out when you walk in the house bruised and bleeding. Jose sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Calm down. I’m coming.” 

The three kids (cousin, sister, brother) were all obviously well cared for, and the conversation among them assured me that they were also loved. They walked away together laughing and joking, the older boy carrying his injured cousin’s backpack. At this point, the man and his wife were dealing with the drama of getting young children to leave the park on a beautiful day. We all looked at each other and smiled and nodded. Just as the three kids reached the sidewalk at the edge of the park, they turned back, waved, and yelled “Thank you!” 

*****

That all happened on Tuesday. It’s Sunday now, and March is almost over. The cherry blossoms and the forsythia and the daffodils are in peak bloom now. It’s fully spring. 

20th century

No matter what’s happening in the world, it’s nice to have a proper Saturday. This past Saturday, we went to a hockey game in the afternoon, and left a bit early to meet our sons at the Elephant and Castle for an early dinner. Then we went for a quick drink just before our 7:30 showtime at the National Theater, where we saw “The Simon and Garfunkel Story” for the third time. It’s a wonderful show. 

*****

It’s been months, but I still can’t get used to seeing the National Guard in the Metro stations and out on the streets. We didn’t walk past the Justice or Agriculture or Labor buildings, so we were spared the sight of giant North Korean Trump banners. The area around the White House, though, is an absolute mess, cordoned off for a several block radius. We could barely see Pennsylvania Avenue past 14th Street, and the National Theater is at 13th Street. I know that some crazy person tried to breach the gate last week, but I think they’re also just scared to let people anywhere near the place. 

*****

Well, I didn’t want to see the gaping hole where the East Wing used to be anyway, so it was just as well. There was plenty else to do and see. The weather was beautiful, sunny and mild, and lots of people were out and about. In the little blocks of time before the game, and between the game and dinner, and between dinner and the show, we walked around enjoying the day, like free people without a care in the world. 

It felt like we knew everyone. People smiled and we smiled back. Women, especially older women, nodded and smiled at me in a friendly, conspiratorial way. We all saw each other. We all knew each other. 

*****

“The Simon and Garfunkel Story” is a hybrid concert/play, with singer/actors playing Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, along with a small backing band. They tell stories and play Simon and Garfunkel songs against a huge photo/video backdrop featuring American scenes of the 20th century. 

The stories and songs and images work very well together, establishing Simon and Garfunkel’s place in American life in the 60s and 70s. The cast changes costumes and looks throughout, beginning with the band’s “Tom and Jerry” buttoned-down look of the late 50s to their folk beatnik era in the 60s to their mod 70s style. 

We first saw the show in 2018, and we saw it again five years later, in 2023. The performers were different, but the show was exactly the same both times. The performance we saw last week, which was by far the best of the three (though the other two were quite good) featured a few new-to-the-show songs, and a few story changes, with most of the same 20th century Americana images and film clips. In 2018, those images evoked nostalgia. Now they evoke grief. 

*****

The first two performances we attended were very good, well-produced and very polished. The band remained in the background until the actors introduced them just before the final number. The performers all worked well together and probably went their separate ways after the curtain went down. Which is perfectly fine. 

This last performance was different. The performers seemed less rehearsed, but they were still perfect, hitting every note and every mark with the excitement and joy of musicians who love the music they're playing. Everyone on the stage was young, and the stars shouted out the band members frequently and sincerely. And the energy between Simon and Garfunkel was easy and genuine, like the two were friends in real life. 

And they are. At the end of the show, Jonah Bobo (Paul) introduced himself and Brendan Jacob Smith (Art) and told the audience that the two were theater kids and close friends at the same high school and had remained friends and musical collaborators ever since. They write and perform their own music, as well as performing covers at small venues around the East Coast. Their love for the music and for their band mates and their excitement at playing a prominent venue came across very clearly. They were a joy to watch. Just before they left the stage, they announced that they’d be in the theater lobby after the show to meet fans and take photos and sell their self-produced CDs. “No obligation on the CDs,” Smith said - “we just like to meet the audience.” 

These two young men were so sweet and patient with the line of older people who wanted to chat and take selfies. I didn’t need a selfie, or even to meet the performers, but I make it a point to buy people’s self-produced CDs, so I got in the line. Their manager, a young woman who is obviously also their friend, was working the crowd, and when she got to me, I told her that I just wanted to purchase a CD, and that the performance that evening was the best of the three times I’d seen the show. 

“Jonah,” she yelled. Jonah Bobo turned toward us, and she told me “Tell him!” When I told him that we’d seen the show three times, and that this was the best of the three performances, he broke into a huge smile. “Really?”

“By far,” I said. “Well, it’s not a competition,” he laughed, “but I’m glad we won.” 

*****

That was almost a week ago. It’s Friday now, and my mom has been here all week, so I’ve been too busy to document every detail of my days. She arrived on Sunday morning, and we’re taking her home tomorrow. 

My mom is a Simon and Garfunkel fan. She was young, barely 20, when she had me, and she always listened to pop music at home - sometimes the radio, but more often an album from her collection. She had several Simon and Garfunkel albums, including “Wednesday Morning 3 AM,” which I’m pretty sure I listened to in utero. They’re all octogenarians now - Paul Simon, Art Garfunkel, and my mom. They were born at the height of America’s importance in the world. But everything is different now, and nothing is what any of them could have expected. Paul Simon is nearly deaf in one ear now, and Art Garfunkel walks with a cane, and my poor mom is literally falling apart. They were children of the American century, and the American century is over now.

“It’s all right, it’s all right / You can’t be forever blessed.” We can’t be forever blessed. 

Friday the 13th

Some stupid jerk on the stupid internet pointed out that the last time we had a Friday the 13th in March, the whole world went to shit for more than a year. I did not need to verify that March 13, 2020 was a Friday. I remember. And as it turns out, we have another Friday the 13th this week. I did not need to know this. I need to just stay off the stupid internet. Stupid jerks. 

*****

I wish I could just stay off the stupid internet altogether, but that’s not really practical or even possible. Instead, I’m doing little things like leaving my phone in a different room when I’m home, and setting time limits on social media. I also block trolls and chaos goblins on social media like it’s my job. If it was my job, I’d be good at it. I’d be highly paid. 

*****

Let’s talk about what’s good. My son is home for spring break, and even though I can’t really take any time off to hang around with him, it’s really nice to have him here. My husband went to a hockey game last night, and so I took both of my sons out to eat at a neighborhood restaurant and bar. It’s a low-key, easygoing place, part pub and part sports bar. My sons each ordered a beer with their dinner, and were subject to careful driver’s license vs. face scrutiny, which I found entertaining since I’m obviously their mother, and I’m not the kind of mother who’s going to aid and abet her underage child in an attempt to order beer in a restaurant. After the ID check, the waiter looked at me as if for confirmation, so I told him that I’m their mother and they are truly 24 and 21 years old, and he was satisfied, and the boys got their beers. It was a really nice evening. 

*****

In the movie “Hanging Up,” directed by Nora Ephron and based on her life, Meg Ryan plays Eve, a woman who is hanging on by the thinnest of threads - running a business, raising a child with very little help from her husband, managing a Martha Stewart-esque household, and caring for her cantankerous, early-Alzheimer’s father, played by Walter Matthau (his last role, I think). Diane Keaton plays Georgia, her famous and successful older sister (the Nora Ephron character) and Lisa Kudrow plays Maddie, the bohemian actress younger sister. It’s a good movie, despite a pretty tepid critical response when it was released. Critics can be stupid. I should know, because I write my own inept criticism and commentary all the time, and I can be stupid. 

Anyway, there is a scene in which Eve is rushing to work from the hospital where her father is a patient, and she backs into a Mercedes. The Mercedes driver, a doctor, admonishes Eve for her carelessness, but he’s not a jerk about it; and as a doctor, he can also see that she’s struggling. He hands Eve over to his mother, who is so kind that Eve breaks down crying about her father and everything else in her chaotic life. The mother tells her son that Eve has been through enough and that she shouldn’t have to pay for the damage. 

“He’s an uproar person.” That is the doctor’s mother, describing Eve’s father. A person who is never happy unless everyone around him is miserable, a whirling dervish of crazy who is always in the midst of an uproar, who creates uproar when none exists, and who thrives on the confusion and fury and misery that results from uproar. Does that sound familiar? 

Yes, this entire country - in fact, this entire world - is run by uproar people. Once again, Nora Ephron explains it all. 

*****

I wonder if God is in His heaven, looking down at us all and thinking “What the hell do I have to do to make you morons believe that climate change is real?” After work yesterday, I took off my sweater and put on my sunglasses to walk to my car, and drove home with music blasting and the moonroof open and summer in the air. The high temperature on Wednesday reached 82, and then an intense, high-wind August thunderstorm blew through, threatening trees and roof tiles and patio furniture. Today, Thursday, the windows were closed and the heat was turned back up and I sat at my desk working and watching the snow fall. We’ve cycled through all four seasons twice in the last two weeks. If I were to personify Maryland weather, I would call it an uproar person. 

*****

I started grocery shopping for an old lady in our neighborhood right at the beginning of the pandemic, and I’m still doing her weekly shopping, six years later. My younger son, who was 15 in March 2020, used to help me. The first time I went shopping for the old lady, she wrote the check for $20 more than the total I gave her. I told her not to do that, but she insisted. So I asked my son to come along and help, and I gave him the extra $20. 

School was closed during the first few months of the pandemic, and then summer came, and activities were drastically curtailed, so he always had time to help with the shopping. But even when school and activities resumed, my son made time to go shopping with me. We would laugh about the old lady’s crazy ass grocery requests, and talk about everything and anything. Those grocery trips are among my fondest memories. 

My son is home this week for spring break. He’s working and studying and training and seeing his friends, but he set aside the early part of Thursday evening to accompany me to Safeway. We talked in the car, about everything and anything, and we dunked on our poor old lady’s weird grocery requests. Literally the highlight of my week. And of course, I gave him $20, even though $20 isn’t what it was even as recently as 2020. 

*****

I’d never heard of Kharg Island until yesterday, which was finally Friday the 13th. I suppose I’m relieved that we didn’t drop a nuke on Tehran yesterday, but I think that the Kharg Island bombing is going to turn out to be a very big deal. I think that decades from now, people will talk about Kharg Island like we now talk about the Tonkin Gulf or Mosul or Kandahar, all places that most Americans had never thought of before we barged in with soldiers and tanks and bombs. 

Yesterday being Friday makes today Saturday, and we have plans. We’re going to an afternoon hockey game followed by a show at the National Theater. I kind of can’t believe that I’m doing two things in one day. My energy is limited right now, what with all worst-case-scenario forecasting and resulting panic. And it doesn’t feel right, flitting around to sporting events and theatricals. But it will be good to be out, and necessary since I’ll be on lockdown for the next week. My mom arrives tomorrow and that’s a whole thing in itself. I’m going from macro problems to micro ones. It’ll be chaos around here, but it’s the kind of chaos that I’m used to and can manage. My mom likes having me take care of her, and I kind of like taking care of her. It’s the least I can do. 

In like an absolute jerk

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning with the promise of sunshine and spring temperatures all day. February is almost over. It would be a pretty much perfect day except that we are now at war with Iran. Apparently, the Board of Peace got bored with peace. 

I have no idea how my Trump-supporting friends and family members (who are fortunately very few in number) feel about last night’s bombing raids and the wider war that will almost certainly follow. I’m not going to argue with them anymore. There’s more than enough proof that he’s the worst President in US history. There’s plenty of proof that he’s the worst American ever, full stop. What can I say that they don’t already know? 

War with Iran was inevitable, I guess, and it’s not at all surprising that it’s happening the day after the Clintons sat for depositions before the House Oversight Committee. I’m beyond furious that Hillary Clinton had to sit through this clown show answering questions from people who aren’t worthy to sit in the same room with her. I’m so sick of seeing her made a scapegoat for the worst people. I’m sick of the He-Man Woman Haters Club that runs this country.  

*****

It’s Sunday now. Three Americans died yesterday, along with many Iranians, including about 100 students of a girls’ school in Tehran. And I am once again sick. Sick in both senses of the word, that is - I’m horrified and sickened by the death and destruction, but I’m also just sick. Chills, fever, and some other symptoms that you don’t need to know about. Gross. 

I absolutely hate being sick. Sometimes when I feel overwhelmed, I think that a well-timed positive COVID test or a quick stomach virus would be just the thing. But then I get that little quick stomach virus and I’m just miserable. 

But that’s enough about me. 

*****

It’s Monday now, and I’m better, I think. I thought a little bit yesterday about sickness and why it exists and what we’re meant to learn from it. From our own sickness, we learn to appreciate our health; and from the sickness of others, we learn compassion; or rather, we should learn compassion. Illnesses are clues about the human body that medical science can eventually decipher, and when all the clues are solved, they can cure all disease or even eliminate it altogether. And then what? Everyone just lives until age 95 or so? The place would get crowded. 

Wait, is that it? Is the earth too crowded? Is that why crusty old men start wars every decade or so? Just a big old Marie Kondo clear out the human clutter population purge? I took a break to watch the President’s speech today; or rather, I watched it until he veered off topic and started yammering about pile drivers and curtains. This took about five minutes. How is it possible for anyone to be so evil and yet so entirely unserious? And how is it possible that this is the person who is now running the country with the literal power of life and death? 

*****

It’s Tuesday and I worked in the office so I didn’t see today’s Q&A session. I also didn’t see any of Kristi Noem’s Senate hearing, but I read that even Republican Senators were roasting her. And they probably roasted her for all the wrong reasons - because she’s making Trump look bad and because (of course) she’s a woman - but I don’t even care because she’s just that awful. If Kristi is roasting then I do not care who is turning the spit. Just make sure she’s done on both sides. 

*****

And now Ecuador? We’re at war in Ecuador? What in the actual hell? 

OK, what else is going on? Let’s talk about Maryland weather for a few minutes. It snowed all day on Monday, and the high temperature was about 35 degrees. In Maryland, March comes in like a jerk. March comes in like Stephen Miller around here. And it’s way too early to predict how March will go out, but we’re expecting temperatures in the 70s and low 80s next week. Madness. 

We could also talk about books. I just finished Zadie Smith’s White Teeth, about which I will have much to say. Right now, I’m reading The Little Princesses, Marion Crawford’s memoir of her time as governess to Elizabeth II and Princess Margaret when they were little girls whose father wasn’t supposed to become King. It’s surprisingly good, but there’s quite a sad history behind it. I’ll report on that one later, too. 

*****

Well, well, well. No more private jets and high-fashion tactical gear for you, Kristi Noem. 

Noem’s firing is actually neither good news nor bad news. It’s fun to see terrible people get their well-deserved comeuppances, but nothing is really going to change. Her successor is just as terrible and possibly even more stupid, which scarcely seems possible, but we’re a long way from the bottom. Senator Markwayne Mullin is the guy who tried to square off with the President of the Teamsters during a Senate hearing. He’s just dumb enough to think that a few MMA fights prepared him to go mano a mano with a Teamster. Sean O’Brien would have dog-walked Markwayne Mullin. 

Senator Mullin also made some comments that seemed to indicate that he did not know that the Ayatollah who died in the US bombing raid last week was not the same Ayatollah who oversaw the attack on the American embassy in Tehran in 1979. Khomeini (old guy, now dead) and Khamenei (new guy, also now dead): two different guys. Hopefully, soon-to-be Secretary Mullin is doing his homework and will assume his new role with a basic understanding of the Iranian hierarchy seeing as they are one of the chief threats to homeland security right now. And at least he’ll be out of the Senate. Always a bright side. 

*****

At this point, my blog is nothing more than a personal journal, so I’m not even going to worry about tying this post together in a coherent and logical way. You didn’t come here for logic and coherence, did you? If the answer is yes, then you're in the wrong place. Allow me to introduce myself. Please refer to every other entry in this blog ever. Please refer to the rest of my life. 

*****

It was a bleak and dreary week, but it’s Friday now. I love my job but I’m tired. A little downtime might be just what the doctor ordered. Still, weekends are dodgy under Trump 47. God willing, the President will restrict the bomb-dropping to the countries where we’re already at war. Hopefully, we won’t wake up on Sunday morning to find that we sent troops into Canada or that we’re blockading Guam. I was going to be really petty and say that I hoped it would rain on Mar a Lago all weekend long, but we can’t have him bored and restless. I guess I’ll have to indulge my pettiness by celebrating Kristi Noem’s downfall. Meanwhile, keep your dogs inside. Someone has a lot of time on her hands. 

Fasting

Today is Shrove Tuesday, also known as Fat Tuesday or Mardi Gras. It’s Pancake Day in some households. It’s Paczki Day in others. But tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, no matter what you call the Tuesday before. 

You probably know that Catholics and some other Christians observe a tradition of fasting and sacrifice during Lent. We are supposed to mostly fast on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, and to avoid meat on Fridays throughout the 6-week season. We are encouraged, though not required, to “give something up” for Lent - sweets or alcohol or social media or something. I always give up chocolate, a hard sacrifice for me. And Lent is about giving as well as sacrificing. More time spent in prayer, charitable contributions beyond the usual, selfless action toward others - it’s all part of the season. 

Lent is actually relatively easy now. In the pre-Vatican 2 Catholic church, Catholics gave up meat for the entire season, not just on Fridays; as well as butter, eggs, and sugar. Hence the Fat Tuesday tradition - Catholics needed to use up all of their butter and sugar and eggs before Lent began. 

*****

The winter of 2023 - 2024 was when I started to feel some grudging affection for winter. It was my youngest son’s first year in college and by January, I had gotten used to not having him at home. I still missed him, but it was easier. And of course, we got to cheer at college swim meets, and there are few things more fun than cheering at a college swim meet. 

My husband was working a lot that winter (as always), and my older son, who lived at home while he finished college, was often out. I spent a lot of time by myself that winter, and I remember looking out the window at the calm winter twilight, feeling the darkness gather and close in like a blanket. I’d only turn the lights on when it was fully dark outside. I read a lot of books that winter. I made soup. I watched movies. It was nice. Peaceful. 

This winter is not a peaceful time for me or anyone, but I still have cozy little winter twilight flashbacks. I still hate the cold, but I must admit that I’ve become rather fond of certain aspects of winter. 

*****

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, and we’re now in the season of Lent. As always, I’m giving up sweets, including sugar in my tea. As always, Lent is going to be hard. It’s only the second day and it’s already hard. But it’s fine. Life is hard. 

Life felt especially hard yesterday for some odd reason, and not just because of the Ash Wednesday fast and the sugar deprivation. Everything felt sad and dreary. I worked from home and my oversize sweater and stretchy pants felt like sackcloth, which goes well with ashes, I guess. There’s something about the Ash Wednesday timing this year - right after President’s Day and right after the Conference meet - that makes it feel like winter is coming to an abrupt end. And in very uncharacteristic fashion, I am not ready for winter to end. What is wrong with me? Who am I, even? 

*****

Isn’t it weird how other democratic modern industrialized nations can hold their elite to the basic standard of “the law applies to you, too, buddy” and we can’t manage to do the same? Shout out to the UK. Shout out to South Korea. May it be here as it is there. 

*****

Yeah, I get sidetracked sometimes. Anyway, it would appear that I spoke too soon about the abrupt departure of winter because we expect another winter storm on Sunday, and another few days of stupid cold temperatures, and it turns out that I might just be ready for this to end after all. The thing is that I just feel like hibernating for a few weeks longer. I want to come home from work in the evening and watch the darkness close in and not go anywhere. I want to come home and stay home. But I’ll want to be out in the world again as soon as the weather and the longer days make the outside world a bit more hospitable. 

“Outside world” - listen to me as if I’ve been housebound all winter. I’m out in the world all the time. ALL the time, I tell you. 

*****

I haven’t paid much attention to the Olympics, but I’ve watched Alysa Liu’s free skate at least five times now. I’d heard her extraordinary comeback story and I knew that she had won gold so I found the YouTube video so that I could keep up with the conversation. I teared up like a baby the moment I heard the opening chords of Donna Summer’s “MacArthur Park,” one of my favorite childhood songs and still an absolute banger. I loved everything about that performance. Every single woman who remembers being a girl who was too loud or too quiet or too fat or too sexy or not sexy enough or too smart or too silly loved that performance. Every single woman who has ever been told how to dress and how to act and what to eat and and what to say and when to smile, smile, smile (but not like that because boys will get ideas) loved that performance. Alysa Liu had had enough of all of that, so much so that she quit skating at age 16. And then she came roaring back at 20, determined to do everything her own way, with joy and without fear. And she won. I’d follow that 20-year-old girl into battle. 

*****

It’s Sunday morning now. I was going to go to Mass. I really should go to Mass, but it’s raining hard and it just feels like a day when I’m not going to leave the house. At least the month-old dirty snow is almost gone, soon to be replaced by fresh clean snow. As always, the DMV snow forecast is less than definitive. Latest reports indicate that we’ll see anywhere from zero to 48 inches. 

I’m watching the gold medal US vs. Canada game. Connor Hellebuyck is the truth, as my son says. If the US manages to win this thing (it just went into overtime), then he’s absolutely the MVP. 

This is crazy. I’m too old to watch 3 on 3 overtime. 

*****

USA! USA! That was an absolutely amazing hockey game. I didn’t think I’d miss the Olympics when it was over, but I’m definitely going to miss it a little bit. 

I’m watching the medals ceremony and texting with my husband, my son, my cousin, and my boss. I love a lot of the Canadian players, especially Tom Wilson and Logan Thompson. And I’m one of the only Capitals fans in the world who likes Brad Marchand. I feel bad for those Canadians. But not that bad. Americans have been through some shit this year. We needed a win. 

*****

We can’t have nice things for five minutes, can we? Thankfully, I turned the TV off right after the medals ceremony so I didn’t have to watch Kash Patel ruining the locker room party. I can’t even muster outrage about the stupid Trump call because OF COURSE he made fun of the women’s team and OF COURSE they all laughed. But I can absolutely muster outrage about stupid Kash Patel flying to Cortina in his little private jet at the taxpayers’ expense, and then making the whole thing about him. Every member of the Krusty Kabinet Krew (see what I did there) should just quit and spend their time making “own the libs” social media content. That’s all they do anyway, and I’d prefer that they do it at their own expense.  

*****

The snow fell overnight, leaving us with maybe 5 inches of new white snow. The sky is pale gray, almost white, and the trees are weighed down with heavy, damp snow. This latest snowfall will melt by the end of the week. We’re about to enter the first full week of Lent. And it’s Monday, so it’s time to get to work. It’s fasting season now in more ways than one, but cheering season will return. 

A week in February

I’m reading a book now, and I’m only a few pages in so it’s too early to write about it but I will be writing about it soon. Stay tuned. Watch this space. 

So what should I write about, other than the collapse of America, a topic of which I never tire. But maybe my vast readership would like for me to change the subject. So I will. 

It’s Super Bowl Sunday and I don’t care one little bit about this game, although I do hope Seattle wins, for reasons. It’s extraordinarily cold and bright outside. Sunlight always seems so much brighter on crisp, cold days, especially when it reflects on the snow that fell two weeks ago and that is nowhere close to melting. 

*****

My sons and I went to Barnes and Noble yesterday. I wanted to buy books, but I really can’t justify the purchase of any additional books until I read all the ones I already have. So it’s going to be a while. Instead, I paid for the books that my sons had picked out for themselves because I can and because I like to treat my kids.

*****

We go to the same Super Bowl party every year, and that’s exactly what we did on Sunday. It was lovely - fewer people than usual, and we were quieter than usual, but it was still a good time. It was nice to be out. It was nice to be with people. 

*****

My younger son has always liked the grocery store. He always went shopping with me, while my older son, given the choice, would stay home with my husband or on his own when he got old enough. We both liked the one-on-one time. My son also had (and still has) very specific preferences for breakfast and lunch and snack foods, and accompanying me was the best way to make sure that I stocked up on his favorites. 

Last weekend, he was home overnight. When I announced that I was going shopping and asked if anyone wanted anything, my younger son stood up and said “Can I go?” Can you go? Of course you can! My son is 21 and he doesn’t get home as often as I would like and I will take any chance I can to hang out with him, including a grocery run. Especially a grocery run. 

And that’s really all there is to that story. It was just one of those mundane and ordinary little bits of time that wouldn’t seem memorable from the outside but it was memorable to me. I will remember that grocery store trip and that bookstore visit. 

*****

The temperature is going to claw its way out of the 30s today - maybe even out of the 40s - and the sun is out and I’m watching my favorite fat little squirrel sitting on the fence outside my window. He appears to be grooming himself. Or maybe it’s a she. The squirrel does appear to be up the spout, so I think she’s a she. Anyway, she just finished her morning routine, and she’s on her way. But she’s always welcome to return. My fence is your fence, Squirrelly Hemphill. Take care of yourself. 

*****

On Thursday, we leave for Lexington Park, where we’ll be spending the weekend. The Atlantic East Conference Championship is at St. Mary’s College of Maryland, too far from Silver Spring to drive back and forth between prelims and finals. And it’s a really fun weekend. The Benito Bowl was great, and the Olympics are fine (I’m a Summer Olympics person), but this is the real sports highlight of the year for us. 

*****

Imagine spending 15 weeks walking all day and into the night, carrying all of your belongings, eating one meal per day, sleeping wherever you find room (sometimes outdoors), through highways and trails and city streets and suburban neighborhoods, in all conditions and no matter how much your body might be crying out for rest, you keep going. The Buddhist monks who have been walking for peace for 15 weeks wrapped up their 1,800-mile walk from Texas to Washington, DC. Marymount University, where my son is a student, was one of their last stops. They arrived late on Monday afternoon and spent the night on campus - I’m not sure where, because they barely have enough dorm rooms for the students. Maybe some students volunteered to give up their rooms for the monks. Or maybe they spent the night in the gym. 

My son sent me a video of the peace walk arriving at Marymount’s tiny campus, and I think that not only the entire university, but the entire neighborhood, turned out to welcome the monks.  I wish I could have been there, but I’m glad he got to be there. 

*****

It's Thursday afternoon and I'm in the car on the Capital Beltway (not driving, of course). It's 2 PM, bright and sunny, and we're on our way to do our favorite thing, which is to watch college swimming. The only thing better than a college swim meet is a 4-day multiple session college swimming extravaganza. It's Atlantic East Conference championship weekend. The Super Bowl and Olympics cannot compare. 

This is our third year as Marymount swim parents, and we have a routine now. We're staying at our usual hotel, and we'll have lunch and happy hour with the other team parents at the usual spots, and we'll spend an afternoon at Solomon's Island, and we'll chill in the hotel room in the evening. But mostly we'll sit in the bleachers at the Saint Mary's College of Maryland pool and we'll cheer for the Saints. What could be better?

*****

On a typical Thursday night, I would drive home from work, do some household chores, drop off my work bag, and then go grocery shopping for my old lady. Then I would eat sushi and do laundry and write something and then read or watch TV or both until it's time to go to bed. Last night, I watched my son's 200 medley relay break their own program, conference, and meet records, and his teammates’ 800 free relay also break all their records, and then I sat in a hotel lobby drinking wine and chatting with my favorite team parents. That was a pretty good Thursday night. 

It's Friday morning now. I woke up early and sat quietly in the dark hotel room, reading and drinking hotel room coffee. Waking up in a quiet, dark hotel room and making room coffee and then getting back into bed with a book is such an underrated human experience. It's one of my favorite things about any overnight trip. 

Friday is 200 IM day. 200 IM is not my son's best event, but he'll final, and one of his teammates will probably win. As always, the Marymount parents group shows up and shows out. We have team lanyards (it's a swimming thing) and pom-poms and T-shirts, and we cheer loudly and enthusiastically. The other teams are catching up. The pool at the Michael P. O'Brien Aquatic and Recreation Center was a hub of excitement last night, and that excitement will build throughout the weekend as Marymount and St. Mary's trade leads. No disrespect to the other four teams, but this thing is pretty much a dual meet. 

*****

It's Saturday morning now, and the Marymount boys hold a 16 point lead. In a college championship meet, this is a veritable tie. So it's going to be an interesting day. 

Saturday is 100 breast day. My son is nervous and so am I. He is the defending champion in this event and everyone wants to take down a defending champion. And there are three or four swimmers here who could do it. This race could go any way. 

I know that it's silly for me to be nervous but I am. And all of the swim parents out here saying that they don't really care about their kids' times or placement or if they win or lose or make a relay or not are lying. I say stupid shit like this all the time and when I do, I am lying. 

We all care. But why we care is what varies. A few parents might really feel that their kids' athletic performance reflects on them and so a bad race is something they could or should have done something to prevent. But most of us care because we hate to see our child's disappointment after a bad race. And more than that, we really love seeing their elation after a best time or a flipped race or a win or even a record. That moment of triumph and sheer joy is something to witness. We love to see it. 

*****

And we got to see it last night. Even though it was a silver finish, it might have been the best and most exciting race of my son's career, and it wasn't just me saying that. 

My son's senior teammate, also an excellent breaststroker, has been trying to beat him in the 100 breaststroke for three years, and he finally did it last night. Both boys swam best times and they were neck and neck, trading the razor thin lead throughout the four lengths of the pool. The finish was so close that we had to check the scoreboard to confirm the winner. I'd have loved to see my son win it and swim the 400 medley relay, but I certainly couldn't have asked him to do better or try harder. They left it all in the pool last night. 

It's Sunday now. One more day of championship swimming and then it's over again until next year. My son swims the 200 breast today, and he's not likely to win but he could very well medal. The Marymount boys have a solid lead now, and the girls are behind by only 6 points. Hoping for a two way Saints win tonight. 

*****

I overheard two parents talking - one asked where the other’s wife was, and the man said that she was skipping the meet this year and the first person laughed and said “How is she getting away with that?”

These are two really fine people who happen to have other children who are D1 swimmers. I couldn’t tell if they were being performatively blase or if they’d really rather have been somewhere else. No judgement, but I would not have been anywhere else this weekend. 

It’s Monday morning, and the 2025-2026 swim season is over. The Marymount boys won the meet, with the girls a close second. And my son did medal in the 200 breaststroke - he finished second just behind the conference record-holder, a St. Mary’s junior. My son’s girlfriend told me that the St. Mary’s swimmer’s parents were very nervous during this race, as they should have been. It was very very close until the last 25. 

*****

This is Presidents’ Day. This week’s internet joke is that Presidents’ Day should be cancelled until we have a real President, which is not only a lame joke (even though the principle behind it is quite sound) but an outrage because I am not willing to give up the free gift of a day off. It was a wonderful weekend, but I have some catching up to do - bills to pay, groceries to buy, laundry to do, and a house that isn’t going to compulsively clean itself. The promised book review is coming. I’m sure you’re all agog.