Correspondence school

I have been writing every day, mostly about things that I can’t write about on the Internet, so I’ll write about what I’m reading right now, which is a book of letters between and among the six Mitford sisters (Nancy, Pamela, Diana, Unity, Jessica, and Deborah, in that order). 

First of all, let me address the proverbial elephant in the room, and he’s a big one. It’s impossible to read about the MItfords, or to read their correspondence, without being shocked by their politics. Diana Mitford and Unity Mitford were Nazis. And I’m not calling them Nazis in the Godwin’s Law sense of the word. They were not Nazi sympathizers. They were not old-guard aristos with hard-right political leanings. They were not fussy English ladies who secretly admired Mussolini because he made the Italian trains run on time. They were Nazis. During the mid-1930s, Diana Mitford and Unity Mitford moved to Germany and joined the Nazi party, and their letters from Berlin were filled with praise of their beloved Fuhrer, whom they knew personally because of course they did (in all fairness, the Mitfords knew everyone). Unity attempted suicide (unsuccessfully) when Britain and Germany went to war in 1939. Diana and her husband Sir Oswald Mosley, head of the British Union of Fascists, served some time (not enough) in prison when they returned to England. 

Jessica (“Decca”) Mitford was on the other hand a Communist who lived in the United States and worked in support of the civil rights movement. The sisters’ letters contain breezy racist comments about Decca’s Black (“colored” or “Negro”) friends and associates. Even Deborah (“Debo”), the youngest and (seemingly) nicest of the Mitfords, sister-in-law of John F. Kennedy’s sister Kathleen, was wary of visiting Decca because she feared that she wouldn’t know how to behave with her sister’s decidedly non-white friends.  

I suppose you could grant the Mitford sisters very wide latitude, acknowledging that they were a product of their time (early 20th century) and place (England) and class (upper); but even within those parameters, they were still occasionally rather horrid (Nancy mostly, who had quite a mean streak), sometimes snobbish and classist and racist (many examples), and even flat-out monstrous and evil (Nazis, for crying out loud). So why do they still have such appeal? Why do people still read their letters and their books and memoirs? Why do I want to read ever more about them, even though I feel that I already have a solid level of Mitford knowledge?

Part of it is my unwavering fascination with the early to mid 20th century. I love to read anything, fiction or nonfiction (especially nonfiction), that addresses this period of history. So much good and bad in just a few short decades. So much progress, alongside so much resistance to same. So much potential, realized and unrealized. So many ways in which this short period of time yanked the world kicking and screaming into modernity, for better and for worse. So much upheaval and violence and terror, juxtaposed with so much prosperity and peace and ease of life for a few people with the promise (largely unfulfilled) of the same for many more. It’s the largely unfulfilled part that haunts me. Was the mid to late 20th century the best that we could do in terms of ensuring the best possible life for the greatest possible number of people? Because it’s been downhill since the turn of this century, and no sign that the ever-smaller group of people in power in the world are motivated to change this. 

That’s the macro. The macro is the huge stage on which the Mitfords lived their pretty huge lives as friends or at least acquaintances with all of the people who built 20th century Europe and England and America in all their glory and horror. To read the Mitfords’ letters is to read history, with first-hand eyewitness insight that historians can only dream of. 

But it’s the micro that’s the real draw. The personal and family lives of the six sisters, their multiple residences all over Europe and America (none of them ever seemed to stay in one house for more than a few months at a time), their servants and their art and their estates and furnishings and gardens and food, their clothes (Nancy’s haute couture and Debo’s English tweeds), the books they read and the books they wrote, their incredibly rarefied social lives and friendships with heads of state (elected and crowned), renowned artists and writers, and pretty much all of English and European high society, make for endlessly interesting reading.

***** 

One notable thing about the Mitfords is that although most of them never worked what we in 21st century America would consider a real job (two exceptions: Nancy worked in a bookstore in London before her success as a writer made her financially independent, and Jessica worked for the US government and then for various American Communist organizations and publications before she too became independently wealthy as a bestselling author), they were all very industrious. The Mitford sisters led lives of leisure, not laziness. They had household help (in one letter, Nancy complains of the hardship of having to make her own bed when her maid is on holiday) and were mostly free from scheduled work obligations, but they still worked quite hard. Nancy and Jessica were always on deadline; always writing something. Deborah, who married Andrew Cavendish and became Duchess of Devonshire when Andrew’s older brother (husband of JFK’s sister Kathleen) was killed in action in World War II, had to manage multiple estates, including Chatsworth, which was preserved thanks mostly to her efforts. Debo single handedly turned Chatsworth into a successful enterprise, complete with hotels and restaurants and shops, with thousands of paying guests every year. Diana was also a writer, though far less successful than Nancy and Jessica, and she continued to support her husband’s political career while managing multiple households. Pamela also dedicated herself to her high-profile husband’s career and households. All but Nancy (multiple miscarriages) and Unity had children and were very involved in their children’s lives and upbringing. Only Unity, left permanently brain-damaged by her suicide attempt, failed to accomplish anything notable before she died of meningitis at age 34. 

*****

The Mitfords were and are endlessly interesting, stylish, privileged, gifted, and amusing. They were in turns and depending on the sister, beautiful, kind, thoughtful, brilliant; but also racist, elitist, snobbish, selfish, callously indifferent to other people, and even a bit mean at times. Diana was a loving and kind sister, devoted mother and wife, and loyal friend. Her letters are full of genuine concern for her family, her friends, and her servants, who were obviously devoted to her. In one letter, she writes about rushing to dress early in the morning so that she can deliver the news of her gardener’s son’s death (motorcycle accident) to the family before the police get to them. In another, she asks a friend to invite her long-time housekeeper and butler, an Irish Catholic married couple, to a reception to meet the Pope. Diana nursed Nancy through her last months, and Nancy was no picnic even when healthy. If you didn’t know that Diana was a Nazi, you’d think she was a saint. 

Brilliant Nancy was a gifted writer and a person of great style and refinement, but she was also lonely, often unkind, and sometimes downright cruel. Jessica was the classic example of a social justice warrior who cares greatly about humanity in the abstract but is often oblivious to the feelings and needs of the actual people in her actual life. Debo was capable, hardworking, funny, and kind-hearted but also completely blind to the inherent rot and corruption at the heart of the British class system. Poor Unity was just a disaster, and having read some of her letters, I can’t help but think that her Nazism was really just a symptom of mental illness. Regarding the Nazism, there was no such excuse for Diana who was clearly of very sound mind. 

Of all the sisters, only Pamela (who wrote the fewest letters) seemed to be completely and unreservedly loved by all of her sisters, almost all the time. No one ever complained about Pamela (nicknamed “Woman” because she was the only one of the six who had any enthusiasm for traditional feminine pursuits). There were shifting alliances and temporary coolnesses and even long-running estrangements (Diana and Jessica, who fell out over politics, obviously) between and among the other sisters. Pamela remained above all of that, except for one fight about a missing scrapbook. I myself would not even notice if a scrapbook went missing, but this was a big deal to the sisters who knew, late in life, that their letters and photographs would have some historical and cultural value. 

*****

I was really tired last week. Tired, recovering from a slight non-COVID illness, and just out of sorts, I dragged myself out of the house early on Saturday morning, and I drove to Rockville High School to work my volunteer shift at the annual mulch sale. That was about the last thing that I wanted to do that day, but I signed up to work, and I do what I say I’m going to do. It wasn’t a hard job. I didn’t volunteer to deliver mulch or supervise student mulch-carriers. I volunteered to wrangle other volunteers, manning the check-in table where the kids checked in, picked up their wristbands and t-shirts, and then came back to pick up their student service forms so that they’ll get credit for their volunteer hours. An easy job on a sunny, not-too-cold day, amid pleasant company. All in all, it was nothing to complain about. 

I thought about the Mitfords that morning, about what they would think about the life of an average middle class American woman. What would they think about our jobs and our households and our social lives? What would Nancy or Debo or even Decca who was for all intents and purposes an American, have thought about mulch sale? What would they have thought about friendship and acquaintanceship among suburban American mothers? 

Well, I can easily guess what they would think about my early spring Saturday, at least the mulch sale part. I think that they would have been appalled at the idea of parents selling garden mulch to raise money for their children’s school. And I think they’d have been even more appalled at our clothes. Even Debo and Jessica, neither of whom were seen as fashion exemplars, would never have been seen in public or even in private wearing orange “So Mulch to Do” t-shirts over hoodies or turtlenecks or long-sleeved t-shirts and jeans. Come to think of it, their gardeners and household staff would also never have been seen in such garments. Diana Mitford probably wore better clothes when she was incarcerated at Holloway Prison. But externals aside, what would the Mitford sisters have thought about me and my friends and acquaintances? 

Despite our technology and our modern conveniences, I think that the sisters would probably have considered us rather primitive. Most of us stay in one place all year round, with maybe a short vacation or overnight trip here or there. Most of us have one simple household, and a DIY approach to housekeeping. Most of us buy our mass-produced clothes off the rack. Our correspondence is electronic and our meals are of the quick and easy variety. We are masters of multi-tasking, experts at finding the most direct and utilitarian approach to every problem. Our lives are efficient and streamlined, often beautiful, but seldom elegant. 

*****

I'm almost at the end of the book. The sisters continued to write to one another throughout their lives, and right now it's about 1990 in Mitford letter years. As always, the sisters remained close to the history makers and influencers of the day. Sometime in the mid ‘80s, Debo visited the US as a guest of the Smithsonian when she lent works of art for a major exhibit and she writes to Decca about sitting next to "a fellow named Shultz," who of course turns out to be Secretary of State George Shultz. In another letter she writes about a lovely family dinner cooked by Tony Richardson's daughter Natasha. The letters go all the way until 2003 so I’m looking forward to reading their reactions to the events of 1997, though by then Jessica and Pamela will already be dead. 

At this point, all of the sisters are well aware of their fame and their place in history. They often mention saving letters and papers for posterity. In earlier letters, one or the other of the sisters would write a disingenuous “why won’t they leave one alone, so tiresome” complaint about journalists’ interest in the Mitford family. Later, though, the ever-insightful Diana not only acknowledges that their interest is understandable, but also admits that she herself would be jealous of the Mitford family if she hadn’t chanced to be part of it. 

*****

It’s natural for people to compare their lives with those of others in the past or the present, and I’m sure that I am not the only middle-class American woman to compare the external trappings of my life to the external trappings of the Mitfords’ lives and to find my own life a bit lacking. I’m sure that I’m not the only modern woman who occasionally longs for elegance, beauty, style, charm, or whatever it is we think that people in the past had that we don’t have in our modern and streamlined and efficient and sometimes dull lives. But I know myself well enough to know that I was born in the right time and the right place. I know myself well enough now that I know how stupid it is that I feel a bit guilty that I don’t spend more time and effort on cooking and serving delicious meals and tending to my garden and dressing and presenting myself in a more stylish and elegant way. It’s stupid because if I did all of those things, even if I had the means in terms of time or money, I’d feel guilty about that, too. That’s just me. 

*****

“It’s true my world is peopled by characters in books, & it’s a mystery how you, so interested in human nature, can do without it seen through the eyes of genius. But perhaps it’s clever nature at work which gave you a task far more important than just loving to read. Your fund of wonderful human sympathy is much more unselfish, in fact reading is selfish & would probably waste your time which you spend making life bearable for one & all. So in the end I applaud your choice. It is much cleverer to do than just to think.” 

Diana wrote this to Deborah in a March 1998 letter. By 1998, Diana and Deborah were the only remaining sisters. Diana would live until 2003 leaving Deborah alone for the last 11 years of her life. As she grew old, Diana spent more of her time at home, reading and gardening and writing letters. Deborah was busy from morning to night, managing her many business interests, entertaining guests, attending Parliament openings and Order of the Garter investiture ceremonies and generally leading the ideal life of an aristocratic English lady, a life of privilege and noblesse oblige. Their late letters back and forth are all just as touching as this passage, filled with love and admiration and affection for one another. Both women had many friends, not to mention children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews and long-time household servants, all of whom make appearances in the letters. But it’s clear that Deborah and Diana were each other’s favorite people, and that both of them dreaded the inevitable–that one of them would soon be left alone without her sister, without the one person who knew her for her whole life. 

*****

If I had to describe the Mitfords and their lives in one word, the only word that would suffice would be “complicated.” Like most of us, they contained multitudes of good and bad and in-between. They contained beauty and elegance and culture and refinement and love and kindness and good humor right next to meanness and class snobbery and racism and downright horrifying politics. If I had to judge them I suppose I’d have to judge them by the standards of their own time and place and not my own, but it’s not my place to judge them by any standards. It’s not my place to judge anyone. 

*****

I finally finished the book. Deborah Mitford lived until 2014, but the famous Mitford sister letters ended in 2003 when Diana died. It’s time for a break from mid-century England and Europe, so I just started reading Chuck Klosterman’s The Nineties: A Book. I’m still in the past, but it’s the relatable, modern, American past. It’s the past that I remember and understand. I’ll be back to read more Mitfordiana, though. Novels, memoirs, social history, volumes of letters–a person could spend years with the Mitford sisters. Despite all, they are good company. 

Honestly

Months ago, when the uproar about Spotify and stupid Joe whatever-his-name-is and his stupid podcast still seemed worthy of attention, I started writing something about it. The thing that I was writing started out as a sort of on-the-one-hand and then on-the-other-hand acknowledgement that what’s-his-name’s approach to COVID information is stupid at best and dangerous at worst and then a further acknowledgement that artists have every right to remove their music from the platform because that’s how the First Amendment works. That’s what it’s for. 

But then I was also going to write about how I was not planning to cancel my own personal Spotify subscription just because they give a platform to one stupid chucklehead. After all, there’s no law against stupid, and even chuckleheads have First Amendment rights. But then I found out that The What’s-His-Name Experience showcased the n-word in SEVENTY episodes and that what’s-his-name and one of his stupid dudebro guests yukked it up about sexually harassing and abusing women and then it was no longer a First Amendment issue; it was just an issue of simple human decency and my responsibility not to support a company that gives a huge platform to this kind of message and this kind of messenger. So I had to cancel stupid Spotify (and I really liked stupid Spotify) and also re-write a substantial portion of a thing that I had already written. I don’t have time for this nonsense, you know what I mean? 

But since we are on the subject of problematic podcasts and stupid nonsense, let’s talk about Bari Weiss. Yeah, Bari Weiss, I know. I used to sometimes listen to Bari’s podcast “Honestly,” including part of the episode that preceded her infamous appearance on the Bill Maher show. I didn’t actually see the TV appearance because I don’t have HBO and because I just can’t stand Bill Maher. Well, I didn’t see the entire show, but I did see the now famous “I’m done with COVID” clip that made Bari Weiss the Karen of the Week. That was ages ago, of course. I'm always behind. Don't come here looking for breaking news. 

Anyway, this isn’t really about the “done with COVID” moment, which is now largely overcome by events. It’s about another episode of “Honestly,” in which Bari and her psychologist guest complained about the word “trauma.” Shall I summarize this episode for you? Here’s the gist: These young people on the TikTok and the Twitter! They break a nail and it’s “trauma!” Hothouse flowers! Snowflakes! What do they know from trauma? The Holocaust, there’s some trauma for you! 

For God’s sake. 

Well, let’s back up a second. Part of me is OK with objecting to the clinical use of the word “trauma” in any way other than how it is defined in whatever medical textbook is regarded as the authoritative source. That was the position of Bari’s psychologist guest whose name I cannot remember and do not feel like looking up. His point, a valid one, is that misusing a clinical term that has a specific and agreed-upon definition muddles the term and leads to confusion and lack of clarity in treatment and research. 

And this objection would apply to the conversational everyday use of the word, too. How many times do I tell people that words mean something, and that it’s important to try to choose words carefully? All the time, I tell you, ALL THE TIME. 

So the word “trauma” means something, and if we want to know what it means, we can just  look at a dictionary. Here is how Merriam-Webster defines the word “trauma”: “(in psychiatry) An experience that produces psychological injury or pain, or the injury so caused.” That is pretty broad, is it not? All kinds of experiences, especially experiences of young people, especially the experiences of young people since March 2020, could easily fall under the heading of “trauma.” Who is Bari Weiss or anyone, really, to decide what qualifies as “trauma” to a person who is suffering? Is it not enough to know that someone is suffering, and to just show some damn compassion? 

The whole idea of Bari and her guest questioning the validity of other people’s feelings annoyed me. I was so annoyed, actually, that I almost turned off the show. Then I second-guessed myself. I thought that maybe I was being harsh and unfair. I decided to listen for a few more minutes. And that’s when I heard the mobile therapy app commercial, narrated by Bari herself. It wasn’t the existence of the commercial or the product that it was advertising  that bothered me. I bet that mobile therapy apps are very helpful. But then in her lovely and reassuring speaking voice, Bari listed all of the different issues that the app could help with. Depression, anxiety, sleeplessness, addiction issues, compulsive behavior, stress, and (wait for it), trauma. 

Something tells me that therapists who provide services through a mobile app probably have a pretty broad definition of the word “trauma;” a definition that would contradict the very thesis of the show, namely that young people should stop calling every little problem a “trauma.”  Did Bari Weiss consider this inconsistency as she narrated the commercial? I’m sure that she recorded it earlier and that it was intended for general use on her podcast, so perhaps the contradiction never occurred to her. Perhaps she recorded that commercial months earlier and then never gave it another thought. I do stuff all the time and forget about it moments later. So it’s possible. 

On the other hand, Bari Weiss is a smart person, and her podcast is professionally produced, presumably by lots of other smart people. Did NO ONE on her staff catch this? Did no one notice that this commercial might belie the premise of the whole episode? Did no one consider that there might be a disconnect? Or did they all notice it and think about it and talk about it among themselves and ultimately decide that there wasn’t a disconnect? I don’t know. I’m overthinking this, as I tend to do. The worst interpretation is that Bari Weiss and her producers are completely aware of the inconsistency of selling “Honestly” listeners a service that helps with “trauma,” while hosting a discussion in which Bari scoffs at the very idea that any 21st century middle-class educated American even knows what trauma is. Middle class educated Americans are probably the people most likely to use a mobile therapy app and they are definitely the only people listening to Bari Weiss. 

*****

For pundits and opinion writers and commentators and thought leaders, self-appointed or otherwise, integrity is key. Integrity matters almost more than rightness; or at least it matters as much as rightness. Say (almost) whatever you want, as long as it’s not obviously hateful or ridiculous, even if it’s wrong, and as long as it comes from a place of integrity, I will still respect you. I don’t always agree with Bari Weiss, but I always considered her a person who wrote and spoke from a place of integrity. The “trauma” episode made me question this. I seriously question the integrity of a person who produces a whole podcast episode that mocks and criticizes people who think of themselves as traumatized, sponsored by an advertiser selling a service targeted at those very people. 

My objection to this episode goes beyond the obvious contradiction between its content and the advertising that supports it. The whole discussion smacked of bad faith conservative outrage-baiting about snowflakery and safe spaces and emotional support animals. It came across as though Bari Weiss or some smart young person who works for her searched Twitter and TikTok for trending topics and keywords, and decided “Hey! Here’s an idea! This will drive engagement! This will push some buttons!” I’m just tired of it. I’m tired of phony outrage and concern trolling. I’m tired of performative petty throw-down gotcha one-liners substituting for thoughtful commentary. 

*****

So why was I listening to Bari Weiss anyway? That is a reasonable question. I admire her bravery and honesty on some topics, especially the landmine-strewn field of gender theory. She is a great writer who was hounded off the NYT’s editorial board and while we’re talking about stuff that I am tired of, I am profoundly tired of seeing fanatics left and right allowed to control the discourse. I’m tired of ratio-ing and subtweeting and I’m REALLY tired of book banning and curriculum control and dishonest equivalence between obviously unequal ideas. 

Still, I’m of two minds about Bari Weiss. There's a part of me that wants to defend her, just because I’m even more sick of the Internet He-Man Woman Haters’ Club. Call me a radical feminist if you want, but my spidey senses tell me that the real reason for the strong reaction to Bari’s Bill Maher appearance had little to do with COVID and lots to do with the very existence of women speaking out about anything with our high-pitched feminine voices and our overly emotional demeanor. The word “shrill” made frequent appearances in the furious anti-Bari tweets during this little kerfuffle. Omicron panic made it easy for the haters to hide their misogyny behind a veneer of public health self-righteousness and faux outrage on behalf of service workers and public school teachers and students and beleaguered healthcare workers. But you know what they say on the Internet: We see you. I see you. 

*****

I started writing this weeks ago, obviously. But after watching Senators Cruz and Hawley and Cotton and Blackburn posing and posturing through the two days of hearings for Judge Jackson, the topic of phony political outrage trolling with a side of misogyny seemed relevant again. I’m no admirer of Senator Ben Sasse but the man earned a tiny place in my stone-cold heart for referring to the Senators’ antics as “jackassery,” especially since that remark immediately followed Cruz’s “questioning.” Well done, Senator. You’ll never get my vote for anything, ever, but you might have a little bit of my respect. 

*****

I haven’t listened to “Honestly” since the “trauma” episode. I haven’t found a new podcast home yet; but even when I do, I probably won’t listen to Bari again. It’s not ideological, although I do disagree with much of what she has to say. I just don’t want to consume any more of the tiresome content rolling off the fake outrage industrial complex’s assembly line. It’s an integrity thing. 

Project planning

Last winter and spring, I started work early every day, and I usually finished my day at 4. (I still start early but I don’t finish early). I would go for a walk outside, returning home by 5 when it was still deep winter and a bit later as the days grew longer. My sons and I would reconvene after we finished our remote work and school days from our desks in various corners of the house. Then my husband, who was no longer working remotely, would come home. I would make dinner and we’d spend the evening in the family room, sometimes watching a game or doing an online crossword puzzle together and sometimes entertaining ourselves separately. 

Weekends were completely unscheduled. As restaurants began to re-open, my husband and I would go for sushi at our favorite local place. We’d go together to pick up groceries or other supplies and then we’d return home for a quiet evening in semi-lockdown. There was a lot of reading. There was a lot of Netflix bingeing. Someone was always napping on a couch. 

The thing was that I knew at the time that this state of suspended animation was artificial and temporary. And I wanted it to be temporary. In fact, despite how pleasant it sometimes was, I really couldn't wait for it to end. I wanted to go places and do things and see people. I wanted to take the mask off. I wanted my normal, busy, over-scheduled life.

*****

Now, of course, in a case of “who could have predicted this,” I am nostalgic for early 2021. But this is not just me being neurotic and ridiculous, and it’s not just “be careful what you wish for.” I’m not just missing the slow pace and lack of scheduled obligations. It’s something else. 

In the early spring of 2021, things seemed to be taking a little turn for the better. The vaccines promised an eventual end to pandemic restrictions and a return to whatever constituted normal pre-COVID. TFG was gone from the public spotlight, or at least he was no longer the center of attention. He couldn’t even tweet. I walked around my neighborhood in the sunny early spring chill, and the cherry blossoms seemed to promise a new beginning. 

Last week, my son’s high school sent an email about a coming delivery of free test kits, and I was like “what? COVID tests? Still?” I know that the pandemic is not over yet. As a matter of fact, when I called her on Wednesday to get her shopping list, the old lady I shop for helpfully told me that I should be careful because there’s a new variant coming because of course there is. Still, COVID seems like a dim and distant memory now. Even the dreaded Omicron surge of late 2021 seems ages in the past. And amid 24/7 coverage of the dreadful war in Ukraine and the worsening humanitarian crisis and the growing danger that we’ll end up in a bloody ground war or nuclear war with Russia, the quiet mid-pandemic languishing of early 2021 seems like the gosh darn good old days. 

*****

Two years ago, on the first Saturday in March, my son played in his first high school baseball game, a scrimmage against a Middletown school. Middletown is in Frederick County, about 30 miles north of Silver Spring, and according to Google, about 200 feet higher in elevation. I remember that it was chilly when we left our house in Silver Spring and that it was absolutely freezing cold in Middletown. The other Rockville mothers and I huddled in our folding canvas chairs, bundled in winter jackets and wrapped in blankets. Later that evening, I shared pizza and spinach-artichoke dip and a bottle of wine with two other mothers while our gang of young teenage boys, who weren’t yet able to drive on their own, celebrated a friend’s birthday at the Stained Glass Pub. That was the very last normal Saturday before March 13, 2020, when Maryland and most of the rest of the United States shut down.  I remember almost everything about that day. And now it’s Saturday morning and the sun is shining and although it’s cold, it will warm up today to a spring-like 60 degrees. Rockville will play its first scrimmage later today, against Winston Churchill. We have Capitals tickets. I have errands to run. The cherry blossoms are starting to bloom and I have even started to see a little bit of yellow on the forsythia bushes. It’s a prototype of a normal early spring Saturday. 

Spring used to be a time of crushing anxiety and panic attacks for me. Part of this is related to an old trauma that happened in the spring. Part of it was just over-scheduling and over-commitment and too much to do. The trauma part is long in the past now, so far in the past that I hardly ever think about it. The spring onslaught part is very different this year, because my younger son now drives and has his own car and so all I need to do is show up at his games and cheer with the other parents. I don’t have to drive him back and forth to practice, and I don’t have to get him to his games 90 minutes before they actually start and then try to fit as many errands or to-do list items into that 90 minutes before I return to watch the game. I just wave goodbye and watch him drive away. 

That’s it, I guess. Other than the worry and sadness about the state of the world and the plight of Ukraine, I am acutely conscious that I’m almost done with all of this, the school concerts and sports and PTA and all of the other mom things that have made my life very busy and very good for the last 21 years. Pretty soon, I’ll wave goodbye and watch them drive away knowing that it will not be hours, but days or weeks or even months before I see them again. Last spring, when the world was on hold, my children seemed years away from adulthood. Just one year later, and they’re already 80 percent out the door. I guess I just don’t know what I’m going to do with myself when they’re out on their own. I guess I’ll need a project. 

Day one

Once I had a Wordle streak

Now it’s gone

Motherfucker

That will be my single attempt at poetry this year. Don't wait for my chapbook, because it's not coming. 

******

Yesterday’s word was “rupee.” What? Wordle, can you give us a topical word just one time? I mean, with the R, U, and E in the first, second, and last positions, we went with “rupee” rather than “ruble?” Is that Wordle’s feeble show of support for Ukraine, to boycott the Anglicized word for the Russian currency unit? A 26-game streak, kaput. 

Wait, “kaput” is actually not a bad starting word, right? My strategy is to start with a word with two vowels, a very common consonant, and two less common consonants. “Kaput” fulfills all three objectives. 

My winning streak is kaput, but today is another day. It's day one of my next winning streak. 

Mundane

I’m taking a break for a moment from the all-Ukraine all-the-time media consumption that has occupied my few spare waking hours during the last few days. I am almost finished writing something that I have been working on a few words at a time for the last few weeks. It’s almost there. It’s almost done. 

Writing is a puzzle, isn’t it? I start by just writing down what I think or feel about something, and then I walk away from it for a while. Then I start rearranging, moving words within sentences and sentences within paragraphs and whole paragraphs within the page. I keep reading and fine-tuning until I either decide that the thing is pretty good or that it’s as good as it’s ever going to get and I just put it out there, or that it’s utter bilge and swill and will never see the light of day. This thing that I’ve been working on is almost as good as it’s ever going to get, and now I just have to decide if it’s apropos of anything at all in this DEFCON 1 world that we are living in right at this moment. 

But of course it is. Not so much in the sense that my stupid opinion is so important that I must put it in front of the world for the world’s own benefit but because as long as the world is still turning and as long as we have even a day or even a minute of blessed everyday life, we have to live it. I went to Mass yesterday, where we prayed for Ukraine. And then I did housework and read a book and went for a walk and went to my son’s high school swim team banquet and watched him beam with pride when the coach named him one of the two captains of the boys’ team for next year. 

It's Monday, so I’m working because everybody works on Monday. I'm working, but I'm asking myself: How important is SharePoint automation right now? How important is business intelligence and data visualization? I’m doing some cleanup work on a database, a job that is so dreadfully tedious that I make deals with myself. Fix ten items and then you can walk away from your desk. Fix eight more, and you can stretch. This works, by the way. The job is insanely tedious, but I am getting it done. And while we’re on the subject, how important is it that this data is correct and current? How important is it that the dashboard connected to this database visualizes up-to-date and valid insights? 

The answer to all of these questions is that I don’t really know. Compared to the scale and magnitude of what’s going on in Ukraine and Afghanistan and in every other global hotspot, probably not at all. But I can’t stack up my everyday responsibilities at work and at home against global struggles for freedom from fear and oppression. If I did, then I’d never do anything, and the people who are fighting for the right to live a normal boring life would be doing it in vain.

When I feel guilty that I’m safe and free, I think about what the suffering people in Ukraine would tell me to do right now. Would they say “Stop, give up, abandon hope, don’t bother with your work or your family or your life because it’s all pointless and we’re all going to die?” 

Would they say "How dare you? How dare you sit at your desk and respond to emails and think about your dinner plans and wonder if you'll have time to go for a walk today while the sun is still shining?" 

Or would they say “Are you crazy? Do your job! Cook a meal! Take a walk! Congratulate your son! Read a book or watch a movie or go to the theater or visit your friends or stand in line at the grocery store or fill your gas tank or pay your bills! Do all of those things! I would do anything to be in your place right now, doing mundane daily tasks, living everyday life.” 

I think I know what they’d say. I think I know what I’d say in their place. It’s time to get to work. It’s the only thing I can do. 

One thing at a time

This is the post that I started writing a few days ago and then decided was not worthwhile because we might be on the verge of WW III. But I grew up expecting WW III and although the last half of the 20th century and the first decades of the 21st century have not been exactly peaceful, the world also did not come to an end. I’m not going to prognosticate about the possible fate of the world. That is not my job. I’m not qualified. I’m just going to continue living as if life goes on because it does. 

*****

Do you know what people should do more often? One thing at a time. Do you know what’s way overrated? Multi-tasking. Multi-tasking is a plague and a scourge, and we should all rise up as one and flatly refuse to try to accomplish three 15-minute tasks in one single five-minute span of time. 

This is what I thought to myself as I worked on two computers simultaneously; connected to a Teams call on one computer and trying to figure out what is wrong with my SharePoint site on another, while also responding to text messages from my boss (who knew I was on the Teams call because she was on the very same call so why is she also texting me) and trying not to tear my hair out and trying really really hard not to lose my composure and tell all of the people who were talking in my ear and filling up my inbox to for crying out loud shut up for five gosh dang minutes. 

*****

That day finally ended, and I had just enough time to walk outside. There was a 20-degree temperature differential in the wrong direction from the previous day, and I was unprepared for the cold. The shock of the arctic wind, its sharpness, forced me to walk fast, as though I had to get somewhere in a hurry. The sun was shining, and higher in the sky at 5:15 PM than it was a month ago and it looked for all the world like a balmy spring day but it was just so cold. The transition from winter to spring is just beginning, and a cold spring day always feels colder than a cold winter day. 

Yes, that was a day, I tell you what. It’s Saturday now, Saturday of a blessed three-day weekend and even though I will need to do some work this weekend, I don’t have to answer the phone or respond to email or plug myself into my laptop for Teams or Zoom or WebEx calls. 

*****

What do you call a three-day weekend when you spend the second day of it working? Well, not the whole second day, but a good part of it. It’s not really a three-day weekend anymore and it’s also not a two-day weekend either, if you like your weekends to consist of two consecutive days. I could have worked on Monday rather than Sunday but Sunday was cold and Monday was warm. Of those two days, Sunday was the better day to be inside working. 

My niece and nephew spent the afternoon with us. They are very easy children. My nephew likes to play basketball and watch football and play “Madden,” and so my sons can easily entertain him. My niece is five. She likes to draw pictures and write stories and play with dolls and stuffed animals. She occupied herself for most of the afternoon, stopping by my desk every 20 minutes or so to tell me what her stuffed animals were up to, or to show me a drawing or a story, or to request candy. When it comes to candy, the girl knows that Aunt Claire is an easy mark. She nods her head solemnly when I tell her that the piece of candy that I am handing her is the very last piece she’s getting, but she knows and I know and she knows that I know that she’ll probably ask for another piece and that she’ll very likely get it. 

When my brother-in-law came to pick the children up, he told me that on the 100th day of school, my niece’s  kindergarten teacher had asked the class to think about what they wanted to do when they were 100 years old. Odd assignment for a gang of five-year-olds, no? My niece’s answer to this question was this: “I want to sit on the couch with hot chocolate and watch my shows.” And I thought, damn right. You’re 100 gosh dang years old and by golly, you have earned the right to park yourself on the couch, sip hot chocolate, and enjoy your shows. Get up out of Memaw’s seat, you know what I mean? Get up out of Memaw’s seat, hand her the remote, and keep the noise down. Maybe get her a pillow or a footstool. Pour some nice hot chocolate. Make yourself useful. 

*****

I keep thinking about this and not because it’s hilarious, although it is. It’s because I’m tired and I need a rest and I’m not sure that I want to wait until I’m 100. I mean, I don’t want to retire or anything. I don’t want to spend my days on the couch just yet. But I would like a day or so when I don’t have to be on the clock, literally or metaphorically. I’d like a day or so when I don’t have to do anything. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that sort of day. Even weekends aren’t really weekends anymore. Even vacations aren’t really vacations. I read and respond to emails at all hours of the day. My to-do lists have their own to-do lists. I am always scheming about how to cram multiple tasks into the same five-minute span of time. I’m always multi-tasking. 

*****

So it’s a week since I first started writing this, and today, Friday February 25, was exactly the same kind of too-busy, multi-tasking, hair-pulling day as last Friday, even down to the multiple phones and computers. Add a password reset issue and I’m absolutely charming right now. It’s almost 4:30 and I have one more very short call and then I’m going to go outside. The cherry trees were bare yesterday, but they started to bloom overnight. Cherry tree season only lasts for a few weeks and I don’t want to multi-task my way through it. I don’t want to miss it. 

February 2022

I was writing something yesterday, a thing that I started a few days ago, and when I returned to finish it this morning, I realized that I didn’t care one bit about it because right now, all I can think about is Ukraine. 

Let me be clear that I know practically nothing about Ukraine. I know that it’s in far eastern Europe or in the far western part of the former USSR depending on how you look at political geography. I know that it’s next door to Poland. I know about the man-made famines of the 1930s. I know that the Ukrainian people suffered badly during Stalin’s purges and during WW2. I have a few Ukrainian friends. That’s about it. 

I know a little bit more about Russia, and I know that Vladimir Putin is a kleptocratic autocratic homicidal despot and that no reasonable person should trust a single word he says, not a word about Ukraine and not a word about anything else. I know that there are plenty of theories about his nostalgia for the former Soviet Union’s central place on the world stage and his longing to reunite the former Soviet republics and lead a great world power again blah blah blah, but I don’t believe any of that. I think that Putin’s only objective, his only belief, his only guiding principle, his North Star, is power. 

I can’t stop thinking about this; about families huddled in subway stations hundreds of feet below the street in Kyiv, about explosions and air strikes and hand-to-hand combat in the streets. I should be working right now but I’m watching the President’s address. I have a meeting in 7 minutes, so I hope he makes it quick. 

I also hope that we sanction the bloody hell out of Russia. I hope that we shut down every financial avenue available to Putin and his henchmen. I hope we seize their Swiss chalets and their Paris pieds-a-terre and their London townhouses and their yachts at Cap D’Antibes and every penny they have in Western institutions. I hope we shut down their power grid and their internet and their broadcasting capacity. I hope we find all of the oligarchs’ children in their private boarding schools and their Ivy League universities, tell them that their semesters are over, and put them all on planes back to Moscow and St. Petersburg. I even hope that we order my beloved Russian hockey players back to Russia until Putin pulls every last soldier out of Ukraine. 

I don’t want to see American troops fighting in Russia or Ukraine or Belarus, but this man cannot be allowed to rule a large part of the world and if we allow him to get away with this outrage, he will do exactly that. I hope we don’t let him get away with it. I hope we shut this madman down right the heck now. 

Bookish: 2021 Bibliography

I thought I'd never finish this list this year and if I'm being honest, I am not really finished. I read about 8 or ten other books; some of which were re-reads, and a few of which I cannot remember at all, not one detail, and so I won't bother to list them here. After all, there's no rules around this thing. No one is going to audit my notebook and my Kindle library and fine me for omitting one or two books. I can do whatever I want. So without further ado, here is my close-to-complete 2021 book list. 

*****

Savage Beauty, by Nancy Mitford. I don't remember much about this book, having read it over a year ago. It is a biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay, who was sort of the Amanda Gorman of her time, except that Edna was a bit of a slut, but who am I to judge. Anyway, I always like reading biographies of early- and mid-20th century literary figures. This one has the advantage of having been written by another mid-20th century literary figure, who was arguably more famous than the person she was writing about. This year, I plan to read about the Mitfords. Maybe Amanda Gorman should write about them. I'd buy that book. 

The Little Drummer Girl, by John Le Carre. I had never read any John Le Carre, and this is probably his most famous, so I read it. It was very good. That's probably all I have to say about it except that I read this novel about the Cold War and 20th century Middle East violence and the rest of the chaotic, murderous, genocidal 20th century I couldn't help but think that in many ways, that was the good old days. 

Uncanny Valley (Anna Weiner)

Shuggie Bain (Douglas Stuart). I think this was my book of the year last year. I'm going to read it again soon. 

Let Me Tell You What I Mean (Joan Didion). I didn't write anything about Joan Didion when she died last year (and of COURSE Joan Didion died in 2021 because 2021 was a big fat jerk of a year). I never know what to say about her writing, except that she always seemed to know exactly what she meant, and exactly how to say it. 

Political Fictions (Joan Didion). This was a book of essays about American politics, the last of which was written in 2000; and yet, the whole book remains completely relevant for 2022. 20 years ago, Joan Didion predicted the widespread use of bad faith phony outrage as a tool for political division, and here we are.

Jesus and John Wayne (Kristin Du Mez).  I had to update this list to include this book, which I most assuredly read but forgot to include. I’m surprised at myself for having forgotten about this and also having neglected to write any of my impressions down when I was reading it because it definitely made an impression. Using John Wayne as the exemplar of white American mid-century conservative Republican masculinity, Du Mez deftly stirs up a pot of Reagan Republicanism, white Evangelical Christianity, purity culture, rigidly enforced gender roles enforced by male “headship,” and the prosperity Gospel and demonstrates how this toxic stew of quasi-Christian sludge led directly to the election of Donald J. Trump and the even more toxic sludge of Trumpism. Du Mez has made a lot of enemies among the retrograde misogynist Evangelical underworld, many of whom seem to have nothing better to do all day than to troll Du Mez and other Christian women on the Internet. Maybe they should try going to church once in a while. Maybe they should try praying. 

The Fran Lebowitz Reader (Fran Lebowitz)

Winter is Coming (Garry Kasparov). I keep reading Russian dissident authors' books about how awful Putin is. I don't know why. I'm already sold on this idea. No additional convincing is necessary. 

Nomadland (Jessica Bruder). I might have liked the movie even more than the book, but the book was very fine. 

Clothes...and Other Things that Matter (Rebecca Shulman)

A Paradise Made in Hell (Rebecca Solnit). I read this early last year and don't remember much about it except that it is a history of the aftermath of natural disasters (the San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 features heavily). More specifically, is is a story about the communities of mutual aid that quickly spring from the devastation of a natural disaster, and the fondness with which people who lived through the disaster remember those communities. Think of open air soup kitchens after a hurricane; the comfort of food and kindness combined with the euphoria of having survived a disaster not yet tempered with the sobering reality that you have to rebuild, and you'll get the idea. 

Girl Land (Caitlin Flanagan). I shared this little post on Twitter, and Caitlin Flanagan kindly acknowledged me and said something nice about the post. That was kind of a high point of my reading and writing  year. 

Notes from the Underwire (Quinn Cummings). Funny essays by Quinn Cummings, once a child actor (nominated for an Academy Award at age 11 for "The Goodbye Girl") and now a popular podcaster and Twitter personality. 

Why Didn't You Just Do What You Were Told? (Jenny Diski). I was just thinking about this book this morning only I couldn't remember what book it was, if that makes any sense. Jenny Diski was an English essayist, not well-known, but pretty extraordinary. In one of these essays, Diski writes about her near-paralyzing arachnophobia and I thought about this as I calmly smacked a giant spider with an old shoe, and then scooped up the remains to deposit in the trash. I have more ridiculous fears and anxieties than the DSM 5 even knows about but spiders? Big deal. 

Leaving Isn't the Hardest Part (Lauren Hough). “Upside of sisters: It doesn’t really matter what you just confessed to, as long as they were right.” This is Lauren Hough, describing her sister’s “I knew it!” reaction when she came out as a lesbian. Having sisters myself (and being one, if we’re honest), I know that this is one of the truest observations about siblings, especially sisters, ever put on paper. Leaving Isn’t the Hardest Part is a collection of essays about Lauren Hough's life as a child raised in an obscure quasi-Christian fundamentalist cult and her service in the Air Force until she was thrown out after landing on the wrong side of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, and her adult struggles to reconcile herself with the trauma and craziness of her early life; struggles that led to drug use and depression and panic attacks and even jail time. There’s a lot more to this deceptively simple book, written in a confessional, blunt, foul-mouthed style that critics would probably describe as “raw” or “searingly honest.” I don’t know why honesty should sear anything, but critics always seem convinced that too much truth can burn. But maybe it can. Maybe if you’re the controlling ex or the abusive parent or step-parent villain of a writer’s true-life narrative, then a few words of truthful recollection could roast the flesh right off your bones. Memoir is a complicated genre. This one is very good. 

Begin Again (Eddie Glaude, Jr.). I thought I'd written about this before, but I have nothing, not even a draft. This is the kind of book that crybaby conservatives who scream about "cancel culture" all day long are going to try to ban in public schools because oh my gosh critical race theory! I don't know a damn thing about critical race theory, except that I know that the idea that the United States was founded by benevolent idealists who envisioned a society in which all people were free and equal and that slavery and Jim Crow and westward expansion at the expense of Native Americans and internment camps for Japanese-Americans during WW 2 were all just anomalous incidents that don't reflect what America truly is is a big fat lie. The simple premise of this book is that we have to abandon our legends and re-examine our heroes and give up our comfortable belief in American exceptionalism and just start over if we really want to fulfill what we believe to be the ideals on which America was founded. It's a simple premise and not new (see my next two selections, which I read thanks to Dr. Glaude) but pretty radical. 

The Fire Next Time (James Baldwin). I read this in high school, and re-read it right after Begin Again. James Baldwin was pretty much right about everything. 

Go Tell it on the Mountain (James Baldwin). A beautiful and sad novel about John Grimes, the teenage son of a Black Christian preacher in 1930s New York. I think that Douglas Stuart must have read James Baldwin before he wrote Shuggie Bain. I'm going to look into that. 

Empire of Pain (Patrick Radden Keefe). This is the story of the corrupt and evil Sackler family and what should have been regarded as an international crime syndicate but that was instead considered a respectable, successful American corporation. Purdue Pharma created the opioid addiction epidemic and did everything in their considerable power to sustain it and worsen it and draw more unfortunate people into suffering and addiction, and Keefe demonstrates exactly how they did it and exactly how they got away with it. And they did get away with it. Infuriating. 

The Problem with Everything, Unspeakable, and My Life Would Be Perfect if I Lived in That House (Meghan Daum). I rediscovered Meghan Daum this year. In moments of weakness or boredom or sadness or just plain stupidity, I too think that my life would be perfect if I had that one thing--the right job, the right handbag, the right jacket, the right haircut or skincare product or whatever. Not so much the house. I like my house. 

Great Circle, Maggie Shipstead. One of the best of the year. 

Becoming Duchess Goldblatt (Duchess Goldblatt)

Feel Free (Zadie Smith)

Without a Doubt (Marcia Clark) and In Contempt (Christopher Darden). I almost completely forgot about these. Early in the year, I watched "The People vs. O.J. Simpson" and then I was obsessed with the O.J. case for about a week. So I read these books. The end. 

Goodbye, Columbus (Philip Roth). Zadie Smith convinced me that I should read Philip Roth, which I would never have done otherwise. I might read Portnoy's Complaint, but I don't know. I could barely tolerate Neil Klugman for 100 pages, so I'm not sure how I'd get through 500 or whatever number of pages of Portnoy complaining. But Zadie Smith is probably not wrong. Check back next year. Anything can happen. 

Broken (in the Best Possible Way) (Jenny Lawson). Jenny Lawson, also known as The Bloggess, has written several successful books that draw on material from her very popular blog.  She is one of the exceptions to my personal rule about avoiding books written by social media and internet personalities (Allie Brosh is the other one). I liked this one very much. 

Based on a True Story (Norm MacDonald)

I can't believe that I finally got to the end of this list. I wish I'd written a bit more about some of these books, but I have to put this to bed. It's President's Day now. It'll be March in a week. A week after that it'll be time to start thinking about next year's book list. Come back next February or so. I'll be reading and writing all year. 

The Problem with Everything

Last summer, I read Meghan Daum’s The Problem with Everything: My Journey Through the Culture Wars. Meghan Daum is a very good writer, and this is a very good book. 

I first read Meghan Daum about ten years ago. She wrote a very quirky little essay called “Carpet is Mungers,” a hate letter to wall-to-wall carpet. I don’t hate wall-to-wall carpet at all. But I do recognize and sympathize with fiery unreasonable hatred toward some innocuous thing that most people either like or don’t think about one way or another. I could write my own “Carpet is Mungers” about any number of non-carpet things. Anyway, I always meant to seek out more of Meghan Daum’s work but I never got around to it until this book popped up in a Kindle recommendation, which described it as a counterargument to the rigid policing of thought and speech on the left. I’ve been thinking and writing about this topic for a long time, and I wanted to see what the author of “Carpet is Mungers” had to say about it. 

*****

As Daum sees it, a great big part of the problem with everything; that is to say, the problem of intolerance and illiberalism, boils down to social media. Social media enables all sorts of things that weren’t possible 20 years ago. An ordinary person can become a social media influencer, and then use their following to amplify whatever idea or point of view they want to share--even if that point of view is nothing more than “look at me.” But social media, especially 140-character social media, does not allow for much nuance (Meghan Daum is all about nuance). Not many people can clearly and succinctly and kindly express exactly what they really mean in one short tweet or FB post or IG caption. The hot take is easily misinterpreted in any circumstance, but especially if the author lacks writing skills or social media savvy. 

Combine social media’s inherent limitations with the prevailing and worsening trend toward lack of tolerance, lack of kindness, and lack of willingness to give other people the benefit of the doubt, and you have a social media landscape in which even the most influential of influencers is cast into outer darkness after just one tiny mistake. One bad take, one thoughtless like or share or retweet, and a person can be canceled and forever after branded as a hateful hating hater who hates. It’s a problem. 

*****

There’s so much else that’s good and relevant and needs-to-be-said in this book. In addition to breaking down the very real problems of intolerance and social media groupthink, Daum also offers a sharply funny takedown of badass, no-fucks-given feminism. She writes that she wanted to call the book You Are Not a Badass, and I so wish that she had. But of course, no one would have bought the book, because everyone is a badass now. Everyone is a badass, and no one has any fucks left to give. 

Badass feminism is so conventional now that it’s only a matter of time before Rae Dunn starts producing insulated sippy cup wine tumblers emblazoned with the slogan “No Fucks Given.” I can just see the words printed in that tall, skinny self-consciously childlike block printing. (As an aside, I am completely mystified by the popularity of Rae Dunn’s products, but that is a topic all to itself.) I was about to write that you’ll soon be able to stop by the local Home Goods and purchase a nice wooden “Badass” sign to hang in your kitchen, but I bet you already can. “Badass” and “No Fucks Given” are the new “Live, Laugh, Love.” In fact, the latter is edgier. People buy LLL signs for ironic purposes, but I suspect that the person who buys a “Badass” sign or wears a “No Fucks Given” t-shirt does so completely in earnest. 

A big part of what’s so ridiculous about no-fucks-given badassery is the sheer incongruity between the hardness of the words and the softness of the actions that are supposed to demonstrate badass-ness and lack of fucks given. A woman with long hair cuts off two inches, posts a selfie hashtagged #shorthairdontcare #zerofucksgiven, and at least one fawning commenter will call her a badass. A woman sits on the couch with her phone and posts a fuck the patriarchy joke or meme and thus immediately boosts her badassery bona fides. It’s not hard to earn no-fuck-giving badass credits. The bar is pretty fucking low.  

But what is the connection between intolerance and NFG badassitude? What does one thing have to do with the other? I think that maybe the tendency toward intolerance in online discourse is a direct result of unseriousness, and swaggering girlboss badassery is nothing if not unserious. When people honestly believe that badass status derives from just one fire tweet, are they not more likely to take their own and thus other people’s trifling little online comments far too seriously? 

*****

Thought crime and its attendant punishment is an urgently important thing to talk about, and not in the way that the Fox News nincompoops scream all day long about “wokeness” and “cancel culture.” Although this book focuses on the intolerance of the left, freedom of speech and even freedom of thought are threatened at every point on the political spectrum. As a matter of fact, the problem is even worse now on the right than on the left. Conservatives aren’t canceling people on Twitter, they’re just banning books. Only a matter of time before they start burning them. But that’s not what this is about.

I’m not 100 percent optimistic that we’re capable of this, but I think that we are going to have to relearn how to tolerate diversity of thought and belief as much as we pretend to embrace every other kind of diversity. And more people are going to have to be brave enough to express unpopular opinions, out loud or in print, as Daum does here. If all of the reasonable people keep quiet just to avoid trouble, then the unreasonable people will be the only ones left to speak in public. 

 

 

Driving

I’m buying a car today. I’ve had my car for ten years; ten years of road trips and shopping trips and swim practice and carpool and boys learning how to drive and one time when I’m pretty sure that I hit a squirrel. Rest in peace, squirrelly. 

My younger son is about to get his driver’s license. I remember when my older son got his license, and I spent several weeks paralyzed by anxiety about the idea of my 16-year-old son out driving on the public highways with all of the maniacs. And then it just became a normal everyday thing, watching him get in his car and drive away. The thing is that when you’re not driving in the car with them all the time, then you think about their driving a little less. Out of sight, out of mind. Once he’s licensed and driving on his own, and I’m not sitting next to him slamming the imaginary brake on the passenger’s side, I’ll stop worrying all the time and everything will be fine. I’ll worry about half the time, but I do that anyway. 

*****

I have a new car! Actually, I have a newish car. I bought a 2018 Toyota Rav4 at CarMax. I love CarMax. The thing to do at CarMax is to just tell yourself that you’re going to buy from whatever inventory they have on the lot, and then you can avoid a lot of drive-yourself-crazy decision-making about trim levels and colors and other extras. Pick a car of your preferred type (sedan, SUV, truck, compact) and price range, test drive it; and if you like it, buy it. If you’re really not picky you can be in and out of that place in less than two hours. 

We were there for about 2 ½ hours. I had reserved a Subaru Crosstrek for a test drive and we arrived a bit earlier so that I could look at other possible options. I took pictures of the inventory tags for the cars that I liked, and then test drove the Subaru and was very surprised that I didn’t like it at all. I love Subarus, and I loved the idea of a small car, but the Crosstrek felt too small. I pulled down the index card-size sun visor, checked traffic behind me in the petite side view mirrors, turned the bitty little steering wheel and realized that I was driving a toy car, and that driving a toy car isn’t as much fun as it sounds. 

My husband wanted me to test drive a bougie little white Volkswagen Tiguan and I would have, just to indulge him, but then I drove the Rav4 and loved it the moment I sat behind the wheel. It felt both new and exciting and familiar and comfortable and safe. I felt like I could see and control everything on the road. I reached for the sunglass holder and it was right there where I wanted it (Subaru has inexplicably removed the sunglass holder from its newer model cars). I reached above me to slide open the cover on the moonroof and there actually was a moonroof (the Crosstrek didn’t have one, and I would have missed it). 

It also has lots of luxury features that I’m not used to but trust me, I’ll get used to them. It has power everything. It has a rear view camera and parking assist and little warning chimes that sound when you’re out of your lane or about to back into someone. It has a satellite radio and seat warmers. It has a power rear liftgate. It starts at the push of a button. It looks shiny and pretty and it smells new and clean, and I can’t wait to drive it again. 

****

My son got his driver’s license today. I came home from grocery shopping in my sweet new ride and saw my little Subaru, which is now his little Subaru, sitting in the driveway, its new home. Mama’s car lives in the garage. We don’t have a lot of house rules around here, but that one’s non-negotiable. I looked at it, small and neat and unassuming, and thought that that car is really my favorite kind of car–lived in, down-to-earth, well-loved. It served me well for ten years and now it belongs to my son. Right now, my new car, as much as I love it, is too new to be my favorite kind of car but it will be soon. Maybe in three years or maybe in five. Meanwhile, right now, it’s shiny and fancy and perfect, and shiny fancy perfect cars happen to be my second favorite kind of car. It’s the end of one era and the beginning of another. 

 

Based on a True Story

Norm Macdonald on impostor syndrome: “They looked at me the way real vampires look at Count Chocula.” 

When Norm Macdonald died last year, I realized that I hadn’t thought about him for many years. I remember watching him on "Saturday Night Live" in the mid-90s, delivering "Weekend Update" jokes with his gleeful smirk. I thought he was hilarious, but I didn’t see any of his post-SNL work, so I suppose I can’t say that I was a particular fan. But I was very sad when he died, partly in the way that people my age are sad when prominent figures of our generation begin to die, but partly for his own sake. Norm Macdonald could make people laugh about anything. 

Not long after he died, I read his book, Based on a True Story, an almost completely made-up autobiography. I started this book with little idea of what to expect. He begins with stories of his childhood on a Canadian farm (I don’t think he even lived on a farm), listening to his father’s friends telling war stories. Macdonald writes about a trusted family friend who lures the 8-year-old Norm into a shack with the promise that he’ll see a trained squirrel. And then “he turned his gaze on me, and his eyes flashed black like the wing of a crow…and the inside of the shed went black. Then I heard the bolt. I forget what happened next.” 

I mean, holy shit. Holy shit. 

I did some cursory internet research, to see if Norm Macdonald had ever talked about anything like the horrendous trauma that he hints at in this incendiary device of a chapter ending, but I found nothing. Was he joking? Was he suggesting that this kind of thing happens to boys all the time, and then they just grow up and move on and get over it by living chaotic picaresque novel lives filled with blackout drinking, high-stakes gambling, and maritime adventure? I don’t know, but if I were to write a serious novel that included a sexual assault against a child (and I wouldn’t because I couldn’t), this is how I would write it; the child utterly blanking out the trauma and the reader left shocked and horrified and not sure if she has the stomach to keep reading, but ultimately compelled to do so. 

Feeling compelled, I kept reading, thinking the whole time, "only Norm Macdonald." Only Norm Macdonald could make up a fake ghostwritten autobiography filled with ridiculous and entirely untrue stories about seal hunting and amyl poppers and morphine cocktails and gambling addiction and prison rapes, and make almost all of it funny. Yes, including the prison rape part. Actually, especially the prison rape part. The part when he hints at child sexual assault was shocking and horrifying and not funny at all, but the prison rape part made me laugh so hard that I had to put the book down for a while and try to figure out just what the hell is wrong with me that I was doubled over laughing, laughing so hard that I started crying, over a prison rape story. Yes, it was a fake prison rape story, and I knew it was fake; but still, what is wrong with me? 

This is what everyone thinks, I guess, when we laugh at something humor-inappropriate like death or violence or illness or tragedy. What is wrong with me? That joke crossed the line, we think, and I’m still laughing. That was Norm Macdonald’s particular genius. He could cross the line, move the line a little bit further out, cross it again, and then move it right back where it belongs and bring you back with him to the other side, before you even knew what happened. 

After I finished the book, I watched a few minutes of his Netflix comedy special; just Norm Macdonald standing on a stage, beautiful and human in his ill- fitting suit and running shoes, tugging at his collar and wiping the sweat from his forehead and laughing his silly head off at his own jokes. There was something in the delivery, something in the gleeful smirk as he’s about to deliver a completely unexpected punchline, that reminded me of another favorite comedian, Dave Chappelle. About Dave Chappelle, I have a great deal to say, and I’ll do that another time. Here’s a preview: I finally watched “The Closer” months after Netflix released it, months of the usual complaints that Chappelle’s comedy constitutes violence against gay and transgender people. And having watched the show, I have to assume that the online outrage industrial complex hasn’t actually seen it because there’s no way that anyone could see it and still think that Dave Chappelle hates trans people or gay people or anyone else. 

*****

Dave Chappelle on suffering: "I'm not making fun of anyone's suffering. I know it's hard to be everybody." 2021 was a hard year. Almost everyone I know was managing some kind of crisis, some kind of trauma or grief or sadness. In 2021, it was hard to be everybody. 

Comedians have to understand pain and suffering and grief and everything else that isn’t really funny. Great comedians can see the truth better than everyone else around them, and they can always find something ridiculous to make fun of, no matter how serious life gets. When they are also brave enough to actually make the joke, to say the inappropriate, just-over-the-line offensive punchline that gets to the truth of our shared humanity, then they become almost transcendent.

It’s hard to be everybody. This is the reality of a fallen, imperfect world. It’s hard to be everybody, but Norm Macdonald knew that the pain of being everybody is also hilarious. RIP, Norm. 

Becoming Duchess Goldblatt

So now I'm determined to finish my 2021 book list, and that includes finishing some of the half-baked book notes that I wrote and abandoned last year. I actually read this book last summer. 

*****

“Would you call yourself an idiot savant?” That is the question that a friend asks the woman we know only as Duchess Goldblatt, a made-up Internet character and the nom de plume of the anonymous author of Becoming Duchess Goldblatt,  a sort-of memoir. 

I found the Duchess on the Twitter, where she is a very popular presence. A Twitter friend, whom I also have met in real life, liked enough of the Duchess's tweets that they started appearing in my timeline, and so I followed her too. I commented occasionally, and she liked some of my comments, and even responded occasionally. After following her on Twitter for a bit, I liked the Duchess enough that I decided to buy her book, even though I don't usually like books based on popular blogs or Twitter accounts. There’s an ephemeral quality in the writing of an author who is not subject to contracts and professional editing and sales quotas that sometimes does not come across when a publisher attempts to translate that quality into book form. One of those things is not like the other. All of that is to say that I had low expectations for Becoming Duchess Goldblatt, despite rave reviews on (where else) Twitter. 

I liked Becoming Duchess Goldblatt, despite my usual skepticism about books that arise from social media success. I liked it, but I didn’t love it with the passionate intensity that many of the Duchess’s other followers do. Maybe that’s me, or maybe that’s them. Sometimes, social media hysteria for or against a person or phenomenon causes people to amplify their normal response  so that liking or disliking a thing or a person becomes loving or hating that person or thing beyond all reason. Twitter is a madhouse, man. 

What did I like about this book? I liked this line: “It’s possible, in hindsight, that I’ve never understood anything.” Nora Ephron once wrote something about having realized at age 50 or so that she understood nothing. That is ridiculous in that particular case, of course, because Nora Ephron understood pretty much everything. But I’m finding that this is a universal experience for people of my age, mid 50s, who go to work and manage our lives and our families with relative aplomb, thinking most of the time that we know how to operate in the world, how to drive our cars and pay our bills and love people and be human but every so often, we are brought up short and we realize that we know absolutely nothing, or close to nothing. 

Here’s another line that I liked: “Any asshole can make a mean joke. It’s harder work to reach out further for the joke that’s funny and can’t hurt anybody.” Oh yes it one hundred percent is. I’m not good at that many things, but I am good at the quick and deadly comeback, and it’s a very hard thing to know that you should generally avoid doing a thing that you are very good at doing. It’s always a struggle, when I think of the perfect thing to say to the person who in my mind deserves to hear it, to keep it to myself. 

The Duchess writes that people “...have a responsibility to extend themselves on the side of righteousness and do their best work…” This also resonated with me, especially because I don’t really know what my work is right now. My job changed last year and morphed into another kind of job altogether, and this reminded me that it’s better to try to do my best work in this semi-new role, and to use it as an opportunity to learn and contribute something new, than to resist it and complain to myself that my new responsibilities do not align with my skill set or my interests, even though this is true. My skill set could do with some expansion, and I can make myself interested in almost anything, even project management. And I always try, with mixed success to “extend myself on the side of righteousness.” 

That's what I liked about Becoming Duchess Goldblatt. And there's nothing that I really disliked about it, so consider these comments nothing more than slightly critical observations. First of all, there are a lot of contradictions. Is the person behind the Duchess lonely and friendless or is she the center of a huge circle of friends? Is she brilliant or scatterbrained? Is she an obscure journalist or a well-known author? But contradictions are not necessarily bad. To be human is to be contradictory.  No one is either/or. We all contain multitudes of multitudes. 

If I have any real criticism, it’s the celebrity mentions and conversations, which were a little bit odd to me. I found it charming that Duchess met and became friends with her beloved Lyle Lovett, but I felt like an intruder reading transcripts of their text messages and email exchanges. Likewise her exchanges with Elizabeth McCracken, an author I’d never heard of until I read this book. Apparently, I am missing quite a bit, and I’ve added McCracken to my long reading list. Anyway, the Lyle Lovett parts were a bit cloying. Lyle obviously thinks the world of Duchess and her alter ego, and his praise of her goodness and her beauty and her bringing-the-light-into-the-darkness-of-the-world social media mission reads a little bit like “hey, I didn’t say it, HE said it; I’m just repeating the testimony of one of my many satisfied customers.” A tiny bit boastful, is what I mean. 

All in all, these are small gripes. I liked this book very much. I like the idea of imagining an ideal self and then becoming that self. I don’t know who Duchess Goldblatt is in real life, but as far as I am concerned, she is actually Duchess Goldblatt. She imagined the person she wanted to be, and she became her. Well done, Duchess

Overcome by events

Oh my gosh, has it really been almost three weeks since I posted here? Even though I haven’t published anything, I still write every day, even when I don’t have time. And I never have time. I keep thinking that I should take a day off now and then and maybe stop trying to do this every day, but that’s the slippery slope. “Maybe I don’t have to do this EVERY day” would lead directly to all or nothing, and I’d never write anything again. 

So I keep writing every day, but I can’t publish most of it because most of it is about work and I can’t publish specifics about work. Here’s what I actually can tell you about work: I get up every morning sick with dread. By mid-morning, I’m fully panicking and often, I break down and cry for a few minutes, certain that I cannot do this job. And then I become strangely calm and I stop panicking and I actually do this job. 

God, aren’t you glad you’re not me? 

Anyway, this is just a placeholder post while I finish some other non-work-related writing. I have quite the backlog. Here’s a topic preview: Commas, handbags (again), Bari Weiss, the Golden Girls, cars and driving, suburban street fashion, and why the hell Google Docs won’t open new documents in a separate tab like it used to. I never did write my 2021 book list and at this point, it might be OBE. That’s “overcome by events” for those of you who are not Federal contractors and who therefore speak and think like humans. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe I’ll write that 2021 book list before the end of 2022. There’s a three-day weekend next week. Anything can happen. Stay tuned.