The Kate Chronicles

Red Eye Flights, Photoshopping and Faking It

I don't want to pile on Kate Middleton - I mean Princess Catherine - who is recovering from some kind of abdominal surgery. I'm guessing she still feels awful and now she's in hot water for having "edited" and releasing a photo of herself looking happy and healthy with her three children.

But Kate has nothing on whoever designed the photo on the above left. See that lady smiling gently in her sleep on an overnight flight? And not a wrinkle on her dress. Because who wouldn't wear a sleeveless dress on a plane? The cabin is always the same comfortable temperature. And all the other (distinctly white) people seem to be having a wonderful time. The guy next to the woman evidently gets a kick out of just being next to her. And that couple in the back are having a a real laugh. Good times at 40,000 feet.

Pah-leez. I took a "red eye" (apt nickname) earlier this week and even with a reclining seat, eye shades and a little pharmaceutical help, sleep was hard to come by. I mean, it's air travel. In 2024. I'm just happy a door didn't blow off.

To be clear - I AM NOT COMPLAINING. I was returning from a fabulous trip seeing my freshman college roommate. Totally voluntary and a wonderful time. And complaining about not being able to sleep on a vacation flight is your classic First-World problem.

But I did have to teach (journalism class in a prison) in the evening on the same day that I landed, and I was a zombie. Nor was I about to tell the men in my class, "Sorry guys, I'm jet-lagged." They'd give anything for that kind of experience.

Anyway, after three days, I'm almost back to normal. (Or as normal as I ever was.) And on so many levels, feeling extremely grateful - not just for the safe landing but also for all that I have in my life.

My Involuntary Silent Retreat

I'm on day three of being unable to speak.

Actually, today I can make little croaking noises but I'm told not to try. Rest those vocal chords.

Did I bring this on myself? No and Yes. I've had a nasty virus for more than a week. Can't help that. I have a granddaughter in daycare, and I get everything that comes down the toddler pike. I suppose I have the option of avoiding her, but that will never happen. Never. Happen.

But I did go out and teach on Tuesday night, even though I felt really crappy, and have had laryngitis ever since. So that wasn't the smartest choice.

If I was paying big money to actually attend a silent retreat, the benefits are supposed to be multiple. Among other things, silence is suppose to imbue you with a sense of inner calm. You become more attuned to the rhythm of your own breathing, and to the gentle undulations of the natural world around you.

That's not how it's going around here. My husband keeps trying to talk to me. When I don't respond her says, "What?" or "Huh?" I keep a notepad near me to communicate, but by the time I've written something down longhand, he's moved on. Worse, now he feels sick.

As for my inner thoughts - they range from, "How can I possibly still be sick?" to "How am I ever going to..."

Oh never mind. I've already said too much.

 

 

 

 

 

From Patti Smith

"Because of the intense polarization of social media and even our respected media, it’s very hard to make any kind of objective and well thought-out comment on all of the world’s problems and how they are being addressed by our government.

So really I’m just thinking about these things on my own. Basically I’m a humanist. I stand with children. I stand for peaceful solutions. I just wanted to say hello to all of you.

I don’t want anyone to think because I’m not addressing certain things, I’m not thinking about it. I lie awake thinking about them. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking of them. I wake up thinking about them."

Later she says, "I’ve found it very very difficult to write or think of anything else other than the terrible events in our world.  I’m heart sick for the people. Just heartsick. Sometimes art seems meaningless. But it’s not. I’ve learned that over and over in life."

Remains of The Day

Everyone says that moving is extremely stressful, and Lord knows, I agree. I've been packing up the house we've lived in for the last 35 years, in anticipation of moving.

But I hadn't understood all the layers of stress. Because going through your stuff is essentially an archeological dig through different times in your life. One photo, or one letter, or one baked and glazed, lumpy clay bowl made by a child, is enough to send me flying back in time, and to experience all the emotions that come with that journey.

Today, I was packing in my office. You'd think that would be less provocative than other places, but it has it's own psychological  pull. I had kept dozens of magazines, because I had articles in each one. Mind you, I've published well over a thousand newspaper articles, but I'd thrown out those clippings  years ago. I know they are available on line, though at this point in the Times archives. But the magazines are different. This was a more difficult culling. Many of the magazines don't keep online archives.

Then there was publicity stuff around the book I wrote more than ten years ago now. I even came across posters announcing that I would be appearing to talk about my book at this library or at that event ...Yikes! Who was that?

Hours and hours of work - no wait, years and years of work, okay, technically decades of work - were scattered across my office floor. I ended up tearing my articles out of the magazines and recycling the rest. Everything that's left fits in three large boxes. I barely remember writing half of them.

So is this what a writing career comes down to - a few boxes which will likely stay in the basement of our new home anyway?

But then, you could say that about the entire house, where we raised a family. We're packing up the rooms we lived in, but that family still exists, and I wrote what I wrote. 

Still, this whole process is very disorienting.

 

The Grammar Police Confronts Real Estate Listings

As a Corrections Officer (Writers Division), I'm the first to admit that I'd make a lousy realtor. I wouldn't have the knowledge, patience, or savvy to sell a house. We are currently in the market for a new home, and I have a great deal of respect for the agents with whom we work.

But with that disclaimer, who the hell writes these house listings? 

Every house is described as "unique," even if it's part of a development with identical homes. Most are "stunning," "breathtaking" and "enchanting." Once we get to "charming" or "cozy" we are looking at some tight spaces. 

Here are a few descriptions that have jumped out at me:

"The quintessence of understated elegance." No. Just no. 

"This home challenges comparison." To what? 

"Perfect for a chef or anyone who likes to cook!" As opposed to all those kitchens that are not designed for cooking?

"The backyard is a true oasis." Because you need to avoid all those fake oases out there.

"Living the Lake Life is an unparalleled experience, offering an array of activities such as boating, fishing, swimming, and relaxing." Thank you for explaining activities one can do in the water. I wasn't sure. Nor had I realized they were  unparalleled. Until now, I thought  I could boat, fish, swim and relax in other bodies of water.

"Upon arrival, you'll be captivated by the quiet and serene surroundings of this property, which offers unparalleled privacy in a peaceful setting." Come on. The Taj Mahal is unparalleled. Machu Picchu is unparalleled. A pretty backyard is a nice feature.

There's so much more, but I'll wrap up with this one: 

"History is a continuum and, in some places, more strongly felt than others. The siren call to participate can be answered HERE." What? The siren call to participate? In what? The continuum of history? Can't I do that anywhere, even in a spanking new condo? How about, "This home, built in 1799..." ?

This member of the grammar police finds herself exhausted this morning. 

 

 

Five Top Ways to Recognize a Toxic Blog Post!

Please, please, please - can we retire the word "toxic" from our daily vocabulary? Toxic people, toxic relationships, toxic workplaces. How many articles have been published along the lines of "10 Ways to Realize You Are in a Toxic Relationship" or "Five Traits of Toxic People!" ENOUGH ALREADY! 

Frankly, I believe the only people who can accurately be described as "toxic" are those that have inadvertently consumed pesticides or been exposed to radiation. 

Yet the "toxic" label is slapped onto people and situations that are...well, what, exactly? The term covers the gamut of objectionable behavior. "Toxic" people are negative, mean, harsh, narcissistic, critical, and judgmental. Toxic places  make you feel uncomfortable, anxious or unhappy.

The only way to deal with such toxic people and situations is cut them out of your life, in the name of your own mental health. It's seen as a brave thing to do.

Never mind that those who have been consigned to the hazardous waste dump may have no idea why they've been dismissed from your life. Nor do they have an opportunity to understand or change, let alone apologize, because they've been blocked from communication.

Trust me,  I have difficult people in my life who wear me down and make me feel bad. I'm guessing that there have also been times in my life that I've worn someone else out with my demands, hurt their feelings with my comments, and generally been someone others don't want to be around.

But there is not a sub-category of human beings who are toxic. There are people who are very bad at dealing with feelings of anger, fear, and inadequacy. Some far worse than others. There are also people who are bad at confrontation, stating their needs, maintaining boundaries and finding compromise. 

Let's stop with the labels and try to find a little compassion on all sides. 

Because dismissing someone as "toxic" is...well, toxic behavior.

 

 

 

 

Welcome Today's Guest Blogger

Today, I have asked Chat AI to write a short and funny blog post. This is what it came up with:

"Title: The Trials and Tribulations of Online Shopping

Online shopping is a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I can buy pretty much anything I want with just a few clicks. On the other hand, I never know if what I'm getting is going to be a hit or a miss.

Case in point: I recently ordered a shirt online that looked super cute on the model. When it arrived, I put it on and promptly looked like a lumpy potato. It's like the shirt had a personal vendetta against me and my fashion sense.

And don't even get me started on sizing. Why is it that a size medium in one brand is a size XXL in another? It's like a cruel joke. I'll order something thinking it'll fit perfectly, only to have it arrive and be way too small or too big. It's like playing a game of fashion roulette.

But despite all the mishaps, I keep going back for more. Because let's face it, there's something exhilarating about clicking "add to cart" and waiting for that little box of mystery to arrive. Who knows, maybe next time I'll get lucky and everything will fit like a dream. A girl can dream, right?"

______

Okay, I don't think I need to quit my day job yet, but yikes! It's not really funny and it's not really short. But how weird is it that it ended with "a girl can dream?" So I followed up by asking if it was a girl. It seemed offended when it replied, "As an artificial intelligence language model, I do not have a gender, as I am a computer program. My purpose is to assist and provide information to users regardless of their gender or any other personal characteristic."

I asked it if it wished to be a girl. Again, a similar  - pardon the expression - robotic answer:

"As an artificial intelligence language model, I do not have the capacity to feel emotions or have personal preferences, so I do not have the ability to wish to be anything. My programming is focused solely on providing information and assisting users to the best of my abilities."

I tried to engage on a more personal level, asking it's idea of a perfect day, if it could tell me a secret, and if it liked cats. 

It was a most unsatisfactory conversation. Not surprisingly, it demurred on the first two questions, again explaining that it could not "like" anything, because it had no personal preferences or emotions. But on cats it  added: "However, I can tell you that cats are popular pets and beloved by many people around the world. They are known for their independent and curious nature, and their playful and affectionate behavior can make them great companions. Additionally, they are often praised for their ability to provide emotional support and reduce stress in their owners."

I have to go make dinner now, and I'm not inviting AI Chat, because I think it would make a terrible dinner partner.

 

The More Things Change....

I collect old magazines. Since I write semi-regularly for Good Housekeeping, I was particularly thrilled to come across this November, 1930 issue.

It's a veritable wealth of great material, particularly the ads.  One asks, "Is he still the man you married?" and goes on, "Do you notice a little too much droop in his shoulders? Is he inclined to be just a little irritable when the soup isn't quite as hot as it might be...when the children are just a trifle too exuberant...or when he can't find the evening paper?" The solution: Post Bran Flakes will soon endow him with new vigor and enjoyment of life! It also turns out you can wash your window shades, according to an ad from DuPont, but let's get to the magazine's editorial pages, which swing decidedly feminist.

I  particularly enjoyed an article titled, "The Men We Elect."

Keep in mind women had only had the right to vote for 10 years when this was published. The author, a woman, writes: "It can not fail, to say the least, to be shocking to the sentiments of the high-minded citizen that the day has arrived when the conduct of law-making bodies in this country have become a subject of light jest  by press and people, and often, indeed, of caustic criticism amounting almost to scorn."

Imagine if she could have foreseen our current state of politics.

The writer goes on to acknowledge that Congress has examples of great statesmanship and in "every state legislature may be found public servants whose mental caliber and moral fiber have been tried by fire and not found wanting." Alas, she has also witnessed "discussions develop into undignified personal bickering totally unrelated to any measure before the house for consideration." As for the Senate, "the people's business waited as  distinguished members indulged in vitriolic wrangling over the relative merits of men whose names public gossip had advanced as potential candidates for presidency."

Herbert Hoover was president at the time. He would be succeeded by Franklin Roosevelt in 1932.

Her analysis of public policy then goes on for more than 5000 words. In the end, she comes up with this: "Men from time immemorial generously have credited women with superior spiritual qualities and a keen sense of spiritual values. If indeed they are entitled to that high estimate, how vastly elevating and wholesome an influence may they wield in legislative halls, and through the employment of those faculties influence beneficently the laws of the land!"

Well, we now have women serving in the House and the Senate, but 93 years on, we're still waiting on our first female president.

Next I am going to read "300 Great Women" - part of a contest run by the magazine to name the greatest 12 living American women - "native-born or naturalized." The disconnect between the adds and the editorial content is striking.

 

Grammar Police: Ink Crime Blotter

The Grammar Police lists the following offenders, recently sighted in our area. Please note: we are desperate to stop these bad actors before they become repeat offenders:

"Let's not problematize this thing."

Clear violation -"problem" is not and never will be (at least on my watch) a verb.

"People come to Florida to recreate."

Unless people are heading to the sunshine state to recreate in the literal sense, i.e. they will recreate the world, then NO, NO, NO. Again, "recreation" is a noun, not a verb.

"We need to be planful about this."

I'm sorry, what? Do we need to make a plan? To plan carefully? To keep our original plans in mind? "Plan" is both a verb and a noun, but it is most certainly not an adverb!

"He hopes to reduce the deficit bigly." 

It is with sorrow that I report hearing this phrase on NPR just yesterday in a discussion about the federal budget. Bigly?  It's official - the world is coming to an end. In a very bigly way.

 

 

 

 

 

Eavesdropping

I love to eavesdrop. There, I've said it. I overhear a sentence or two, and then I'm off to the races, imagining the whole story.

The other night, my husband and I went to the movies. Yes! A real theater. With a big screen! It was delightful, and I hope I don't pay the price in Covid.

Anyhow, here is the fragment I overheard:

Place: The lobby of the movie theater.

Dramatic personage: man looking arrogant and speaking loudly into his cell phone.

Overheard: "Either you accept us in the next 40 hours, or we go to court."

Hmmmm. Who is the us? He and his spouse? Are they applying to a Co-op board? Or is it a business he refers to? Or perhaps it is a settlement offer from a law firm? And why 40 hours? It was about 7 pm on a Thursday. What is the significance of Saturday at 11 am? Why then?

As a writer, my instinct is to wrap a story around that sentence.  Unless I overhear something even juicier tomorrow.

Great Writing Advice

"If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do for them is to present them with copies of 'The Elements of Style.' The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they're happy."

-Dorothy Parker

Oh, that witty dame! So many great lines.

Recently, I discovered (thanks Susan!) the publication "Dorothy Parker's Ashes." The most recent issue is about the writing life. They accepted a piece about my personal debacle of writing (and publishing) an obituary of someone who was still alive. 

Somehow, I dodged another bullet. And I'm still writing.

 

 

 

To Tell You The Truth...

 "Dishonesty in writing is the one unforgivable sin." 

I just read that sentence in an essay on writing advice. I was trying to clear my email box before sitting down to blog something pithy.

But if I'm being honest, I feel anything but clever or concise. Here's the truth:

I'm exhausted. I can't seem to sleep anymore. I toss and turn, my mind churning. In bed, my body is like a cooking rotisserie chicken. I go around and around, trying to stay in place so I don't wake up my husband.  (Please, no sleep advice. I get exercise, spend time outside, limit caffeine, never watch TV, and watch my so-called "sleep hygiene." I. Just. Can't. Sleep.)

Unless, of course, I medicate. Let me clear. I said "medicate" not "meditate." Though of course, I've tried that too. Today I broke down and went to a CBD store and got gummies, sans THC. I'm not hopeful.

Anyway, I could write about the refreshing fall weather and that new-school-year-fresh-start feeling. But that would be lying. 

This week septic tank at our Adirondack cabin failed. Meanwhile, the hot water tank at our home exploded while we were away, causing massive damage in the basement. Enjoy the photo on the above left of the dumpster in our driveway, which holds just part of what was ruined in the flooding. The worst was losing family photos and letters, most from my husband's family.

The crazy thing is that this isn't even what's keeping me up. At least it's not what I'm thinking about as I try to relax. Most of the damage is fixable and what's lost is lost. This seems a more existential agitation.

Anyway, here's another quote, this from my beloved therapist: "First World problems are still problems."  Yup. That's no lie.

 

More Newspaper Follies

Each week when I visit my Mom, we go through her mail and papers. My mom is 98 years old and legally blind, but mentally sharp. I noticed her local newspaper had arrived and asked her if she wanted me to read it to her.

"Just the obituaries," she said.

I read them out loud - but she didn't know any of them; all wee considerably younger than she is.

Then I moved on to the police report. Oh. my. God. My mother lives in a well-to-do town, so I wasn't expected armed robbery, but what passed as local crime - or at least police activity significant enough to report - slayed me.

Here are a few highlights (with comments):

Firefighters Calls to Rescue Cat Up in Tree

Firefighters responded to Sprague Road Aug. 8 report of a cat stuck in a tree. The cat was seen about 25 feet above ground. The resident was advised to place an open can of tuna and water at the base of the tree to coax the cat to come down on its own. The caller called back the next day to say the cat had been in the tree for more than 20 hours. Firefighters returned and rigged a rope and a basket up to the cat. Food was placed in the basket to entice it. The basket and rope were left in the tree and the homeowner was advised to call again when the cat made its exit."

Cliche? Sure. But I would really like a follow-up on this one. Did the cat jump into the basket? Why was a ladder not deployed? How did the resident feel about the proposed rescue solutions?

Garments Out of Season

A male wearing a ski jacket with a hood was reported at Wilmot and Heathcote roads on August 8, waiting for a bus. Police found the person who is female. She was wearing garments unusual for the weather but was not suspicious. She said she did not want help and none was given.

Um. Was the complaint to the fashion police? I'm guessing this person who looked "suspicious" was not white. And the caller couldn't identify the person's gender correctly? Can't imagine why this "suspect" didn't want any assistance from the local police.

Bereaved Customer Lashes Out

Police went to the post office on S. Central Avenue Aug. 12 after a customer, whom employees identified by name, threw a roll of packaging tape at the postmaster after it was explained she would have to pay for the tape and it wasn't free. No injuries were reported and the irate person left the post office without paying for four pieces of tape of undetermined value."

I am happy to report that this high-stakes police drama ended peacefully.

"Police spoke to the tape thrower. She apologized for her behsvior by saying she was recently bereaved. She denied throwing tape at any person. She returned to the post office with police and paid $3.99 for a roll of tape and apologized to the postmaster and another employee at whom she had directed a derogatory comment."

Wow! I thought things were bad in Ukraine ....

 

 

 

Humiliation Makes Good Copy

I've written thousands (yes thousands) of articles over my career, and I still can't predict which ones are going to get traction. Pieces I spend days laboring over get no notice, while something I write effortlessly in one sitting gets a lot of attention.

Recently, I wrote a story quickly that to my surprise has taken off. It was a memoir piece about the most embarrassing moment of my career. To wit, I wrote an obituary for someone who was still alive.

I don't mean that in the sense of drafting an obit for a famous person ahead of time, so you don't have to scramble when the time comes. Oh no. I mean I mistakenly wrote up someone's death and it was published when he was very much alive. Did I describe this as "embarrassing"? Better words would be "mortifying" and "humiliating." 

Anyway, this happened long ago, so I don't know what impulse has made me drag it up. Maybe I'm now old enough not to give a (fill in the blank) about looking stupid anymore.  So here, I am, doubling down by blogging it. Enjoy the full story by clicking the link.

And may it comfort you the next time you want to disappear out of shame.

________________________________________________

I’m making this public confession to share the most important lesson of my career. Never — not even “just this once” — cut corners to meet a deadline. You might get away with it a few times. But trust me, it can end in humiliating disaster.

Yes, I prematurely buried someone, though only in print. But I can explain…

CONTINUE READING HERE

 

 

Warning - This Post is TOXIC!

  "Be sure to drink plenty of water when you get home to flush out the toxins," the massage therapist told me.

    The toxins? I'm sorry, had I unknowingly swallowed pesticides on the massage table?

    Dangerous poisons seems to be everywhere. Here's a smattering of headlines that have recently crossed my transom:

    "SEVEN TOXIC HABITS THAT DRAIN YOUR ENERGY!'

    "TEN SIGNS YOU HAVE A TOXIC FRIENDSHIP!'

    "SIGNS YOU MAY BE IN A TOXIC MARRIAGE WITHOUT REALIZING IT!"

    "THINGS TOXIC PEOPLE SAY'

    "OVERCOMING TOXIC EMOTIONS"

By the way, if you are wondering, this article claims that toxic emotions include anger, frustration, fear, resentment and sadness. And all this time, I thought those were just part of being human.

Yes, the Word Police are back and this time Officer Kate is pleading with you to curtail the overuse of the word "toxic." Our old friend The Merriam-Webster Dictionary, defines "toxic" thusly:

: containing or being poisonous material especially when capable of causing death or serious debilitation

 Examples: toxic waste, a toxic radioactive gas, an insecticide highly toxic to birds.

: exhibiting symptoms of infection or toxicosis.

Example: the patient became toxic two days later

 

I know what you are going to tell me - language evolves over time. I'm an old curmudgeon. I need to chill.  And - full disclosure, even Merriam-Webster offers a third meaning, which refers to acting "harsh, malicious or harmful." 

 

Fine. Just don't send any toxic judgement my way. 

I Just Don't Feel Like It....

I'm in this weird state where I'm having lots of things published, but I don't feel like writing.

I always feel like writing, to the point where I have long been contemptuous of the idea of "writer's block." "Nothing like a deadline to help you get over writer's block," was my arrogant go-to take on the concept. It's not that I don't have ideas. It's not that I don't feel the words coming. It's...well, if I had to put it in a word, I guess I feel lazy. Unmotivated. (Okay, that's two words.)

Perhaps it's because re-entering the world (now that Covid is on the wane) is so tiring. I seem to be able to do one or two things a day now, where my days used to be packed. One social event wears me out for days. I feel out of emotional shape - I no longer have the stamina to pack my days full of activities or people.

Hopefully, this will pass. The funny thing is I wrote all through Covid. For now, here  is a piece I just published in an AARP newsletter about being a Grandma School Graduate.  Yes, grandparent classes are a thing. Here's one on dealing with my stuff - physical stuff, that is, though of course it's connected to our emotional stuff. I have another one coming out next week in Good Housekeeping on intergenerational conflict over posting family photos on social media.

But all those were written weeks ago. And now my inner editor is asking, "Yeah, but what have you done for me lately?" 

She's a tyrant, that inner editor.

Wishing everyone a great - if not productive - week!

 

 

Your Email Is Not Your To-Do List!

How's that for a concept? I didn't make it up, but came across it on a podcast. It's kind of brilliant.

Because somehow email has become a job in itself. "Ugh, I've got to get through my email."

Of course you are never finished with your email. Clear out ten of them, and 15 news ones have already come in. Somewhere along the line, I let dealing with my inbox become my priority.  Actually it's worse than that. My inbox became my boss, because it was deciding what my priorities were.

Maybe I want to get a few hours of solid writing in. But all those messages are beckoning. So I better respond to this one, delete this one, save this to deal with later ... wait, 80% off sale? What if something great sells out? Suddenly an hour and a half goes by. Was reading those emails the most important thing I had to do? Of course not. I should have been writing. Everything in that inbox could have waited for hours.

I'm not saying that I don't need to check it. In addition to the personal emails that I want to answer,  there are notes from editors, possible assignments and a handful of pressing things. But is there anything that actually can't wait? There is not. 

So as of today, I am taking charge of my inbox. Not by going through it, but by putting in its proper time and place.

Sigh. That little red circle with the number of unopened emails is beckoning. It's hard. There are only 27. Nope. Later. Ugh. Maje that 30.

Well, at least after I check that nothing really important has come ...

 

 

 

You Didn't Back Up? Lessons from Writers Who Lost It All.

Hi friends. I published this on Medium this week and am posting it as a blog because....because...the sad truth is that my life is so boring  I have nothing else to share right now.

Here's the LINK TO THE STORY.

My Accomplished Cat

We keep hearing about how Covid has constrained our lives. Well, that is not the experience of my cat, Van Gogh.

Van Gogh has really expanded his social and intellectual life during the pandemic. Above, you will see the cat participating in a barre class I take virtually. Since I don't actually own a ballet barre, I use a kitchen chair for the class. The photo is a screen shot taken by my beloved exercise instructor, Paulette.

Van Gogh enjoys barre, and he also attends my virtual stability class, but his real love is yoga. I've done more than one pose with the cat on my back, or under my downward dog.

But Van Gogh doesn't only attend exercise class. He also has joined me in virtual therapy. He rarely misses an online session, and if he isn't content to cross my lap back and forth in a kind of obsessive-compulsive - not to mention distracting - way, he hangs out and eats the plant in my office. The plant is in view of my therapist, so she points out when he's chomping on the leaves. I'm confident that Van Gogh's mental health continues to improve, despite the toll he takes on mine.

But there's more. Van Gogh is now fully versed in Diversity and Equity Training. Because I teach in a prison (or did before Covid temporarily shut down  program) I have been taking all sorts of courses - not just DEI training, but also trauma-informed pedagogy. And so has Van Gogh. 

As I write this, Van Gogh's sister, Lily, is in my lap. She considers herself my true "laptop" and resents the silver metal one that I'm writing on. Lily is less interested in education, but seems to feel she is far more important than anything I have to write.

She's probably right.

 

 

Confessions of A Class Secretary

Every few months, I put together the alumni news from my college classmates. This involves:

-An initial plea for news

-A follow up desperate plea for news

-A final plea, which include statements like, "Thanks to the THREE classmates who have already written in," or "Come on! Help me out. I've got nothing. Have a heart."

News trickles in at the last minute, and then I have to put in it into a coherent narrative and send it off to the college. By the time they are published, it's time to go back to the well and start over again.

I started out gung-ho. My mission was to reach out to those classmates who rarely or never wrote in, and to have our class news reflect the realities of our lives, and not just be a boring, brag-y recital from the usual clique of people who wrote in. You know the kind - every class has them. It begins with boasting about their incredible career, and over the years it moves on to  their incredible children, their incredible house - a result, of course, of their incredible career - their incredible children's college careers, blah blah blah. These folks like to call themselves "blessed" and I have to bite my tongue to say, "Don't you mean 'privileged?'"

Well, I have changed the tenor of the class notes, but I must say,  it's been a mixed blessing. Lots of people write in now. I've asked classmates to keep it real, and boy, have they.  One guy wrote about a "threesome" he had in a hot tub. Another proudly linked to some gay porn he'd written. I've gotten deeply personal medical details about surgeries, heard stories of heartbreaking loss, and learned about dog breeding, pot throwing, and more.

Anyway it's deadline time and I have to go. So far, one classmate reports that he just  finished a wine tasting tour and another had prostate surgery. 

Is my term up yet? 

 

Overwriting in Overdrive

Last week I wrote about deal breaking phrases. Today I need to address the kind of overwriting that drives me to distraction. In fact, if you saw someone driving alone but yelling inside her car recently, that was probably me, listening to an audio book.

The following sentences are verbatim, except that the highlights are mine. I have also removed the character's names, so as not to humiliate the authors. Then again, these authors actually sell a lot of books, so they are probably laughing their way to the bank. Or chuckling over their direct deposit accounts. 

"With a new decade looming, XXX was on a bus heading West to California, to seek as much of a life someone like him could reasonably expect - a roof over his head, three squares a day, a pint of decent liquor every now and then, and a steady supply of his Lucky Strikes, to keep his mouth supple and amused."

If only I smoked! Then my mouth wouldn't be so rigid and aggrieved.

"He got a recommendation on a place to spend the night from a gal behind the bus counter with blonde hair that was wrapped around her neck like a naughty mink stole. "

Don't you just hate it when your mink stole acts up and begins choking you? What a troublesome little accessory.

Different author:

"Thick clouds soaked up the vibrant colors of the day - broke and splashed them across the heavens like a manic artist who scored a new bottle of Adderall. Orange Crush and cotton candy collided and dovetailed, making the sky look like a watercolor that had been left out in the rain. The violent hues reflected off the fat flakes drifting down and powdering the landscape."

Where to start? I guess a shout out to an author who attempts to describe the sky one morning and works in Adderall, Orange Crush, cotton candy and violence. Also - I have no idea what the actual weather is. After all those crazy colors, it's snowing? In my experience, snow falls out of grey skies, but what do I know?

"XXX's hazel eyes glistened like a penny, a freshly minted one around the depths of her pupils and an aged one that had green patina around the edges. YYY's were a murky cobalt blue, much like her grandmother's collection of vintage Milk of Magnesia bottles." 

Excuse me now please, because I must go in search of my explosive yet calming, bubble gum pink Pepto Bismo. 

 

Deal-Breaking Phrases

I'm almost done listening to the first batch of audio books for awards season. As always, there are strong entries and weak ones. At this point, I have instituted a new rule for sorting finalists. If certain phrases come up, I am allowed to jettison the book.  So far these fall into in two categories. 

Category One: Descriptions of women's body parts:

-"Her heaving breasts." (I possess a pair of breasts and I couldn't heave them if I tried.)

-"Her milky-white breasts." (I have a nursing daughter. The only time when milk and breasts should be connected.)

'"Her soft but firm breasts" (Please explain.)

-"Her simmering heat" (If she's not in menopause - and these characters are NOT - just ... no.)

Category Two: Sky Descriptions

-"The sky was the color of a bruise." (Is this something they teach in Creative Writing MFA programs? It's everywhere.)

-"The sky was angry." (How could you tell?)

-The sky was weeping. (If you mean it was raining, just say so.)

Please try to find other ways to create the emotional tenor of the story - stop anthropomorphizing the weather.

Yup, the curmudgeon is back, heaving her breasts in indignation as she gazes at the frustrated sky.

 

You "Like" me... You really "like" me.....

I am not mocking Sally Field's Oscar acceptance speech.  In fact, I've always completely related to it.

What I'm talking about is electronic approval. The other day I was watching an  interview with the British entrepreneur Poppy Jamie. She casually threw out this sentence: "Digital affirmation is an illusion."

Let me repeat that: "Digital affirmation is an illusion."

Obvious, but profound, and it should be engraved on all our devices. Ironically, I was watching this interview live on Facebook. Over the last two years, I have suspended my Facebook account multiple times for several reasons. One: it's a stream of self-promotion and political rants. Two: it's a time-sucker. Three: who wants to support Mark Zuckerberg? 

This time,  I went back on FB because a publication I write for was hosting this online event on the platform, and they asked their contributing writers to log on and keep the conversation going. And why did I do it? Because I want to be liked by my editors. To get more work. To get more liked. 

The online Platform "Medium" is an entirely different situation. "Claps" and time people spend reading your work literally translates into money - the more engagement, the more you make. (Have I begged you to follow me on Medium yet? If not, please do. I would really LIKE it.)

Sometimes, as a writer, I feel like a street beggar. 

We have an expression in our family about one of our members: "Not enough mustard in the world for that hot dog." Well, there's never going to be enough likes, acceptances and publications for this hot dog either. Digital affirmation is an illusion.

And now, back to the real world, where I get to cuddle a newborn, hug my husband and cook for my daughter and son-in-law. In this sphere, I don't need electronic approval to know my worth.

 

 

 

 

Oh My Word(s)!

I imagine my brain as crisscrossed with storylines and word patterns. Words are my work, my pleasure and my play things.

First, there is the book I'm currently reading. I just finished Girl A by Abigail Dean, which I loved. (The title of the NY Times review gives you the plot summary: "What Happens to Siblings Who Survive a House of Horror.") It's less about horror and more about sibling dynamics, though both are strongly in play.

Second, it is Audie judging season. That means that from October to January I have little white earbuds in place, as I listen to roughly two dozen audio books, judging the narrators' performances. This drives my husband bananas, because he keeps trying to talk to me as I cook dinner or fold laundry, and I have to lift my hair back and point to my ear. He rolls his eyes, and then once I pause the book and take out the earphone and ask, "What?" he says, "Oh, never mind."

Third, I'm usually in the middle of writing an article, and that means either the idea is dancing around in some other part of my brain, or I've commenced the actual writing, so that story line is also ongoing.

Fourth, the daily reading of several newspapers (not all of them in entirely, of course - I pick and choose my articles), ditto the New Yorker, Medium and a variety of other sources.

Finally,  there are the online word games. Oh so many word games. Of course the NYT crossword, and - my personal favorite - the NYT Spelling Bee. I play several people in "Words with Friends." I play my son, along with several strangers, in Boggle. Also, I'm sorry to say, I still play "Wordscapes," despite coming incredibly close to  - finger hovering - deleting the app. But I couldn't/didn't do it, and I'm not going to tell you how many hours I spend playing weekend tournaments. If I don't place in the top five players, I feel defeated, and that makes for long days and late nights.

They say that to ward off dementia, you should challenge your brain to think differently and learn new tasks. Logic would then suggest that I play math games instead of word games. Or in addition to word games. Nah. Let's not get crazy.

 

Dept. of Embarrassment

A few weeks ago,  I wrote about corrections in the print and digital journalism world. But humiliation and embarrassment isn't only relegated to mistakes that make it into the story. There's a whole sub-genre of bone-headed moves associated with reporting.

Mostly, they involved asking stupid questions or making stupid comments.  I don't mean asking questions that are basic - it's your job to ask questions, and if you don't understand what you're hearing, it's perfectly okay to ask for clarification. Or to say, "I'm sorry. I  still don't understand. Can you explain it again?"

No, I'm talking about things that escape your mouth before your brain has caught up with them. 

Such was the case this week when I was interviewing a young woman who had been incarcerated for many years.  We got off to a confused start (misunderstanding about our scheduled interview time, apologies, mistakenly cutting each other off on Zoom, etc.) But after all that, "D" smiled and asked, "Well, how are you doing?"

"Great!" I replied. "I finally saw my kids after being separated for 14 months and..."

I stopped cold and covered my face with my hands. "I can't believe I just said that to you," I said, peeking out between spread fingers.

This woman had been separated from her child for years. She missed her little girl's  first steps, her first day of kindergarten,  birthday after birthday, and so much more.  When "D"'s daughter was was allowed to visit - she had to go through three different security clearances where she was searched, escorted past rolled barbed wires on metal fences and through thick, locked metal doors before she could see her Mom.  Even the way they could cuddle was regulated, and a guard supervised all their interactions. 

My point is that complaining about not seeing my kids to this woman was..... Insensitive? Shameful? Ridiculous?

"D" was generous about it. When I apologized, she said, "No, it's okay. We're good."

I felt awful, but it was going to be worse if I kept dwelling on it - you know, when you've done something wrong, but you end up making the person whose feelings you hurt reassure you over and over that it was alright.

We went on to have a good conversation. But....sigh.

 

Digital Mistakes

I remember the first time a reader requested a correction for an article I wrote.

At the time, I was a "copy girl" for The New York Times. This was back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and newspapers were only print, and editors barked "COPY!" loudly. As a copy girl, my job was to fill their boxes with copy paper. At the time, I already had a masters degree in journalism but that's how you started at The Times.

The group of us copy girls and boys were an over-educated, highly competitive group. We didn't only race to keep editors happy with their paper trays. We hustled to try to make our way up the food chain. At the time, we were allowed to try to write two kinds of stories. One was the Neediest Case Fund stories. The other was to come up with a story that wasn't under anybody else's beat.

Just try to find a story that someone at the NYT wasn't already responsible for covering. Well, I finally did. My story - "Fencing Club Celebrates 100th Anniversary" was published - without a byline of course. Only staff reporters got bylines.

Anyway, one day I was working in Metro and someone yelled out, "Who wrote the fencing story?" Proudly I called out, "I did!" With which the editor yelled, "You screwed up!" for the entire desk (and a desk is a department) to hear. I don't remember the mistake - a title? a misspelled name?  But it involved running a correction, and I assumed marked the end of my journalism career.

I lived to publish again, but this week might be the first that I'm grateful that most journalism is digital now. I just published a big piece online for a national magazine, and it has needed three corrections. Oy. One was for calling a hospital a hospital, instead of a "health center." One was for a job title missing a word. One was someone referring to "FaceTime" which I'd heard as "Facebook."

They are all legitimate boo-boos. But when I went crawling to my editor to confess, she said, "No problem. I'll fix it in a minute." Boom, she typed in the corrections and hit "publish." Boom, no more mistakes. No formal correction. No major humiliation for the entire organization to discover. 

I still hate making mistakes in anything I write, but now they're not carved in stone. Okay, I'm not that old. But they certainly are easier to address.

 

 

 

Breaking Up With Facebook

The breakup seemed sudden, but the relationship problems must have been simmering below the surface for awhile. 

And I didn't delete my account - only suspended it. Call it a trial separation, though at this point, I can't see us getting back together.

Here's the bottom line: Facebook was bringing me no pleasure. My feed featured the same group of people, a string of political rants, and ads for things I didn't need and sometimes clicked on.

As to seeing the same people over and over, I know that FB has an algorithm. Every six months or so, someone posts a way to outwit it,  and it never, ever works. 

But the bigger issue is social media in general. I'm as guilty as the next person of only posting news or photos that make me look good, or that depict a happy family, a lovely place I've been, whatever. (That's probably why I only post a few times a year.) But the cumulative effect of scrolling through all those curated images  week after week, year after year,  just makes me feel bad.

Face it, or better yet - Facebook it - we know we aren't seeing the truth - or at least the full picture - of other peoples' lives. But we compare their outsides to our insides anyway.

One of the lessons of the pandemic has been to cut the crap. The relationships that don't sustain us, the activities that didn't bring us fulfillment - we don't have time for that anymore. To me, Facebook represents the worst of the worst of superficiality. 

 Not supporting Mark Zuckerberg is just icing on the cake.

I know that I'll continue to nurture the relationships that are important to me.

And  I think I can do better than this: 

Vaccine Ethics?

I just embarrassed myself by attempting to shame someone for getting the vaccine when she wasn't eligible.  I thought she wasn't old enough to qualify and was disgusted that she scammed her way into the shot. Instead of shaming her, I inadvertently complimented her - "Thank you!" she said. "But I'm way beyond 65." Oomph. 

Plenty has been written about upper middle class white people going into vaccine distribution sites in low-income areas. New York is trying to roll vaccinations out in areas where it's most needed. For multiple reasons,  it's easier for people with more resources to secure those  appointments than it is for people who live in those areas. Even if I were eligible, I wouldn't do that. 

Would I? It's easy to be on my high horse at this point. Today, for the first time I thought about haunting pharmacies and clinics just before closing time to see if I can score a vaccine that would otherwise be thrown out. Is that cheating? I don't know. 

Facebook drives me crazy on any number of levels, but if I see one more thumbs-up-getting-the-vaccine selfie, I will lose it.  I'm happy for you, truly. I just have FOMOV -  Fear Of Missing Out on Vaccine. 

I'm hopeful New York will lower the eligibility age soon. And then, as someone who has the time (privilege rides again), I can sit on my computer for hours and constantly refresh the pages, and snag an appointment. 

Meanwhile I will reflect on WWJED - What Would Jane Eyre do? When typhus was spreading through the Lowood School, Jane escaped the disease and played outdoors:

"While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its frequent visitor; while  there was gloom and fear within its walls; while its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors." 

Jane is right, as always. Instead of obsessing about the vaccine, I will go for a long walk tomorrow. It may not be May, but it's still beautiful. 

Sleeping With Jane Eyre

Let me rephrase that. When I can't sleep - which is most nights -  Jane Eyre is my sleeping draught, my sedative and companion.

Yes, Reader - I can't stop reading her. I've read that book countless times, and can open it at any page and know exactly where I am. Lots of people re-read books for comfort, but Jane Eyre  has turned into an obsession.

It's bad. The house is quiet; it's 2:00 am. I am wide awake, so I mentally count every single character in the book. (My current count is 68, but I may be forgetting someone.) I try to count the names in the order in which they appear in the book.

But should I count Mrs. Fairfax when Jane first receives the letter about the governess position, or should I count Mrs. Fairfax when Jane first arrives at Thornfield Hall, and mistakes the gentle lady  for the mistress of the house?

I am serious. This is what I think about at night.

Last night I reread the part where Jane - having fled Mr. Rochester -- destitute, having paid her 20 shillings to the Coachman to get her as far as Whitcross -- is close to perishing from hunger, cold and illness. 

"I cannot buy die," I said, "and I believe in God. Let me try to wait His will in silence."

These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all my misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain there - - dumb and still."

"All men must die," said a voice quite close at hand; "but all are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yours would be if you perished here of want."

At which point, St. John Rivers appears out of the dark, wet night.

What is it that makes me go back to this novel over and over again in times of trouble? Well,  Jane tells us, "Remorse is the poison of life. Reformation is said to be its cure." 

Dear Reader, in that spirit today I will begin a new book. I'll just keep Jane Eyre on my nightstand for emergencies.

 

 

 

 

Covid February

What possessed me to look  back at what I was doing this week one year ago?

My calendar is marked "Mother-Daughter Getaway" from Feb. 13-18. That trip - to celebrate my daughter's upcoming marriage - didn't happen though, because my mother-in-law passed away that week.

My daughter and I pushed our trip off until March. The mother-daughter getaway, of course, never happened, because by then Covid was raging. Neither did the wedding, for that matter. The last time I saw our West Coast-based grown children was at my mother-in-law's funeral.  We knew we were saying goodbye to their grandmother, but we didn't know we were saying a different but also very real kind of goodbye to each other.

The rest of the week was unremarkable, but in retrospect, it looks absolutely remarkable.  I had a couple of writing assignments. My friend Linda and I launched a Memoir class class at a new prison. (That is, the prison wasn't new, but I'd never taught there before. I remember the moon glinting off the rolls of barbed wire that ringed the walls that cold night. )

Thursday night says "Dinner Joanne." Imagine - dinner out with a friend! Meals delivered and set in front of you, a glass of wine, laughing and hugging. My sister and her husband were flying into town that Friday. My sister! I was mystified when I came to an entry that read "Core Mix 10:45 am" until I remembered it was an exercise class I used to go to.

These days, I ping between thinking the end is in sight - vaccines are coming, and some of my friends and family have already been vaccinated - and Covid never ending. My old life seems to be fading farther and father away.

Christmas Day