Jane Roper's Blog, page 4
June 11, 2024
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.
June 2, 2024
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!
May 17, 2024
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!
April 26, 2024
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.
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 RageMy 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 $54.
I could say that the moral of this story is good things come to those who wait. But really, it’s paying full price at chain clothing stores is for suckers.
I love you.I hope you’re finding some things that bring you joy, too.
All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider buying my book (below) or upgrading to a paid subscription so I can stock up on fans to use for the next 7-10 years, as recommended by the Mayo Clinic..
April 15, 2024
Please don't call me f#@$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.
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.
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.
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.
March 19, 2024
Claim your free gift now!
When I was a little kid in the late 70s/early 80s, I mainlined the kids’ shows on PBS: Sesame Street, The Electric Company, Mr. Rogers. (This was, of course, when I wasn’t out getting seventh-degree burns on metal playground slides, riding my bike without a helmet, dodging errant Jarts, and eluding kidnappers in white vans—all that classic GenX childhood stuff.)
At some point, Channel 13, the PBS station in the New York tri-state area where I grew up, ran a fundraiser where if you donated a certain amount, you got something called the “Sesame Street Grab Bag”—a canvas tote stuffed to the brim (or so I imagined) with any number of wondrous Sesame Street things: Books? Toys? Games? Tchockes? I did not know. All I knew was that I WANTED IT!
Pretty sure it looked something like this. But full of wonderful things.I begged my parents, and eventually they relented and made a donation. (So they say.) For weeks, I waited with bated breath for my Sesame Street Grab Bag to arrive. Would it be in a giant box, I wondered? Or would everything be separate, and you had to put all the wonderful things into the bag yourself (because obviously, that was where I’d keep them)?
Day after day, I checked the mailbox and looked on the doorstep. I watched out the window for the mailman in his little white Jeep. I asked my mother over and over again if my Grab Bag had come yet.
Reader, it never did.
Supposedly my parents called Channel 13 to follow up. But given that this was, like, 1979, I’m guessing the recordkeeping for fundraisers consisted of very hairy people writing names and addresses down on legal pads, which were perhaps then typed up by women in polyester slacks, which they then passed along to whoever was in charge of Grab Bag distribution, and then…who know where it all went. Into enormous filing cabinets? The trash?
I’m guessing that somewhere in this whole process there was carbon paper involved.
Anyway. It was a lost cause.
Eventually, I accepted the fact that a Sesame Street Grab Bag was never to be mine. In the years that followed, I moved on to other obsessive desires: Lisa Frank stickers, Cabbage Patch Kids, Michael J. Fox. (Two of the three, I actually got.) Still, if that Grab Bag showed up on my doorstep tomorrow, I think I would be ecstatic.
It is in that spirit that I want to give YOU the thrill of a free gift in the mail. One that WILL COME!
That’s right! To the first 10 people who email to let me know that they’re going to read The Society of Shame (now in paperback!) with their book club, I will send a free SOCIETY OF SHAME GRAB BAG. (U.S. only)
I tried to do a little something with drapery here.Just look at it! You get the tote bag, a signed paperback copy of the book, a bunch of nifty #YesWeRead / #YesWeBleed reversible bookmarks for your group, an inflatable swan beverage holder (beverage not included), and some teeny little plastic swans that are definitely a choking hazard. PLUS: If you want, I will visit your book club via Zoom to say hello and answer questions, schedule permitting! (Actually, I’m happy to do this for any book club.)
Why choose The Society of Shame for your book club? Well, ‘cuz it’s a fun, quick, entertaining read full of juicy topics for conversation: Cancel culture, menstrual mishaps, online activism, social media, infidelity, tweens, and the general craziness of our current cultural and political moment. Plus, swans: beautiful and beloved or ill-tempered and invasive? Discuss.
Here’s how it works: Once you’ve got your book club on board to read The Society of Shame, email me at janeroper [at] gmail.com with the subject line “Book Club Grab Bag” (or something like that). Tell me when you plan to meet, the number of people in your group, your address, and whether you’d like me to pop in via Zoom.
If you are one of the first 10 people to write, I will—I SWEAR—mail you your FREE Society of Shame grab bag as a token of my heartfelt appreciation. Because unlike those public television bastards, I am a woman of my word.
And look, this is the honor system. Please only enter if you really, truly plan to read the book with your book club. (And by “book club” I don’t mean, like, you and one other person.) I will, of course, be delighted if just YOU, as an individual, read the book. But the swag is for clubs only. Thank you for understanding.
Also, please note: I actually only have nine inflatable swans to give away, so if you’re person #10, you don’t get a swan in your Grab Bag. Sorry! (But I’ll throw in a few extra bookmarks and choking hazard mini swans.)
BUT WAIT, there’s more! EVERYONE, regardless of whether or not they win a Grab Bag or even have a book club at all, is invited to download this nifty new Society of Shame Book Club Kit, featuring a discussion guide, playlist, cocktail recipe, and a friendly greeting from moi. (BTW: Thanks to everyone who helped crowd-source the playlist over on Facebook!)
Click me!OK. That’s more than enough shameless self and Grab Bag promotion. Thank you for reading. I will leave you now (below the buttons) with a classic, psychedlic, funky-as-hell Sesame Street animation, featuring a song that has been lodged in my head—and quite possibly yours—since the Carter administration. Enjoy.
March 10, 2024
My college BFF, who happens to be a stripper, is running for mayor of Portland, Oregon.
So, I’ve never actually done an interview here on Jane’s Calamity before. But lately there have been instances when someone I know does something truly extraordinary, and I think: Doggone it, that person deserves to have their story told by ME, an unfamous writer with a Substack that reaches fewer people than your average high school newspaper.
One such person is one of my oldest, dearest friends, Liv Osthus, who recently announced that she is running for mayor of Portland, Oregon. (Or “Woke Portland,” as The New York Post moronically put it when they reported on her candidacy.)
Why was The New York Post reporting (moronically) on her candidacy? Well, it’s because Liv is not your typical candidate. She is not a lawyer or corporate suit or career politician. Rather, she’s a stripper—or “exotic dancer” as the media likes to say. She’s also a singer, a writer, a bartender, a mom, a breast cancer survivor, a pastor’s daughter, and a total goofball. But, yeah, it’s the stripper part that grabs people’s attention.
Liv and I met as freshmen at Williams College in Fall of 1992, and have been friends ever since. Williams—when we were there anyway—was heavier on the sporty, boarding school types and lighter on the artsy, silly types. So I count myself very lucky to have found some of “my people” at Williams in Liv and our mutual pals. (Not to mention my a cappella and African dance friends. And, oh yeah, my husband.)
We thought a lot of deep thoughts. Liv and me seen here, senior year, with our dear friend Amy, lower right, who died of cancer just 5 years after this picture was taken. Fucking A.Both Liv and I majored in anthropology and spent semesters abroad in Africa (her, Tanzania, me, Cameroon). We shared a penchant for foreign languages, classical choral music, Beavis & Butthead, and being annoyed by pretentious, pseudo-intellectual fucks. But we also were and are quite different. Example: Liv was absolutely bereft when Kurt Cobain died during our sophomore year. I was, well, cognizant of it being a sad thing, and probably emblematic of….something about GenX and Reaganomics and the death of the American dream…? But at least Billy Joel wasn’t dead! Pass the Snapple!
Since college, I’ve watched with fascination and fondness from the other side of the country as Liv’s unconventional (especially for a Williams grad) life has unfolded. And I’m not the only one who finds her fascinating: Liv is the subject of an opera, “Viva’s Holiday,” and a short documentary, “Thank You For Supporting the Arts.” She also gave a killer TedxTalk about why she sees “sex work as a feminist enterprise and stripping as art.”
But now—NOW!—Liv has really arrived. Because now, she has been interviewed by me. I was delighted that she was willing to take some time in her busy schedule to answer my hard-hitting questions.
For a more traditional interview—if you’re into that kind of thing—about why Liv is running for mayor, and her vision for Portland, . In the meantime, here is the exclusive Jane’s Calamity interview of Liv Osthus (Viva Las Vegas, as she’s known on stage), would-be mayor.
Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiv!!!! I hear you are running for mayor of Portland. Why didn't you consult me about this first?
Liv: I mean... we're both working moms AND artists so I figured 1.) we share a brain and 2.) you're busy.
Honestly, though, the very words would get stuck in my throat.
People have nudged me in this direction over the decades, and I've steadfastly refused. But as things have devolved in Portland and the US, I've felt compelled -- even called – to fight. I realize that this runs counter to any sane person's idea of what to do with their one wild and precious life. I had to sit quietly and alone with it for a long while, get really clear in my own heart that I wanted to proceed.
You have always been extremely thoughtful and intentional about your life’s choices, so this is not suprising to me. Plus, you’ve been engaged with political, cultural and civic life for years, and have been an outspoken advocate for sex workers as well. So really, this mayor move feels surprising yet inevitable—like a good story ending (according to Aristotle).
But enough about you. Back to me. How did the experience of being my closest friend in college and my maid of honor prepare you for the job of mayor? Please be specific.
Liv: I think we share an appreciation of irony and a gift for approaching life-or-death moments with sanguinity, smartassery, and whimsy. Anyone who can dissolve into laughter dissecting "the malaise of modernity" (we did coin that phrase, didn't we?) over lunch and dinner at those jock-filled dining halls can maintain hope when steering a city through very dark, dangerous waters. Also: I can navigate disappointment. I'd prefer you and I had remained suitemates for life, but you went and got married. I love Alastair, but it's hard.
Aw, same. Maybe thirty years from now, we’ll be suitemates again, Golden Girls style, and can throw social theory terminology around over late night cheesecake—or something else, because I don’t like cheesecake and you’re lactose intolerant. (BTW: Regarding “The Malaise of Modernity,” Google reminds me that it’s actually a name of a lecture and book by someone named Charles Taylor. Maybe we read it in one of our classes together?)
It’s interesting that we were both anthropology majors, yet neither of us went on to pursue careers directly related to it. OR DID WE??? How do you think your anthropology studies inform your worldview and the path you've taken, and how might they inform the way you govern as mayor?
Liv: I always say from the stage of the strip club that I am working in my field. Seriously, do you have any idea how many strippers majored in cultural anthropology? I look for ritual, tribal identity, and collective effervescence in every scenario. Strip clubs have got this in spades! And the band of witch-strippers that move through all these tribes are connected on such a deep level. We have special strength because we exist and thrive in liminal spaces. Also, I like to use the word "liminal" as often as possible.
Hands down one of my favorite words. Moving on to more pressing matters: when we were in college together, I many, MANY times saw you eat Lucky Charms with water, instead of milk. It still haunts me to this day. WHY, LIV. WHY???
Liv: It was HOT water, btw. It made the Lucky Charms into this magical, comforting soup. I could read it like tea leaves. And it was dairy-free (I was flirting with veganism and lactose intolerant).
Yeah, but still.
So: As a woman—one who is middle-aged, at that—a stripper, and a progressive, you will inevitably face a lot of misogyny, ageism, and all-around assholery from a certain segment of the populace and punditry during your campaign. How do you plan to protect yourself, emotionally speaking, from those fucking assholes? Are you at all worried about your safety and wellbeing? Or the wellbeing of your fab daughter? I worry about you. That's all.
Liv: I am very accustomed to facing the assholery and ignorance that arise from my being a sex worker. It's all misogyny, in my opinion. I've upped the ante in this fight FOR my daughter, that she will inhabit a more enlightened world. That said, I worry very much about her safety. She lives with her dad halftime at his downtown condo, where for some years, the outgoing mayor was her next-door neighbor. During the BLM protests, people were literally trying to set the condo building on fire with explosives. This is the political climate of our day. It SUCKS. Part of why I want to lead is to change this! Civility, listening, connecting.... with EVERYONE. Holding up a mirror to conflict and saying "Look! This conflict you're having – however minor or online or what have you – mirrors every conflict ever. Learn a new way of interacting!"
I did ask my daughter for permission to run, which was granted. We have a literal list of safe houses going. Perhaps we'll start fostering pitbulls, or dragons.
I vote for dragons. But, yes. Things are rough out there. It seems like so many people are just dead-set against trying to find common ground—or even just listen to each other.
You've lived in Portland for nearly 30 years, so you’ve seen a lot of change over time. What do you think has changed for the better, and what has changed for worse?
Liv: The food scene and small business scene have gotten better, but both are now on life support. The brilliant art community that existed here in the 80's, 90's, and early aughts attracted attention, then tourists, then development, and very quickly many of us could not afford to stay. So many artists have been pushed out by climbing prices.
The houseless situation is bad everywhere (end-stage capitalism), but it is really bad here. We all carry Narcan in our dance bags; walk over possibly-dead bodies on our way to the bar. Fentanyl is monstrous.
However I do want to remember that our community members who suffer from addiction disorders also have a lot to offer. Every human has a rich story – every human deserves clean air, water, shelter, community. We've gotten so far from providing/expecting even these basic things.
That’s a great and important reminder. In so much discourse, the humanity and worth of people who are suffering or struggling is effectively forgotten—whether you’re talking about migrants, refugees, people who are unhoused or have addiction disorders, etc. They’re reduced from people to political talking points.
Speaking of politics: As you know, two members of our graduating class have held or currently hold high profile public offices: Senator Chris Murphy (D-Conn) and Bush family member Walker Stapleton, who was a two-term Colorado state treasurer and who ran an unsuccessful bid for governor. If either of them wanted to get into stripping, what advice would you give them?
Liv: I mean, a lot of the skillz politics hones would serve them on the strip stage: make eye contact, smile, listen, connect... Those over-the-knee boots are great for stripping in your late-forties, early-fifties. They are warm, and offer some semblance of knee protection.
I may need to get some of those. OK, POP QUIZ TIME! You've noted in the past that your name, "LIV" is the Roman numeral for 54, which I think we can both agree is an excellent number. We can also agree that Roman numbers are, generally speaking, very cool. Here are the names of three men who have Roman numerals after their names. Which of these is NOT a member of Williams ‘96?
a.) Darwin E. English II
b.) Livingston Parsons III
c.) Walter Smedly IV
Liv: I'm going with b, because how would I have missed another Liv? Darby English was so dreamy. Where is he now?
YOU ARE CORRECT! Livingston Parsons III is actually a friend of mine. He’s a trip. And Walter “Wes” Smedly was a lovely fellow, as I recall. As for Darwin “Darby” English II (why II not junior? I do not know…), yes, he was dreamy indeed. He is now, not surprisingly, a very well regarded art historian at the University of Chicago. But check out this picture I found of him from a party our senior year. That’s me perched on the railing behind him, looking moody and resentful, as I did much of that year. (O pity the poor, angsty elite private college student….) I’m pretty sure this party was where I did tequila shots for the first and last time ever—lime and salt and all that. I got spectacularly sick. Puked until it hurt. To this day, I can’t drink a margarita.
But enough about me. Again. Livus: where can people learn more about you and your vision for Portland, and donate to your campaign if they feel so moved?
Wonderful. Thank you so much for your time, my friend. Best of luck with the campaign and, as always, I am rooting for you! xoxoxo
Liv: XOXOXO
Awww. Babies.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. Thank you for supporting the arts.
P.S. My next interview, whenever I get to it, will be with my friend Manjula Karamcheti, who was a contestant on Wheel! Of! Fortune!
P.P.S. T-minus 2 days til the paperback of The Society of Shame drops! (And the hardcover gets super discounted at your fave bookstore, maybe?) I’m so grateful to even HAVE a paperback coming out. Rebecca Makkai wrote an excellent post about paperbacks, why they happen, why they don’t, etc. Book nerds, check it out.
The beginning and end of my exoctic dancing career — outside the strip club in that Liv, our friend Rachel and I checked out on our senior year spring break trip to New Orleans.
February 29, 2024
You don't have to read this.
Hahah I wonder what my open rates will be like on this post with a title like that.
But I really do mean it. There is SO MUCH FREAKING CONTENT out there (here?) on the internets, and in our inboxes, and it’s just not possible to read it all.
I’ve been feeling increasingly stressed out and annoyed by this fact of late—even though it is, in fact, an embarrassment of riches. Important news stories! Excellent essays! Fabulous humor!
I could spend hours every week reading Substacks alone. I subscribe to 29 (!!) at present, though some of them I rarely read. (And some are published only very occasionally, God bless them.) But 30 is nothing; when I get new subscribers, I can see how many Substacks they subscribe to, and some of you crazy kids are getting 50, 80, or even hundreds of the things. Do you actually read them all? Does your blood pressure not spike every time you look at your inbox? Are you OK??
In addition to Substacks, I get newsletters and daily digests from the newspapers and magazines I subscribe to—The New York Times, The Boston Globe, The Washington Post, The Atlantic, Guns and Ammo, Penthouse—plus The Skimm and Lit Hub and assorted others.
And that’s just the stuff in my inbox. Add in the things people post on social that I want to read or watch, the podcasts I want to listen to, all the TV shows and movies instantly available and accumulating exponentially….it’s too fucking much, people!!
The irony? Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed that I (figuratively) run away screaming and scroll mindlessly through social media or play Spelling Bee instead. And then that makes me more stressed, because why am I not using that time to consume ALL THE CONTENT?? And/or why aren’t I reading a damned book, for that matter? The overload has definitely cut into the time I spend reading actual books, and the attention span I have when I do. It’s a sort of content paralysis—freezing in the headlights of the onslaught.
Related: The times my husband and I spend 45 minutes on a Friday night deciding what movie to watch of the 14 gazillion options available to us, and eventually give up and watch old episodes of 30 Rock or Flight of the Conchords instead. Again.
I know this is not some novel sentiment I’m expressing here. People have been talking about information overload for years. But what occurs to me lately is that it’s not so much the volume of readily available content itself that’s stressful; it’s about the volume of choices we have to make as a result.
A subtle distinction, I know, but stick with me.
An anecdote: Last summer, when I was on my annual AMC Hut hike in the White Mountains with my fave hiking pals, some really bad weather rolled in in advance of the second day of our hike—heavy rain, high winds, limited visibility. Our plan for that day had been to hike from the hut where we spent the first night across the Presidential Ridge to the next hut—a route entirely above treeline, fully exposed to the elements, where people die of hypothermia every year, even in summer. For us to go ahead with that hike, that day, as planned would have been abjectly dangerous and stupid.
As we were discussing our plans with other hikers (everyone at the hut was reshuffling and rethinking, comparing notes and asking each other for advice and opinions), one man, a father hiking with his young son, listened to our group’s situation, smiled, and said “freedom!”
I knew instantly what he meant: not that we were free to do whatever we wanted. Rather, just the opposite. We were free from having to choose.
We had no choice (if we valued our safety, and that of area rescue volunteers) but to spend another night at the hut, and then do our planned hike the next day, when the forecast was supposed to be clear. We’d bypass the next hut and go straight down to our car, which was waiting for us at the other end of the ridge. Simple. (And, fortunately, we were able to have our reservation for the next hut transferred to the hut we were currently at.)
There was no firehose of factors and options to consider, and no choices to make except along the lines of, “should we play Yahtzee again, or take another nap?” Bonus: No internet to add more entertainment possibilities or “I really should catch up on my Substack reading…” to the mix.
Freedom.
Truly, to be stuck for a day, free from decisions, free from obligations, free from content overload, was the most relaxed I’d felt in ages.
Free because I didn’t have as much freedom as usual.
Me the day *after* the storm, blissed out on freedom (and mountains).Granted, I wouldn’t have wanted to be stuck at the hut another day. The only thing worse than too much freedom is no freedom at all.
Likewise, one channel, one newspaper, one book, one author, one TV series—that would not be so great. But those days when there were just a handful of TV channels, and the magazines and newspapers that arrived on your doorstep or that you encountered at the doctor’s office were the only ones you read, and if you didn’t feel like listening to something from your own music collection, you turned on the radio and took your chances—yeah, I miss those days sometimes. A little less choice, a little more freedom.
Also: get off my lawn, kids.
Anyway, in an attempt to liberate myself a little, I’ve started doing a lot of unsubscribing, reminding myself that I can always resubscribe if I want. I will be curious to see if it makes me feel a little more chill and focused. A little more free. Perhaps you’ll try it too.
Of course, obviously don’t unsubscribe to THIS Substack!!
Just kidding — it’s fine. I get it. I really do.
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.
P.S. I actually really hate the word “content.”
P.P.S. I don’t really subsribe to Guns & Ammo and Penthouse, in case you were wondering. I just like to keep you on your toes.
P.P.P.S. The paperback of The Society of Shame drops in two weeks, and is available for pre-order now! If you choose it for your book group (it makes for very juicy discussion!) I would LOVE to pop in via Zoom and say hello and answer questions, schedule permitting. I might even send you some nifty bookmarks…. Contact me at janeroper (at) gmail.com
February 8, 2024
The time Larry David made me cry.
Larry David recently made headlines for throttling Elmo on live TV while promoting the new season of Curb Your Enthusiasm. So it seems like this is a fitting time to share my one and only Larry David story. At least, I’m 99.97% sure it’s a Larry David story.
Let me preface this by saying that I think the guy is hilarious. I loved Seinfeld and I love Curb Your Enthusiasm—although I have to be in the right mood for the latter. There are times when the edge of the show’s humor is so deadly sharp, and Larry’s behavior so boorishly cringe-inducing, that it actually stresses me out.
Most of the time, though, I’m all in.
There was a time, however, when that brand of humor made me incredibly uncomfortable—specifically, when I was in middle school: self-conscious, awkward, oversensitive.
Like many twelve-to-fourteen year-olds, I was convinced that the entire world was laughing at and judging me at all times. I was also convinced that I was so uncool and gawky and lame that I sorta kinda deserved it. So, when sarcasm or teasing was lobbed my way, even when it was just meant to be playful, not cruel, I took it hard. And I could never think of a good comeback. (THAT has definitely changed. Come at me. I dare you.)
Decades later, I can still remember, in vivid detail, incidents from that era in my life when I felt like I was the butt of the joke. One such instance was the time I was at my friend Lauren’s house in eighth grade, and her aunt came over, accompanied by her new boyfriend (or maybe he was just a friend at that point; I don’t recall).
“You have to meet my aunt’s boyfriend,” Lauren said. “He’s really funny.”
And so, I was brought into the living room, where Lauren’s parents and older sisters, her aunt, and her aunt’s boyfriend—a gangly, balding guy with big glasses—were watching TV.
“This is my friend Jane,” Lauren said to her aunt and her boyfriend, who sat side by side on the couch.
“Hi,” I probably said, definitely very awkwardly.
They hello’ed back, and there was some talking or laughing or who knows what. Then, Lauren’s aunt’s boyfriend said to me, “Sorry, sweetheart, what did you say your name was?”
“Jane,” I said, pleased that I was of interest.
“Could you move, Jane?” he said. “You’re blocking the TV.”
The room erupted in laughter.
I moved out of the way, and then stood there, not knowing what to do with my hands, trying to smile and be a good sport, while my face burned and I held back tears.
Like I said, I was very sensitive at that point in my life. But that guy—I mean, he was kind of an asshole to do that to a 13-year-old girl he’d just met, in front of a room full of adults, just to get a laugh. Right?
Anyway, I never forgot it.
Lauren and I drifted apart in the years that followed, but we were always friendly, and never lost touch. Lauren’s older sister, Julie, was an aspiring actress—in fact, we shared a stage in the high school musical, Anything Goes, my freshman year—and I remember hearing through Lauren at some point that Julie had gotten a small part in an episode of Seinfeld, which their uncle was somehow connected with.
It wasn’t until a few years later that it fully registered that the uncle in question was, in fact, the creator and producer of the show, and the inspiration for one of its characters.
And it wasn’t until a few more years after that, in the early 2000s, when I started watching Curb Your Enthusiasm with my husband, that I realized that the uncle was, in fact, Larry David. I did some Googling, and confirmed that David’s first wife, Laurie Lennard, was, indeed, my friend Lauren’s maternal aunt.
But it wasn’t until several years after that that it all came together—that I realized that the gangly, bespectacled man who had humiliated me in the living room of Lauren’s parents’ house in Connecticut in the 80s, who had made my little thirteen-year-old heart implode, and who had, for years, been emblematic to me of how painfully awkward my middle school years were—was….it had to be….Larry fucking David.
Larry David told me to move because I was blocking the TV.
Larry David made awkward, brace-faced, terrible-permed me feel like a pathetic little loser in front of my friend’s entire family.
OF COURSE HE DID!
It was the most Larry David thing ever!
I can just imagine the Curb Your Enthusiasm episode:
Cheryl: "Really, Larry? Do you have any idea how sensitive teenage girls are?”
Jeff: “She was in front of the TV! That’s a big bowl of wrong! But… if you could apologize, just to smooth things over. Just a quick ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s all. If you could just do that…”
Susie: “You’re an asshole, La. You were an asshole to that poor girl, you’re an asshole to my kids, you’re an asshole to me, you’re an asshole to everyone. FUCK YOU, LARRY!”
I actually reached out to Lauren not too long ago and told her the “you’re blocking the TV” story, and asked if she could confirm that it was, in fact, her Uncle Larry who had razzed me that day. She didn’t remember the incident, of course. But she said, “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
It absolutely does. So, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
But I must say: as humiliating as it felt when I was thirteen, I now actually feel sort of honored to have been at the receiving end of David’s trademark dickish behavior. I mean, how many people can say that they experienced, firsthand, the assholery of a celebrity whose whole shtick is being an asshole?
Elmo and me—we’re members of an elite club. Of course, Elmo got an apology.
I’m still waiting for mine.
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.
P.S. The countdown is on! The paperback of The Society of Shame drops on March 12. But right now, you can get the hardcover for less than the paperback! (I don’t generally love sending folks to Amazon for books, but that’s one hell of a deal…)
