Jane Roper's Blog, page 3

I don't love you anymore, September

The end of summer / beginning of Fall (in the back-to-school sense) has always been my favorite time of year. The days are still warm, but visions of Fall foliage, decorative gourds, and fun-size Butterfingers glimmer in the distance. I feel somewhat wistful and nostalgic, but also jazzed up to dive back into the routine of school and work and new projects. The nights are cool, I feel less bloated, and life is good.

This year, however, I’m struggling to tap into that ole Steptember magic. It’s the start of our (twin) kids’ last year at home before they fly off to college, and I’m feeling it BIGTIME.

The last year of school plays in the auditorium and permission slips and fundraisers.

The last year of a crowded kitchen in the morning and family dinners at night and “any good goss at school today? Spill the tea!” (Pro tip: Teens LOVE it when you use their slang!)

The last year of their shoes scattered all over the front hall, their coats on the rack, and the light shining from the gaps beneath their bedroom doors at night.

I don’t quite know how to fully appreciate and enjoy this last year without at the same time feeling a sense of impending grief. Maybe it’s impossible.

And yes, I know, kids come home on breaks and for summers. They sometimes boomerang back between jobs and during the odd pandemic. God willing, they will never go away completely.

But it’s not the same.

So I will not be making things worse on myself by reading Charlotte’s Web this Fall. But this is a reminder for long-time readers and a PSA for new subscribers that YOU should. The post below—originally published last September, and perhaps to be shared again next September, when I am a puddle of misery—explains why.

Maybe don’t read it if you’ve got a high school senior or two in your house, or have a newly empty or half-empty nest. In that case, just join me in feeling sad and possibly picking up a bag of those fun-size, Halloween Butterfingers (which have been in stores for weeks because America) and eating three or nine of them in front of the TV after downing a can(nabis) of seltzer or two. It’ll be fun!

The rest of you, start reading.

I’ll be back next week with something funnier and more uplifting, I promise.

Spiders, Pigs, and the Circle of Life

This time of year—back to school, back to the routine, on the cusp of Fall—Charlotte’s Web is often on my mind.

I suppose it’s slightly odd that I love Charlotte’s Web so much, given my complicated feelings about spiders. If you ever happen to ask me how I feel about them (as one does), I will say that I don’t particularly like spiders—especially hairy ones, which can go fuck themselves—but I do respect them.

They really are remarkable creatures: the webs, the dexterity, the mad hunting skills, the silk balloons they spin to take flight. One of my favorite activities at Sandy Island, the YMCA family camp on Lake Winnipesaukee we go to at the tail end of every August, is spider watching. (This is not an official, organized activity; it’s just a thing I do.)

The best place for this is the mini-lavs, where spiders set up camp in the upper corners and prey on the bugs that squeeze in through the gaps over the doors or holes in the high screen windows, attracted by the light. Believe me, you haven’t lived until you’ve watched a spider sprinting toward a bug just caught in her web, stunning it into submission, and expertly rolling it into little white spider cigar, all while brushing your teeth.

Well, maybe you have.

You also see lots of spider egg sacs up in the crooks and corners of the lavs and other buildings and porches on the island. And slow, tired spiders, who seem like they’ve seen better days. Some newly dead spiders, too.

If you’ve read Charlotte’s Web, none of this will come as a suprise to you. In that book we learn, along with Wilbur the terrific / radiant / humble pig, that as Fall approaches, common orb weaving spiders like Charlotte, and like my spider pals in New Hampshire, lay their eggs. Not long after that, they die. One life ends and hundreds of new ones begin. Every year, the cycle repeats.

And every year, our (non-spider) family goes back to Sandy Island, and does the same things, sees the same people. Every year, we come back home on Labor Day weekend, to the start of a new year. (Yes, September is the new year. January is a sham.) The kids go back to school. I refocus on my work and routine. We relish the sunny days and cool nights. We slaughter the pigs.

But every year, the kids are a little older, and so are we—a reminder that life isn’t a really a carousel of time, but a corkscrew. We come back around, but never to the exact same place. That fact is never as achingly apparent as when the back to school and off to college photos fill your social media feeds.

There’s a melancholy to this time of year, a sense of impending loss. But it makes you appreciate the pleasures of the season—of everything—that much more. I think this is why so many people, myself included, consider Fall their favorite season.

The dying leaves are breathtaking.

Death!!

Which brings me back to Charlotte’s Web.

If you only read the book as a child, you might still be under the impression that it’s just a charming children’s story about a girl and a pig and a spider who can, for some reason, read.

I mean, it is that. But, as I discovered when I read it to my own children nine or ten years ago, it’s also about the cyclical nature of life. It’s about birth and death and love and loss. It’s about anticipating and remembering. It’s about growing up.

At the beginning of the story, Fern, the little girl who convinces her father not to kill Wilbur, the runt of the new pig litter, is enthralled by the animals of the farm. By the end of the book, she’s more interested in a boy.

Near the beginning of the book, Wilbur learns that he’s destined for the slaughterhouse. Charlotte saves his life, but in doing so hastens her own death. Wilbur will never be eaten, thanks to his new celebrity status, but he will, of course, die eventually.

In the meantime, though, there are Charlotte’s children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, some of whom fly away on their little spider balloons, and some of whom stay in the barn and chat with Wilbur and the other animals. There are goslings and lambs and calves each spring. And although Wilbur may not live to see it, Fern will probably one day have children, too. The cycle continues.

All this, and the prose itself is just gorgeous.

Seriously, get your hands on a copy and read it. Read it to yourself or read it aloud to your children or partner or elderly parent. Read it now, during this season of simultaneous beginning and ending, when the circles are so keenly apparent. (I have no way of knowing for sure, but I have a feeling E.B. White loved the heck out of Fall.)

And if you’re not convinced yet, here, read this, from the very end of the book:

Life in the barn was very good—night and day, winter and summer, spring and fall, dull days and bright days. It was the best place to be, thought Wilbur, this warm delicious cellar, with the garrulous geese, the changing seasons, the heat of the sun, the passage of swallows, the nearness of rats, the sameness of sheep, the love of spiders, the smell of manure, and the glory of everything.

See?

Happy September, and thanks as always for reading.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my strange brand of Substacking, and/or if you have complex feelings about spiders, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, maybe buy my book!

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Menopause, mansplained.

I’m not gonna lie. Sometimes it is hard to come up with ideas for what to write about on this here Substack, and keep up with my breakneck pace of 1.7 average posts per month. But every once in a while a little something is dropped into my lap by the universe—or, in this case, into the mail by a friend—and, voila, a post is born.

I knew before I even cracked this puppy open it was going to be a treasure trove. Just look at that benevolent, 60-something male doctor there on the cover in his Mad Men glasses, smiling reassuringly at us as menopausal gals if to say, “You’re welcome.”

I was initially a little puzzled by the title, “Make Menopause Easier,” especially given that all other titles in this series by the author, George C. Thosteson, M.D. (in collaboration with Jack Pickering), have a very clear “how to” vibe. They include:

DON’T LET DIVERTICULOSIS THROW YOU

CONTROL YOUR CHOLESTEROL SENSIBLY

YOU CAN STOP SINUS TROUBLE

HIATAL HERNIA AND EIGHT WAYS TO COMBAT IT

and

THE PESKY PROSTATE (that’s not so much a “how to” title, but I obviously had to include it.)

Whereas “Make Menopause Easier” sounds more like a plea to the gods.

I think what the title means is “Make menopause easier on yourself.” Because this is exactly what George C. Thosteton explains how to do. Specifically by not getting all bent out of shape about it.

As he explains on page 6:

“A lesson to be taken to heart is to refuse to be panicked by the ‘scare stories’ told by women who relate (and sometimes magnify) the troubles they had, and assure you that you are bound to experience the same thing…. Remember that the menopause is a perfectly normal change in the human system which every woman, if she lives long enough, must encounter. Women have been going through it since the beginning of human history. Our grandmothers got through it—and our ancestors for thousands of years before them.”

Got that? The Menopause is not a big deal. Just relax. Your grandmother did. And the cave women. Also? Smile. You look so much prettier when you smile.

Dr. Thosteton does, however, concede, that a severe hot flash, for example, can be disturbing.

“A severe flash my persist for five or sometimes 10 minutes, with such sweating that the sufferer is ‘wringing wet.’ This certainly is not pleasant. It can, if you don’t know about it in advance, even be scary. It certainly does nothing to enhance your usual calm demeanor!”

(And your usual demeanor IS calm, isn’t it? ISN’T IT?)

Speaking of which: If you buy into the misconception that you are “in danger of losing your mind” or “helplessly doomed to be cross and crabby” on account of the menopause, let Dr. T you straight:

“I concede that the discomforts and annoyances of menopause may make you feel snappish, but so can a cold in the head, an upset stomach, a sore toe, or a boil on the back of your neck…. The first rule of getting through menopause with the least discomfort is to understand it, accept it as a perfectly normal phenomenon, and let your doctor prescribe medication if you need it.”

He then goes on to say that a mild sedative or horse tranquilizer might help.

Sorry, not a horse tranquilizer. Just a regular one.

In the good doctor’s defense, I assume not as much was known about the connection between hormones and moodswings and depression back in 1971 when this was written. (Holy shit I cannot believe this was written three years before I was born I am so old.)

So maybe we should forgive him for saying things like, “We are likewise fooling ourselves (and families) if we use the menopause as an excuse to be grumbling and irritable. Yes, there will be some feeling of being uncomfortable, but treat it like any other of the discomforts that we must all encounter at one time or another in our lives.”

On second though, no. Let’s not forgive him.

Especially since the next thing he says is: “Do not make the mistake of becoming careless about your personal appearance. Take the same pains you would have taken a few years before to keep your figure and your interests.”

He really does know how to MAKE MENOPAUSE EASIER doesn’t he??

Oh. And in case you were wondering: vaginal itching and dryness *might* be related to the menopause. However: “I most certainly do not imply that it happens to all women, or even to most. It is the exception. It can be easily treated….the one way NOT to get rid of such trouble is to say, ‘Oh, it’s the menopause!’ Entirely too many things are blamed on menopause when, in reality, they are independent of it and could easily be corrected.”

Translation: No more using the menopause as an excuse not to have sex with your husbands, ladies!

Also, menopause doesn’t cause weight gain. As Dr. T explains, “Other factors do. We slow down physically in the 40’s. We don’t get as much exercise. We get more rest. Often we eat (and perhaps drink) more. So we put on weight…. We are only fooling ourselves if we blame it on ‘the menopause.’”

Again, Dr. T and his colleagues probably didn’t know as much as we know now about the connection between weight gain and dropping levels of estrogen, so I am willing to cut him a little slack on this point. Especially because look at this nice little bone he throws to us in answer to the question of whether the menopause causes women to become less attractive:

“Femininity and attractiveness are not sacrificed because of menopause, and if you will take note, there are actresses and other women who remain extremely attractive and beautiful although past menopause age.”

Well, thank GOD.

Actresses. They’re just like us.

Jennifer Aniston, age 55. If she can look this good after menopause, you have no excuse not to. Bet she has a calm demeanor, too.

And, if you were wondering what effect menopause might have on your sexual desire—assuming you don’t have ALMOST DEFINITELY NOT RELATED, SILLY vaginal itching—there’s more good news:

“As a matter of fact, many women become more receptive to sexual activity after menopause because they can put out of their minds the fear of becoming pregnant.” (HINT, HINT, Mrs. Doctor Thosteton!)

See? Menopause really isn’t that bad. Hot flashes and night sweats and vaginal dryness and a thickening middle and decreased collagen production (and the resulting jowls) and moodswings and the end of your fertility and everything it represents—they’re just a normal part of life. Accept them. Dress nicely. And keep having sex with your husband.

Or, as Dr. George C. Thosteton, M.D. says:

“Menopause is a natural phase in a woman’s life. Whereas adolescence is the beginning of her child bearing potential, menopause is the end, but not the end of living, charm, or femininity. Menopause is not to be feared, because it is inevitable.”

Glad we got that cleared up.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription, or buying my latest book (in which perimenopause is a major character.) Thank you!

And on another note completely: I’m excited to share that I’m starting to actively (re)build my creative coaching and editorial business. If you or someone you know is looking for accountability, guidance, and feedback as they write a book, or has a completed manuscript (or shorter pieces) they’d like to have reviewed / edited by a Published Author (tm) and writing instructor with a degree from a fancy MFA program, please feel free to contact me at janeroper@gmail.com to discuss!

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P.S. Here’s some more terrific stuff that George C. Thosteson, M.D. has to say.

Hey, maybe I don't need a poem after all.

Well damn. Last time I posted, I was pleading for a poem to get me through the sh*t show of the presidential election, the insanity of recent Supreme Court rulings, the ongoing popularity of a certain weird wannabe dictator, and the creeping fascism here and abroad.

But now—wow. Here I am, a few weeks later, feeling actually HOPEFUL. Energized! Pumped!

And extremely relieved.

Ever since the disastrous presidential debate back in June, I’ve been firmly on team “Love You Biden, But You Gotta Drop Out”—as were many, many other people I know. (It wasn’t just the New York Times and “elites,” my friends.) I knew that if he withdrew, no matter who the replacement candidate ended up being, it would unleash a surge of hope and energy and momentum.

But even with all the pushback Joe was getting, it still felt like he would never back down. It would just be too big, too unprecedented. Too ACTUALLY GOOD NEWS. Hence me writing mournful meta-poetry on Substack.

Shortly after I did that, my husband and took off to spend some time by a lake in New Hampshire (the place with the wildlife). I was feeling so demoralized and discouraged that I vowed to ignore the news and social media completely. I would just focus on reading books, swimming, hiking, drinking wine, and drinking wine.

But then, on our first full day, just as we reached the top of a little nearby mountain on a late morning hike, our phones started blowing up with texts, and everything changed.

Biden dropped out!
OMG! He’s out!
IT HAPPENED

A few minutes later—after some brief return texting and news-looking—we snapped the below selfie. Look how simultaneously thrilled and terrified we look!

OK, maybe just thrilled. (With that view, how could we not be?) But we were definitely a little anxious on the inside. Because what would happen now? How? When? Who? Would the Dems manage to keep it from becoming the sort of circular firing squad clusterf*ck they so excel at? Would progressives and moderates start bare-knuckle boxing in the streets?

But within hours—minutes?—it was clear that Kamala was going to be the candidate. And instead of people freaking out and being all “She can’t win! She’ll be a terrible candidate! We’re doomed if she runs!” as so many people had been saying for so long (I confess, I was one of them), suddenly it was just: LET’S GOOOOOOOO!!!! 🥥🌴🥥🌴🥥🌴🥥🌴🥥🌴🥥

It’s been that way ever since. And I am fucking loving it.

Look, I’m not naive enough to think that the forces of MAGAism and Christofascism and all the other bad -isms will be defeated in November, or ever. But for the moment, I’m feeling a whole lot better about things—and I suspect a lot of you reading this feel the same way.

So perhaps you, like me, no longer feel quite as desperate for poetry. Or inclined to write it yourself.

Speaking of which: I must say, it was unexpected and sort of delightful and fun that many people (including some actual poets!) thought that that thing I wrote *did* in fact count as a poem.

Then again, there was a brief time in my life—specifically, the year that Where the Sidewalk Ends came into my life—when I wrote copious amounts of poetry. Behold, my first (and only) chapbook, Over The Rainbow ©1981

And two poems from it, which showcase my immense range—from paens to rainbows, hearts, unicorns and other Lisa Frank fodder, to wholesale ripoffs of Shel Silverstein poems.

Note bold choice to repeat “in the sky.” My line breaks definitely needed some work.

Anyway.

November—and the future of America—may still end up being a sh*t show. Meanwhile, war is still raging and the planet is still warming and AI is still, eventually going to kill us all. But at least there’s a little more hope in the mix.

Here’s a poem by an actual poet that I think sums that sentiment up pretty well.

Thanks

BY W. S. MERWIN

Listen

with the night falling we are saying thank you

we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings

we are running out of the glass rooms

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky

and say thank you

we are standing by the water thanking it

standing by the windows looking out

in our directions

.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging

after funerals we are saying thank you

after the news of the dead

whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

.

over telephones we are saying thank you

in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators

remembering wars and the police at the door

and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you

in the banks we are saying thank you

in the faces of the officials and the rich

and of all who will never change

we go on saying thank you thank you

.

with the animals dying around us

taking our feelings we are saying thank you

with the forests falling faster than the minutes

of our lives we are saying thank you

with the words going out like cells of a brain

with the cities growing over us

we are saying thank you faster and faster

with nobody listening we are saying thank you

thank you we are saying and waving

dark though it is

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription, or buying my poetry-free novel. Thank you!

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I need a poem to get me through this sh*tshow

I need a poem

By Jane Roper, non-poet

.

I need a poem

about resisting despair

when the world feels like

a knife in my kneecap

or a boulder in my shoe

or a hot cast-iron skillet on my forehead

or some other very unpleasant thing.

.

I am not a poet

clearly.

I can, however, make

line breaks

to trick you

into thinking that this

is a poem.

It is not a poem.

OR IS IT?

.

I need a poem

by Maya Angelou or Mary Oliver or Richard

Blanco

or any halfway decent poet, really.

I’d even take an MFA student.

I need a poem about how there is succor to be found

in the scything wings of the swallow

and the daisy’s hopeful countenance.

You know. That sort of thing.

But better.

Much, much better.

.

I need a poem

with a repeating line, like “I need a poem,”

to rock me like a cradle while this dumpster fire burns.

But with way better similes than “rock me like a cradle”

And probably no mention of dumpster fires

either.

Definitely nothing about the distant bang of boots and bullets,

or bleeding wombs.

It’s just too much alliteration. And horror.

.

I need a poem

that will kindle resolve

in the tinder of my tender heart.

Hey, that sounded nice just then—

the consonance, the internal rhymes.

But probably overkill.

Sorry.

.

Maybe I need a poem

with a variant on that repeating line

and a reminder that the osprey

also fear the specter of fascism

but you don’t see them freaking out about it, do you.

Be like an osprey, I want this poem to tell me.

An osprey that votes, and writes letters, and steadily builds

its heaven-high nest

instead of freaking the fuck out.

.

I need a poem

that will exhort me to be like the sun

which daily insists on obliterating the darkness,

like a daisy’s hopeful countenance.

Ha ha. Call back.

.

Seriously, though, I need a poem.

Shouldn’t there be one going viral right about now?

Amanda Gorman, where are you?

HELP.

.

I need a poem

to get me through this shitshow

and I suspect that you do,

too.

.

I’m sorry.

I’ve got nothing.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing things (other than poetry) is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription, or buying my book. (Below.) Thank you!

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Captain Von Trapp and I are deeply concerned

Our extended family got back last week from the trip of a lifetime: a cruise on the Danube, from Budapest, Hungary to Vilshofen, Germany.

The Hungarian parliament building at sunset

It’s not the sort of travel we normally do. We’re more DIY-types—guidebooks, not guided tours; crashing with friends or renting Airbnbs, not staying in places where turndown service is a thing. Meanwhile, I am not a big fan of boats, as I like having the option to leave any given place at any given time, which is not possible when you’re surrounded by water. However, due to the specific health needs of various family members, and thanks to great generosity on the part of my in-laws, we opted for a river cruise.

It was decidedly weird to be traveling in such a cushy way. (Note that “Cushy” would also be a good way to describe my stomach and thighs right now, in spite of the best efforts of Milosz, the slightly scary Serbian fitness director on the cruise.) But it was also decidedly fucking amazing. And as it turns out, being on a boat on a river, as opposed to the ocean, was not that unpleasant at all for claustrophobic, boat-averse me. In fact, it was quite lovely.

(Aside: Best boat-related quote of the trip was from my kiddo Elm, upon entering the lobby. “There’s a chandelier here? The only other time I’ve seen a chandelier on a boat is on the Titanic.”)

Fancy shmancy! (Chandelier not pictured) My love of fans persists.

But the river cruise life is not I’m here to write about. What I’m here to write about is history: the undercurrents of it that I felt running throughout the whole trip, and my awareness of its echoes in our present day.

Of course, being more cognizant of the long sweep of human history isn’t unexpected when you visit places where, for example, an abbey built in 1410—which got a trendy baroque makeover in 1710—isn’t the oldest attraction in town. That would be the ruins of the castle built in 1130, where King Richard the Lionheart was once held captive for ransom.

In Dürnstein, Austria: ruins up above, Grüner-Veltliner grapes below.

As I’ve written in the past, I sometimes find it comforting to remember just how long the course of human history is. Oceans rise, empires fall, etc. It helps put the drama of the day in perspective—assuming that drama isn’t, you know, actively destroying your life.

But on this trip, thinking about the Romans and the Visigoths and all those nutty Habsburgs didn’t do much to ease my current worries with regard to the state of the world—specifically the rightward way the political pendulum is swinging in the U.S. and Europe. Or the way a lot of people seem to want it to swing, anyway.

As we made our way up the Danube, I felt keenly attuned to Europe’s much more recent history: the rise of fascism in the 1920s-1940s, the victims it claimed, and the millions who stood by while it all happened, unable or unwilling to stop it. Meanwhile, we were getting the news from back home, where the conservative-packed Supreme Court was doing lovely things like making it legal to jail homeless people, weakening the regulatory powers of the EPA and SEC, and, oh yeah, ruling that the president has immunity for criminal acts committed while in office.

Not a great combo.

Sorry, you expected a fun travelogue, didn’t you. I’m afraid my heart is a bit too heavy for that. But let’s take a brief break here for a fun picture, taken in a public restroom in Vienna.

Good? OK. Back to politics.

One of the most unsettling moments of the trip for me was when we happened upon a monument in Budapest erected ten years ago by the government—Trump’s buddy Viktor Orbán’s government, specifically—commemorating the victims of the German occupation of Hungary during World War II. Actually, what I saw first was not the monument itself, but the makeshift memorial and signs of protest in front of it.

The reason for the controversy around the monument—which depicts the archangel Gabriel, a symbol of Hungary, being attacked by an eagle representing Germany—is that it implies that Germany that was solely responsible for the mass deportation and killing of Hungarian Jews, gays, Roma and others during the war.

The reality is that for years before the Germans came on the scene, the Hungarian government was actively persecuting Jews with forced labor, anti-semitic laws, deportation, and worse. And when the Nazis occupied Hungary, the Hungarian government and its military and police forces actively, willingly aided in the killing and deportation of Jews and others. (This was also part of the plot of the historical movie I inexplicably tortured myself by watching on the plane ride home, The Zone of Interest.)

To look at that monument, though, you’d never know the truth.

This is what autocratic leaders like Orbán and their political cronies do. They use misinformation, propaganda, half-truths, and revisionist history to advance their agendas, and (often) create an illusion of a perfect past.

They’re also very good at convincing people—and these days it’s easier than ever, thanks to the Internets and assistance from Russian disinformation—that their perfect country is being destroyed by immigrants and radical leftists and feminists and LGBTQ people. Take it back! they say. Make it great again!

A more truthful monument, elsewhere in Budapest: Shoes on the Danube Bank, representing the thousands of Jews who were shot into the Danube by Hungary’s fascist Arrow Cross party militiamen in 1944-45. They were made to remove their shoes, which were valuable, before they were murdered. The sign at the monument, however, still says only “victims.” It doesn’t acknowledge that they were all Jewish.

Remember that part about Trump being an Orbán fanboy? It’s not just Trump; it’s a broad swath of people and thinkers and politicians on the extreme right in the U.S., including the Heritage Foundation. Their vision for America, as laid out in a little thing called Project 2025 that you may have heard of, is very much inspired by Orbán’s vision for Hungary. According to Heather Cox Richardson, Heritage Foundation president Kevin Roberts has has called modern Hungary “not just a model for conservative statecraft but the model.” In 2023, the Heritage Foundation formed a formal partnership with Hungary’s Danube Institute, a state-funded right-wing think tank.

I recommend reading Cox Richardson’s entire recent post on the topic of Project 2025 and the Hungary connection, but in the meantime, at least read this paragraph. Wait, no. First, take a breather and enjoy this picture of my daughter posing next to a little statue outside a bakery in Bratislava, Slovakia, that’s supposed to look like a traditional pastry they sell, but that actually looks like…well. Not a pastry.

Ha ha.

Back to Heather Cox Richardson:

“As soon as [Orbán] retook office in 2010, he began to establish control over the media, cracking down on those critical of his far-right political party, Fidesz, and rewarding those who toed the party line. In 2012 his supporters rewrote the country’s constitution to strengthen his hand, and extreme gerrymandering gave his party more power while changes to election rules benefited his campaigns. Increasingly, he used the power of the state to concentrate wealth among his cronies, and he reworked the country’s judicial system and civil service system to stack it with his loyalists, who attacked immigrants, women, and the rights of LGBTQ+ individuals. While Hungary still holds elections, state control of the media and the apparatus of voting means that it is impossible for the people of Hungary to remove him from power.”

Could this happen here? Yup, that’s the plan. And parts of it are well underway.

Look, I don’t tend to be an alarmist. I don’t think we’re headed for all-out fascism, or another Holocaust-like event. But I’m deeply worried about what’s ahead for America, and especially for its most vulnerable citizens, including my own genderqueer kid (not pictured), if Trump takes the presidency for a second time. I worry about crackdowns on freedom of the press and protest. I worry about the draconian measures that may be taken with undocumented immigrants. I worry about women’s reproductive freedom being even further curtailed. I worry about the social safety net being gutted. And I worry about our country becoming a place where elections don’t matter.

I’ll end with this: One of the highlights of our trip was a full-day Sound of Music tour. (Anyone who knows me, or who has read this Substack for any length of time knows that The Sound of Music is one of my favorite things. See what I did there?) The scenery was stunning, and it was super fun to see the hills and landmarks where Maria and the Von Trapp children frolicked on screen.

Clio wore her very-reminiscent-of-the-drapes dress—a killer T.J. Maxx find—for the occasion. I mean, I had to do it.

But as we tooled about Salzburg and environs, there was a particular scene from the movie I just couldn’t get out of my mind. It’s the one where 17-going-on-18-message-boy-turned-Nazi Rolf shows up to deliver Captain Von Trapp the telegram ordering him to report to duty with the Third Reich. After Rolf leaves, the Captain is staring off into the distance, and the Baroness says to him, “You’re far away. Where are you?”

He replies, “In a world that’s disappearing, I’m afraid.”

Oh, Captain, you sexy bastard. I feel you.

But I don’t want to end on that somber note—because there is still time, and there is still hope (good job, France), and there is still work we can all do to keep our country from slipping toward autocracy and Christo-fascism. And along the way—and no matter what happens down the line—we have to keep celebrating the positive and embracing all that’s good and precious in our lives. That includes spending time with family, relishing the beauty in this crazy world, doing squats with Milosz, laughing at poop-shaped pastry mascots, and imbibing delicious beverages.

I feel incredibly lucky to have been able to do all of that and then some last week.

Prost.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living, and AI is presently f*cking over my day job. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription or buying my book.

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Books I will never read

One of my best splurges ever was getting a built-in bookcase in my new home office when we did a big renovation a couple of years ago. Just look at this beauty!

I think I’ve read about 60% of the books shown here. I do periodically cull, donating or giving away books I’ve read that I don’t feel strongly about keeping. But there are some that have stuck around for a looooooong time. Like, high school long. (To say nothing of the dozens of books from my childhood, elsewhere in the house.)

Why do I keep them all? I could say because I plan to re-read them, but I would be lying. (I think the only book I’ve re-read by choice is The Great Gatsby.) I do periodically look to them for inspiration while I’m writing—I’ll dip in and read a few pages. Sometimes I lend them out. And sometimes I try to convince my kids to read certain ones. (This goes about as well as you might predict.)

Mostly, though, I just enjoy seeing them there on the shelves. They’re like old friends.

NOT that I actually remember the specific contents of most of them, mind you. Love In The Time of Cholera? Read it in my twenties and loved it. Do not remember a damned thing. Was there cholera? A parrot, maybe? Some love? Almonds…definitely something about the taste of almonds reminding someone of something. Cholera, probably. (I should re-read it, shouldn’t I.)

Middlemarch? Read it in my thirties, liked it quite a lot, but remember nothing of the plot, characters (I believe there was a Dorothea?), or setting besides general 19th century English-ness: tea, dampness, various types of carriages whose names mean nothing to me, and talk of people’s allowances. What (or who?) even is the titular Middlemarch? I do not know.

But….what of all those UN-read books on my shelves, some of which have also been there for decades?

After some careful analysis, I find that they fall into roughly five categories:

1.) Books I bought for purely sentimental, silly, or aesthetic reasons that I will most likely never read, but enjoy owning nevertheless.

Example:

I can’t remember where or when I got this beautiful, illustrated volume of Robert Browning’s poetry I don’t particularly care to read. I just know that my kids are going to have to figure out what to do with it when I die, because I’m not getting rid of it. I mean, LOOK AT IT! (It’s nice and heavy, too.)

2.) Books I fully intend to read and most likely will.

Examples:

(Did I purposely arrange this and other photos of books in this post such that books by writer friends of mine are visible? Yes, yes I did.) Love me some Ian McEwan. (Two of his other titles are permanently on my shelves.) Apparently I just won’t be able to put this one down, so I better time my read accordingly.

3.) Books I very much want to read in theory, but most likely won’t.

Sometimes they begin as category #2, and slip into #3. They make me feel mildly guilty. Maybe I should get rid of them. (But I won’t.)

Examples:

I kept meaning to read this when Obama was president, but for whatever reason I didn’t. I fear that reading now, against the backdrop of the current political landscape, will just make me despondent. Seeing it there on the shelf sort of makes me despondent, too. And now maybe you’re feeling despondent. Sorry! Let’s move on.

Ah yes. Bring on the tea, carriages, and dampness! If I’m ever in the right mood for them, I will read Mansfield Park. Along with Mill on the Floss and Bleak House, both of which have lived on my shelves for upward of seven years now.

4.) Books I 100% know I will never read, but that I still keep anyway

Examples:

(In case you’re wondering, no, I’m not friends with Emily St. John Mandel. I wish.)

I’ve started this one like three times but haven’t been able to get into it. I think, as is the case with some of my other unread gems, I’ve kept it because it’s “Important.” (It won the National Book Award!)

Or maybe I’m secretly worried that one day I’ll be at a writing event and get stuck in a conversation where some aging MFA bro says something like, “I mean, we’ve all read DeLillo, right?” And even though I may not have actually read DeLillo, at least I will know that I have some DeLillo, and therefore won’t feel like I’m quite lying when I nod along in the affirmative with everyone else. Also: since I don’t remember anything I read I might as well have read it, right?

In fact, yes. Let’s just say that I read White Noise. Didn’t love it, though, I gotta admit.

I bought this Emerson essay collection, along with Walden, in high school, when I was going through a sort of romantic phase and wished I was a 19th century transcendentalist / abolitionist, and could wear excellent dresses with lots of petticoats and ride in carriages and things. I did read the most famous of the essays, “Self-Reliance.” I will never, ever read the rest. But the book stays. As does Walden. They’ve made it this many years. What’s a few more?

5.) Books that have come into my life semi-unbidden

I can’t show you pictures of these, lest feelings get hurt. Sufficeth to say, I’ve got a hearty number of books that were given to me as gifts or thrust into my hands by friends saying I must read them, and books written by people I know that I bought to be supportive, but that aren’t really my thing. (No, no, no, of course not your book! Someone else’s! I’m *totally* going to read yours!)

Getting rid of any of the above feels like a betrayal somehow. And who knows, maybe I’ll get to them EVENTUALLY, right?

Yes. Right after Mansfield Park.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a problem to have so many never-to-be-read books on my shelves, except for the fact that I’m running out of space. Pretty soon I’m going to need to have a come-to-Thoreau with myself and let some of them go. Or maybe I’ll host a book swap party, as I periodically do. The only problem with that is…yes. MORE BOOKS.

And what of you, darling readers? Do you hang on to books you know you’ll never read? If so, why? WHY?

Talk amongst yourselves.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription or buying my book. You don’t even have to read it! Just stick it there on the shelf….forever.

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Retreating with wildlife

I’ve been fortunate enough to spend the last four days writing at a cottage on Squam Lake in New Hampshire. Just me, myself, drop-dead-gorgeous views, and a lot of wildlife.

As I’ve said many times before, being able to get away for the occasional writing retreat is a godsend for my productivity. No distractions, no obligations. I wish I could do it more often than I do, which is two, maybe three times a year if I’m lucky. But small matters such as family, day job, financial constraints, and my propensity to go a wee bit stir crazy after too much time alone (as this post may evidence…) make this prospect difficult.

In any case, I’ve managed to get some good work done on this little escape. The weather has been glorious, the setting inspiring, and in spite of the temptation to just loll about taking in the scenery and/or watching the costume dramas my husband never wants to watch at home (I may have done this, but only once…) I’ve been able to stay productive.

I’m a little over a third of the way through a first draft of this new novel I’m working on, and while there are still some pesky plot kinks to be worked out (why must characters have jobs? So BORING!) overall things are moving in a good direction.

I could say more about the process of writing a novel, but why would I subject you to that? It’s really just me looking at a laptop and periodically shoveling various foods and beverages into my mouth. Other typical writing retreat activities include: sleeping, reading, sighing, berating myself for sleeping and sighing too much and reading too little, taking walks/hikes, watching costume dramas (did I already mention this?), pacing, flossing while pacing, and feeling like a fraud.

Dull, dull, dull.

So, let’s talk, instead, about the wildlife that has been part of this particular retreat experience.

Insects. There are a lot of these sharing the cottage and its environs with me, including but not limited to gnats, ants, spiders, flies, crickets, dragonflies, mosquitos. Probably ticks. And whatever those teeny tiny moth-like bugs that hover around the surface of the water are.

On Thursday morning, I woke up to a very upset bee/wasp in the bedroom with me. I don’t know exactly how he got in, as there are screens on all the windows. But it’s a rustic place, and presumably there are crevices and holes here and there large enough for a good-sized wasp to pass.

The poor thing was not happy to be in the room—he kept throwing himself against the walls and ceilings in dismay, trying to escape. Or maybe he was just being dramatic. I don’t know. In any case, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do. I don’t actually know what became of him; all I know is that he (or she) was not there later in the day, and has not reappeared.

Birds. Hot damn, this place is crazy with birds! A couple of wild turkeys hurled themselves up into the trees in front of the porch my first day here (WTF, turkeys? Stay on the GROUND). I’ve seen several herons, a bald eagle, and a number of teensy waterfowl who are partial to swimming amongst some nearby lily pads, but who never get quite near enough for me to get a good look at them. So I just think of them as “the teeny ducks.” If they have an issue with that, they should come closer so I can identify them and/or they can introduce themselves properly.

Meanwhile, I’ve seen oodles of other birds—goldfinches, sparrows, crows, woodpeckers, blackbirds, some cute little tufted things, etc. A hummingbird seemed to be attempting to feed on my car (which is red) at one point. As I write this, a Canada goose is having fun with the acoustics of the cove, doing the bird equivalent of yelling “Echo!”

And then there are the birds I’ve heard but not seen: red-winged blackbirds, owls, loons (ahhh, loons), and some whoopy, trilling bird that I can only describe as “stock nighttime bird sound effect.” You know the one.

There was a TURKEY in that tree there on my first day. Ridiculous.

Rodents. When I’ve come to this cottage in the past, for purely vacationary purposes, with the fam, there have been occasional mice—skittering across the floor, disco dancing on the counters, dead in traps. But this time I haven’t seen any. It’s a little disappointing. I kind of like the company. Luckily, there are still plenty of squirrels and chipmunks outside to keep a gal from feeling too lonely.

AND—bonus—on Friday, during a short hike, I encountered a type of rodent that was entirely new to me: a little gray thing with large round eyes, loitering near the base of a tree. She (for some reason, she seemed like a she) was bigger than a mouse but smaller than a typical squirrel, with a strange, flat, fluffy tail. She seemed confused. (I told my husband this on the phone, and he asked “how could you tell it was confused?” and I said, “I don’t know; I just could.” I stand by that assessment.) So, I asked this confused rodent “what are you?” but before she had a chance to reply, I figured it out myself, noticing some weird, excess skin around her sides: “You’re a flying squirrel!” I told her. At which point, she scooted around to the other side of the tree. (Busted!) When I tried to find her, she had vanished.

Several minutes after this encounter with the wild, I saw two red squirrels fucking vertically on the side of a tree. It was impressive.

Moose. I did not see any, but I saw some very large hoof prints in the mud.

Bears. No. Thank God.

The only bear I saw was on a sign.

Reptiles and amphibians. Two cute l’il toads spotted in the woods. Many frogs heard. Or maybe it’s just one or two frogs, throwing their voices? To be perfectly honest, there are all sorts of chirping, trilling sounds that emanate from the lake at dusk that I am just assuming are coming from frogs, but for all I know, they’re coming from a flock of enormous hairy spiders. (Please don’t be a flock of enormous hairy spiders.)

Also, I thought I saw a turtle, but it turned out to be a stick.

Find the toad!

Fish. A whole lake full of them. I can see them in the shallows near the shore and around the dock, and further out, I can see evidence of them in their little splashes as they pop up to the surface to eat bugs. Honestly, I’m not that interested in fish.

Humans. Even on this rather quiet corner of the lake, they do make regular appearances, in boats—small motorcraft, kayaks, canoes, etc.. Some people fish, some just float or paddle about. One guy came by yesterday in a single scull, making rather risqué-sounding noises of effort as he rowed. The vertically fucking squirrels were much more discreet.

Then there were the humans I encountered on a supply run to the grocery store (yogurt, crackers, wine—retreat essentials) and CVS (chapstick, eyeglass repair kit for my busted sunglasses, caffeine drink—ditto) and the handful I saw while hiking. All very standard for New Hampshire, by which I mean pasty-white and almost but not quite friendly. Swing voters. Hard to pin down.

The award for least favorite human sighted during this retreat goes to the guy I saw yesterday late afternoon, standing on the prow of a pontoon boat with his dick out. He was somewhat far away, and when I first saw him, I thought: Wait, that can’t be what I think it is….is it? He confirmed that, yes, it was, when he yelled to a friend in the back of the boat “Dude, shut up, I’m trying to take a piss!”

People: the worst species of all. Honestly, we’re disgusting. Why am I writing a novel featuring us? I should write a novel peopled entirely by squirrels. Flying, fucking, or otherwise. Sorry, squirreled entirely by squirrels.

If I’m lucky enough to come here for another writing retreat in the future, it might just happen. (You’d read it, right?)

Human.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider buying my book or upgrading to a paid subscription. Thank you for reading!

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A little bit woo-woo

Before I jump into this post, I just want to say thank you to the many, many women—some friends, some strangers—who commented or reached out after my last post to tell me to ask my doctor about HRT and other remedies for hot flashes. I did, in fact, talk to my doctor, and she suggested I try doing an estradiol patch, and holy crap, within a couple of days, the hot flashes were GONE. I expect that over the next few weeks, I will also regain the skin elasticity, energy, and optimism of a woman half my age. Stay tuned!

In the meantime, let’s talk tarot.

First, let me say that I pretty much only believe in woo-woo stuff like tarot cards when they’re working in my favor.

By which I mean: If I look at my horoscope or open a fortune cookie (the one I was drawn to, of course), and its advice applies perfectly—PERFECTLY!—to my current situation, or speaks to something I very much want to be true, I can’t help thinking that even though it’s probably just a coincidence, or confirmation bias, maybe, just maybe, the universe is trying to tell me something.

On the other hand, if my horoscope is completely irrelevant (I’m not hoping for a hot new romance this month, stars and planets, but thanks), or the fortune cookie says something useless like “you are admired by your peers,” I think, well, of course, because horoscopes and fortune cookies are bullshit.

Same deal with this fortune telling pen that a friend gave me when a novel of mine—the one I wrote before The Society of Shame—was out on submission.

Possible interpretation of answer shown: You will get a book deal, but not a million-dollar one.

Whenever the pen landed on a good outcome (“Without a doubt”) I would take it as a sign that, yes, I was CLEARLY going to get a book deal! But if the pen landed on a bad outcome (“No way”) this meant that I needed to focus harder on the question and spin again, because apparently the universe / pen didn’t catch what I was thinking the first time. And if it was still a bad response, well, fortune-telling pens are bullshit anyway.

(Sadly, the novel whose sale I was attempting to predict with a pen never was published. I did not use the pen when The Society of Shame went out on submission. It seems to have worked out well.)

Anyway. I suspect my brand of semi-woo-woo-ness is pretty common. (Anyone else?) My most rational self thinks “predictions” and “signs,” are a matter of us seeing what we want to see, or hearing what we want to hear—or maybe what we know deep down that we need to hear. And yet…

Which brings me to the tarot card I pulled.

This happened last weekend at Grubstreet’s The Muse and the Marketplace—a fabulous writing and publishing conference that I’ve had the honor of teaching at a number of times, including this year. While I was there, I attended a session called “Tarot for Writers,” run by my dear friends Jenna Blum and Erin Almond, both tarot enthusiasts. (In addition to being phenomenal writers)

During the presentation, I asked them (nicely!) what their thoughts were on the confirmation bias thing. Don’t we find ways to make the cards we draw—whose meanings are complex, and subject to interpretation—apply to our circumstances in a wishful thinking sort of way?

Their wise answer was that, essentially, it doesn’t really matter. If you find reassurance or hope in the cards, or if they help you confirm something you already know, and nudge you toward trusting your intuition, then hey, why not go with it?

At the end of a session, we were invited to draw one of the cards fanned out on a table, while thinking of a question pertaining to our writing. My question was “What do I need to know about my main character?”

Because here’s the thing. As I’ve been working on my new novel, I’ve been struggling to ignore some of the voices in my head—the ones that love to creep in and sow doubt and self-consciousness when I’m writing.

They’re the voices of my writing professors from Iowa, telling me that what I’m writing is trite and frivolous and un-literary. They’re the voices of critics saying, “a disappointment—her previous novel was much better.” And lately, most insidiously, they’re the voices of theoretical, future one- and two-star reviewers saying, “I hate the main character! She’s so unlikeable!”

My friends, I try very hard not to read my Amazon and Goodreads reviews, for the sake of my tender heart. I really do. But sometimes, like most authors, I cave. And “the main character was unlikeable” comes up frequently negative reviews of The Society of Shame. (And a lot of other novels, for that matter—especially ones written by women.)

Indeed, the protagonist of The Society of Shame, Kathleen, is quite flawed. She makes a lot of bad decisions, and loses sight of her principles and priorities as she becomes increasingly famous. This is, well, kind of the point.

Personally, I love stories about “unlikeable” characters—even deeply unlikeable ones who never realize the error of their ways as Kathleen does. Give me Tom Ripley and Scarlett O’Hara and Tracy Flick! Give me Don Draper and all four Roy siblings! Give me your serial killers and mean girls and con artists and “Karens”! For me, the question isn’t whether I like a character, but whether I find them, and their story, compelling.

But those kinds of protagonists aren’t for everyone. In fact, people’s (especially women’s) intolerance for unlikeable characters (especially female ones) is a frequent topic of conversation in the literary world. And, well, the world at large. (Hence this podcast and this ironic content warning.)

The main character of my new novel is, well, complicated. While she has redeeming qualities, she’s also impulsive and competitive and obsessive. She has a mean streak. On some deep level she knows she’s a mess, but when the novel begins, she’s in denial.

I’m having a shit-ton of fun writing this character’s story. And I like to think plenty of readers will enjoy reading her story, even if they don’t necessarily want to have a beer with her. So why am I worried about the people who will find her too “unlikeable” to stomach? Rationally, I know that no book is for everyone. Rationally, I know that it is not my job to please every reader. I am not required to be a “likeable” author! I am not required to write “nice”!

But that doesn’t stop the voices from nosing their way in and getting in the way of my forward progress on my draft.

So when I pulled a tarot card last weekend, I was hoping for some kind of clarity on who my main character should or shouldn’t be. Do I need to “soften” her? Make her more likeable? Am I on the wrong track?

Here’s the card I got.

When Jenna saw I’d drawn this card, she waved me over and whispered This is the best card for writers!! I always hope I’ll get it!

For those of you who, like me, don’t know bupkus about tarot cards, the Magician is what’s known as a “Major Arcana” card, meaning it pertains to major life lessons / ongoing themes in your life. The Magician, specifically, is about “manifestation, resourcefulness, power, and inspired action.” Its message is that “you have all the tools and abilities you need to be successful.”

When reversed—that is, if it’s upside down when you draw it, which it was for me—it can be interpreted to mean that you need to reconnect with your personal power. You need to "avoid being manipulated by outside voices” or “letting self-doubt get in the way of the opportunities available to you.”

So, did I interpret this card as a sign that I need to shut out those “she’s not likeable enough” voices, trust in my creative powers and instincts, and keep writing the character I want to write, as she’s revealing herself to me? Did I interpret it to mean that this book will (eventually) be good, and I need to trust in my tools and abilities, and not worry about how it will be received?

You bet your buttocks I did.

And maybe no matter what card I’d gotten, I would have found a way to make it “tell” me what I needed to hear at this juncture in my writing process. And/or maybe if I’d pulled a card whose meaning seemed completely irrelevant and inscrutable, I would have chalked it up to tarot cards being bullshit.

But what actually happened was that I drew The Magician. And I am choosing to take it to heart.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider buying my book or upgrading to a paid subscription. Thank you!

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I'm so damned hot.

You might think, given the title of this post, that it’s going to be a self-affirming, foxy-at-f@#$y, hear me roar sort of thing. Like, a post channeling the strange yet badass vibe of this photo I had taken a few weeks ago at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop while waiting for a writer friend way cooler than me to escape her throngs of admirers.

What even is happening here?

(“So…just you…by yourself?” the photo booth photographer asked. Subtext: You don’t have any friends? “Yes, just me,” I said, picking up a pink inflatable guitar and holding it as if I’d never seen anyone hold a guitar in my life and am not, in fact, married to a folk singer.)

But no, this post is not about me attempting to be foxy at f@#$y using props. It’s about the dumbest, most predictable middle-aged lady thing ever: Vasomotor symptoms. Or as they’re more commonly known, night sweats and hot flashes.

Sweet Jesus. If you have not experienced either of these, let me tell you, they are extremely weird and unpleasant.

I’ve been having night sweats on and off for a few years now, and they basically go like this: I wake up in the middle of the night, and whatever t-shirt or pajama top I’m wearing (always short-sleeved now, even in the dead of winter) is soaked. Sometimes there are actual beads of sweat running down my décolletage.

But do I feel hot? No! Because I am very damp, and therefore I am freezing. So I have to get up and change into dry pajamas in order to avoid succumbing to hypothermia in the comfort of my bedroom. After that, it may take me anywhere from five to seventy-five minutes to fall back asleep, depending on how much the universe hates me that night.

The hot flashes, meanwhile, started up about a year ago, but have gotten markedly worse in the past 2-3 months, I assume as an early birthday gag gift to me from my endocrine system—a self-referential joke about how women in their f@#$ies get hot flashes. (Ha ha!!)

Mostly, they happen in the morning. I’ll be in the kitchen with my coffee and crossword puzzle, or in my office about to start working, when I’m suddenly burning up with a intense, flat, internal heat. I shuck off my bathrobe like it’s silver and I’m a vampire. And then, a few minutes later, I am cold, so I put it back on. This process repeats itself several times.

(Fun aside: I googled “hot flash” to try to find an image for this post, and got this. Note the description. That’s me. Stressed old woman suffer.)

More recently, however, I’ve been getting hot flashes as I’m trying to fall asleep at night. This is a special sort of torture—the kind you might imagine highly intelligent aliens performing using dials and switches and things. My body strobes hot and then not-so-hot, then sort of hot and cold at the same time, and then hot again. I flip the quilt and blankets and sheet off. Then put the blanket and sheet back on. Blanket off but sheet on. One leg out from under sheet, one in. Both out? No, just one. Now both in. Sheet and blanket back on. Quilt back o—NO! Quilt off. Blanket off. Skin off. Help.

The other day, I googled “hot flash treatments,” just in case there was suddenly, magically some new cure available other than hormone replacement therapy (which I don’t think my symptoms are severe enough to warrant) and herbal supplements of questionable efficacy.

I clicked on the Mayo Clinic page that came up in the search, because I figured they would know what they were talking about. I was delighted to see that in addition to info about prescription medications, HRT, and ineffective supplements, there was a whole section on “self-care” to help with hot flashes. Hooray! I thought. Help is on its way.

Except no.

Here was their first recommendation:

Keep cool. Slight increases in your body's core temperature can trigger hot flashes. Dress in layers so that you can remove clothing when you feel warm.

Open windows or use a fan or air conditioner. Lower the room temperature, if you can. If you feel a hot flash coming on, sip a cold drink.

Got that? According to one of the top ranked hospitals in the world, if you’re having a hot flash, you should do the things that any human person would do to cool their body when hot.

“FFS, Mayo Clinic.”

They also recommend not smoking (check), not being overweight (check), and avoiding caffeine, alcohol, and anything else that gives you some small solace amidst the relentless despair of the human condition. (Nope.)

Another suggestion: practicing mind-body therapies like meditation, deep breathing and guided imagery. It seems like this gets thrown into basically every health / medical article on the internet, like a little hail Mary: Irritable bowel syndrome? Headaches? Lung cancer? If nothing else works, try mindfulness! One 2012 Finnish study found that people with sclerdoma who meditated for ten minutes every day felt more accepting of the fact that they had sclerdoma. So, you know, give it a shot!

The good news is that the Mayo Clinic says, is that for most women, hot flashes and night sweats only last for 7-10 years. Terrific. Pass me my fan.

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To end on a more positive note, here are three things that are making me happy right now. (Should this be a regular feature in this newsletter? Maybe it will be a regular feature.)

I don’t know about you, but my heart is feeling awfully heavy with everything that’s happening in the world—from Gaza to Ukraine to American college campuses to the Supreme Court—so I’m more grateful than ever for the little things that offer a little bit of reprieve. Such as…

This book.

Wouldn’t a mental vacation to Sicily be nice right about now? Hell yes it would. The Sicilian Inheritance by Jo Piazza (whose Substack you should read) will take you there. This book has everything: food, sex, secrets, lies, hot men, hot sun, and two fierce female narrators in two different time periods who push back against societal expectations. It goes down easy as an Aperol spritz. (And has a gorgeous cover, to boot.)

Aubrey Hirsch’s Substack

I adore writer and comic artist Aubrey Hirsch’s Substack, Graphic Rage, where she shares comics and thoughts on culture, politics, feminism, etc. Her latest comic, about how she stopped trying to be the “perfect patient” at the doctor’s office, really spoke to me.

From Aubrey’ Hirsch’s Graphic Rage

My new shoes.

Back in December, my Christmas shopping brought me to J.Crew, in search of a good sweater for the mister. I did not find one. But I did find an amazing pair of retro-ish silver heels that I fell completely in love with. They were on sale for $134, which, I know, is not exactly a bargain. Nevertheless, I decided to splurge. A few days later, though, looking at our very anemic checking account balance (2023 was a really bad year for my business), I decided to return them.

But I never forgot them.

Then, last week, as I was getting dressed for an event, I thought those silver shoes would have really kicked ass with this outfit. On a lark, I checked the J.Crew website the next day. And guess what: the shoes were still available (four months later!), in my size, on final sale for $54.

I could say that the moral of this story is good things come to those who wait. But really, it’s paying full price at chain clothing stores is for suckers.

I love you.

I hope you’re finding some things that bring you joy, too.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider buying my book (below) or upgrading to a paid subscription so I can stock up on fans to use for the next 7-10 years, as recommended by the Mayo Clinic..

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Please don't call me f#@$y.

Well, it’s been a minute, as the kids say.

I try my damnedest to write here every other week, but then there are weeks like the last few when I just can’t make it happen. In this case, I was busy with good, fun things. (And one problematic pair of digits.)

1. Getting my Erma on.

I had the distinct pleasure of attending / teaching at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio last week. What a blast! The vibe was welcoming and encouraging, the keynotes were stellar, and the desserts were abundant. I met some great folks and learned some excellent things. Plus, I got to feel like a VIP: the faculty all stayed on the “concierge floor” of the conference hotel, which had its own little lounge with complimentary snacks and things. You could only get to that floor if you waved your room key in front of a sensor in the elevator—something that only took me 30 seconds of jabbing fruitlessly at the 6 button to finally figure out.

I think a lot of people have the misconception that authors lead very glamorous lives. But actually, the vast majority of us are firmly in the world of OMG I get to be on the exclusive-access floor at the Dayton Marriott and hang out in a lounge with unlimited cheese!

I had to rescue my name tag from the trash in the magical cheese lounge at one point. Fortunately it was laminated.

During the conference, I taught two sessions on writing humorous fiction, and I think they went well, despite my usual Wile E. Coyote moment. It happens whenever I teach or give a talk: I start with a bang, all confident and energetic, feeling good. Then, roughly 4-7 minutes in, I find myself suddenly gripped with impostor syndrome (WHO AM I TO TEACH/SAY ANYTHING? EVERYONE HATES THIS! I AM THE WORST! IS THAT GUY SLEEPING? I THINK HE’S SLEEPING). I’m off the edge of the cliff in thin air, and there’s nothing beneath me. There’s a pizzicato plink, a whistle sound, a crash, and then a roadrunner pecking at my flattened body. But a few seconds later, I’m back up and 3D and fiddling with dynamite and Acme weaponry and Powerpoint slides again, and it’s all good. Phew.

Oh, and welcome to all of the folks from my sessions at Erma that I tricked into signing up for this newsletter! Bwah ha ha. Beep beep.

2. Achieving totality.

Hey, did you hear about the eclipse? Yes, well. I had the great good fortune to be able to zip up to Vermont with my husband last week, semi-unexpectedly, and witness it in full totality: a black circle with a halo of light, in a sky turned suddenly to dusk. It was breathtaking and uncanny. Awe-inspiring and a touch disturbing. I can’t imagine the horror total solar eclipses must have struck into the hearts of people who saw them thousands or even hundreds of years ago. I feel very lucky to have seen one—and to know why I was seeing it, so I didn’t feel compelled to sacrifice my children to the gods or anything.

Speaking of God: you really can’t help wondering if there is one when you consider the fact that our moon is exactly the right size and distance from the sun that it can completely block our view of it—and that human beings happen to be around at this moment in cosmic time to witness it, when those sizes and distances (which have changed over time and will continue to change) are exactly right. Hallelujah, amiright?

3. Fixing a lamp.

This isn’t really a reason why I haven’t written. I just want to brag about the fact that I fixed a lamp. Specifically, the floor lamp in our living room that we’ve had forever, and of which I am quite fond. The switch stopped working, and my beloved husband was like “Welp, guess that’s the end of that lamp,” to which I said: No way, mister. We are grown-ass adults with access to YouTube DIY videos, Home Depot, and decent pliers, and we’re going to fix this thing.

So I bought a new lamp socket, got out the pliers and went to work. (“Be sure to unplug the lamp,” my husband said, helpfully.) When I was done, and I turned the switch and the light bulb actually illuminated, I gave a little yelp of joy.

I am still waiting for my family to express the admiration and kudos this immense accomplishment deserves.

And he wanted to throw it out!

4. Celebrating my second 49th birthday in a row

Fine, fine. I turned 49 + 1. And it was delightful, and I received lots of kind birthday wishes from friends, and a few surprises. The highlight was spending a couple of days in New York with my husband the lamp waster. We took the train down and stayed near Lincoln Center, saw a play and a jazz concert, took a backstage tour of the Met, walked around Central Park, and ate and drank a touch too much. It was perfect.

But I have to confess—with some embarrassment—that I am really struggling with the word “fifty,” and the fact that it now applies to me. It’s weird; it’s not so much about the fact that I’m fifty that age, in a chronological sense. While I do occasionally feel bummed out about (most likely) being more than halfway through my life, I’m mostly grateful that I’m still here.

It’s just that word. Fifty.

“Thirty” felt a little weird (so soon?!) and “forty” felt a touch somber, but appropriate. (I had a Subaru, a mortgage, and two kids, one of whom was in treatment for cancer at the time; obviously I was forty.) But fifty just feels…impossible. Me? Fifty? Ew.

I fully own that my reasons for cringing at the number are rooted in some internalized outdated, patriarchal bullshit. When I hear “fifty-year-old man,” I think of someone who’s still more or less in the prime of their life. Still virile, still vibrant. Maybe getting a little craggily handsome, in a “his wrinkles add character” sort of way. But when I hear “fifty-year-old woman” I think…middle-aged. Past her prime. Losing her looks (the horror!) and sexuality. Matronly and serious. Maybe wearing a big silk scarf?

Like I said, bullshit.

It doesn’t describe most 50-something women I know today, and it certainly doesn’t describe how I see myself (nascent turkey neck and jowls notwithstanding) or how I plan to live my life from this point forward. While I may have lost the bloom of youth, and while I may now qualify for a shingles vaccine (thanks for texting me about this this ON MY BIRTHDAY, CVS) I’m about as happy and vibrant as I’ve ever been. I like the person I’ve become, and the life I’m living. Matronly? Serious? Big scarves? Hell no!

Look, I’m going to do my damnedest to get over the number thing, I promise. I know it’s dumb. But for now, kindly please refrain from saying things to me like “how does it feel to be fifty?” or “happy fiftieth birthday” or “Hey, I’m also fifty.” Even “you don’t look fifty,” is borderline. (But thank you.)

And for anyone who’s about to say “just wait until you turn sixty!”—yeah, yeah, I know. But I’m also hoping that by then I truly don’t give a fuck.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription or paying me to fix your lamp.

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P.S. I’ve still got a couple of free Society of Shame Grab Bags (tm) left for book club hosts! Get the details here.