Jane Roper's Blog, page 8
September 26, 2022
Strong beats skinny every time
So, my belly, Sheila, and I (“sheilar-and-I”) went backpacking last weekend, along with another friend of mine. (A human one, not a body part one.) It was three-day, two-night trip through the Pemigewasset Wilderness of the White Mountains, featuring incredible views and—let’s call them “invigorating”—cold nights. I tagged three more of the peaks left in my quest to summit all 48 four-thousand-footers in New Hampshire. The loop was 29 miles in all, and on the longest day, I logged over forty-thousand steps on the ole FitBit.
As you might imagine, this sort of thing is not Sheila’s cup of tea.
Walking around the Tesco or to the pub is about the extent of Sheila’s exercise regime, although she did to a bike tour in Portugal once while there on holiday—massive mistake.
So, there was as you might expect, lots of salty complaining, which went from good-natured and jokey to downright pissed-off (ticked off? tockered off? snooker-snicker-snockered off? Help me, British readers) once the terrain got steep. The c-word was bandied about quite liberally.
But then, interestingly, Sheila got very quiet. In fact, I more or less forgot that she was even there.
Even as I was consuming calories at a staggering rate—trail mix, cheddar cheese, pepperoni, Corn Nuts (what, you don’t hike with Corn Nuts?)—I wasn’t thinking about Sheila’s doughy presence beneath the hip-band of my 27-pound pack. Instead, I was feeling totally blissed out by the scenery, the spruce-scented air, and what my body could do.
Here in my late forties, I’m fitter than I’ve ever been in my life. You could bounce a two-quid coin off my quads. (But don’t try bouncing it on Sheila.) As for all those calories I was mowing down on the trail: they weren’t a matter of indulging—they were fuel, baby.
And yet at the same time: I can’t deny it. For me, one of the big perks of hiking (which I do a lot of these days) is being able to eat pretty much whatever I want and not worry about it.
So, now, I find myself at the awkward position of making two sort of contradictory points:
1.) Hiking makes me feel strong and badass and appreciative of my body and all it can do—and way less focused on its imperfections. (I hope Sheila didn’t hear that. Although if she did she’d probably just roll her eyes and laugh. “Of course I’m an imperfect, you c*nt! We all are!)
2.) Hiking is a great excuse to eat like a truck driver—a red-blooded ‘Merican one that likes Corn Nuts, beef jerky and M&Ms goddamit—and not feel guilty.
But let’s focus on the first one, because it’s the one that’s actually more important. And healthy.
As I’ve mentioned, there was a period of time in high school when I was in a competition with myself to see how little I could eat while still having enough energy to function, all the while secretly hoping that some adult would notice how damned skinny I was, and worry, and take care of me.
‘Cuz I pretty much took care of myself—and often my younger brother, too—during my latter teenage years, while my parents were both very focused on new professional pursuits. AND I had a GPA in the stratosphere and did, like, all the clubs, and won all the awards. I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed” and “Parents’ Dream Child” in my high school yearbook. The second one (I mean, seriously, wtf kind of category is that?) made me want to develop a cocaine habit and bang the entire football team. But I didn’t, of course. Because I was a parents’ dream child.
Anyway. I can’t quite explain it, but being skinny was all wrapped up in this achieving and dream-childing. Being very thin was part of being very perfect.
And yet, I knew it wasn’t really healthy, or sustainable.
Then, the summer between my junior and senior years, I sent myself on a small adventure: I did a week of volunteer trail crew in the White Mountains with the Appalachian Mountain Club. There were about a dozen of us in the group, some Europeans, some Americans. (All adults; in retrospect, I don’t know if I really supposed to be there on my own, as a minor, but nobody asked any questions). We spent our days in the woods, gussying up the trails with clippers and hatchets and pick-axes, and then came back to the base camp where we ate a huge dinner and played cutthroat games of croquet.
That experience was the first time in a long time that I felt great about my body for the things it could do—not for its thinness. Hiking in the Whites is serious business, and you can’t do it running on fumes. You need fuel. You need food.
[Interjection: As I am writing this, one of my teen spawn and a bunch of her friends are outside in the yard shrieking songs from Phantom of the Opera, and I think it may get us exiled from the neighborhood.]
Did spending a week in the mountains cure me of my eating issues? No, not by a longshot. What I ate (or didn’t eat) continued to occupy more of my mental energy than would have been ideal for several more years. But the experience definitely nudged my priorities in the right direction.
And here I am 30 years later, still finding that it’s when I’m in the woods that I feel most fully in—and grateful for—my body.
Now. About #2: Relishing the opportunity to eat trail mix, PB&J, pepperoni-cheddar-Triscut canapés (“cairnapés” as I call them) and—afterwards—a big ole burger and beer without guilt?
Eh. I think as long as it’s not the primary reason I hike (it’s definitely not) it’s a pretty natural, and probably common, phenomenon. So you know what? I’m just not gonna sweat it or overthink it.
Sheila most emphatically approves.
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September 7, 2022
I'm naming my belly Sheila
I’ve decided to name my belly Sheila.
Sheila is British, though I think her father may be Irish. She’s a few years older than me—mid 50s—drinks too much, eats gobs of cheese, and loves a good treacle tart (“You are what you eat!” she says, then cackles). Every March, she and her sister and two best friends from uni go to Portugal, where she gets smashed nightly, gets a sunburn, and usually ends up shagging an Aussie or two.
Sheila curses like a sailor and tells the filthiest, funniest jokes I’ve ever heard. She loves dogs (unlike me), never forgets a birthday (also unlike me) and always picks up the check (ditto). She calls me either “love” or “c*nty,” depending on how many Merlots she’s had, and most important, she’s always after me to lighten up, have fun, and quit being so hard on myself.
It’s impossible not to like Sheila—which is good, because she’s not going anywhere. And, barring surgical intervention, she’s probably only going to get bigger as I get older, owing to the inevitabilities of aging, genetics, gravity, and the fact that I really don’t want to want to eat like how I imagine Gwyneth Paltrow eats (nothing but greens, lean proteins, healthy fats, and organic berries) for the rest of my days.
In other words, Sheila and I (pronounced “Sheilar-and-I”), aka my belly and I, are in it for the long haul.
Now, I can just hear those of you out there who know me, or have seen pictures of me, saying, Oh shut up, you don’t have a Sheila belly!
And yes, it’s true that I’m very fit, and am basically what you’d call thin. My arms are toned, thanks to regular indoor rock climbing, and my legs, thanks to running, hiking and good genes, are pretty damned spectacular, if I do say so myself.
BUT my question to you is: have you seen me in my underwear? For 99.8% of you, the answer is no. No you have not. If you had, you would know that my midsection is, well, soft and kinda lumpy, with a small but distinct (and squishy) bulge beneath the navel.
(“It feels like pizza dough!” one of my children kindly pointed out when they were six or seven, grabbing a fistful of it. “There was a lot less of it before you came along,” I growled.)
Now, let me just interject here to say that if you are someone who is annoyed by thin women talking about their bodily insecurities, I get it. Truly, I do. Don’t keep reading, because you’ll just be hating me and rolling your eyes the whole time, and that’s no fun for either of us.
But if you’re up for a post about the quest to accept one’s body as it is—something women of all shapes and sizes struggle with—and the role of my new mate Sheila in all this, read on.
The fact is, I have never liked my belly. Eons ago, at a pool party in eighth grade, I remember seeing my classmates in bikinis and wondering why most of their abdomens were long, smooth single planes, whereas mine (concealed in a one-piece) was in two parts—like a snowman or a chunky wasp. I don’t know if it’s because I have a giant uterus or mega-intestines or what, but it’s always been that way—even when I was borderline anorexic in high school, and weighed about 15 pounds less than I do now.
THAT is a whole other story, and it’s about much more than just weight / body image. I’ll save it for another post. But the upshot is: 1.) My family was pretty fat-phobic when I was growing up, my dad in particular 2.) For a couple of years in high school, I worked very hard to get very skinny, and got kind of addicted to the whole thing 3.) It took me a number of years to get to a healthier relationship with food and with my body.
Alas, 4.) I’m still not all the way there. (Is anyone?)
When I feel/see my belly spilling over the waistband of my jeans, or see it pooching out under a fitted dress or top, all these mean, negative thoughts come to mind: You look gross, and old. It’s your fault. You are indulgent. You are lazy. If you ate fewer carbs and sugar and drank less wine, it would go away.
The very fact that I think these things pisses me off, too. I’m a feminist, dammit! I’m healthy and happy and alive for God’s sake, and incredibly grateful for that fact, so why am I being so vain? Moreover, I am not overweight, I eat very healthily for the most part (if not Gwyneth healthy), and I look pretty damned good, so why am I being a whiny bitch? (Feeling bad about feeling bad: Now that is some serious overacheiving woman shit right there!)
I just don’t want to hate my belly anymore. Or hate myself for hating my belly.
Hence, Sheila.
I mean, when your belly is a bawdy, bon vivant British bestie who tells you look fantastic and that you need to stop worrying about things that don’t bloody well matter, what’s to hate, right?
So now, when I look at myself sideways in the mirror and sigh, I make myself think of Sheila rolling her eyes, giving me a playful swat on the knee and saying, “Oh, quit being such a [insert some fun British idiom here]. You look gorgeous, love. And who gives a fuck anyway?” Then she takes a big slug of her wine, kicks back in her chair and says, “Now, did I tell you the one about the Frenchman, the vicar, and the sheep?” She’s snorting with laughter before she even starts the joke, and then I’m laughing too, and all is well.
Sometimes Sheila goes a little tough love on my ass. She wags a finger at me and reminds me of her grandfather, who was blown to pieces by a German mine on his thirtieth birthday, or her aunt, who died of breast cancer at exactly my age. “Think they would choose being alive if it meant having a bit of paunch? You bet your arse they would! Now, shut up and have a biscuit.” (Isn’t it fun how many Britishy things Sheila says? I can’t wait to ride on an elevator with her, or take her to someone’s apartment.)
So far, the Sheila approach to belly acceptance is going smashingly—not so smashingly, however, that I’m going to show you a close up pic.
But here’s a snap of Sheila and me (Sheilar-and-me) on holiday in Mexico last February, goofing around together. We drank a lot of Dos Equis, had quite a few churros, and made fun of the iguanas. It was fabulous.
Be kind to yourselves, my friends. Or, at the very least, give yourself a fun-loving body part pal with a cool accent who will.
I love writing this newsletter, and am grateful to have a place to share my strange and eclectic brand of writing. I’ve happily blogged for free for years, and will continue to do so. I did, however, recently add a paid subscription option. If you enjoy my writing, and feel like it’s brought value to you in any way, I’d be honored if you’d consider upgrading. My dream is to gradually spend more time writing essays, humor and fiction, and less time doing corporate writing (which currently pays the bills), and every bit helps. BUT no pressure at all! It’s totally voluntary, and you’ll still get all the same content if you stick with the free version. Mostly I just hope you’ll keep reading! xoxox - Jane
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August 16, 2022
Quiz: Do you know how to buy groceries?
Here’s a fun quiz about division of labor. It’s definitely not based on things that have happened or could happen in my household. Nope. Nosiree. Not at all.
Ready?
Let’s begin.
I love that this photo existsImagine that your spouse / partner who normally does the grocery shopping—along with the meal planning and cooking—doesn’t have time to go to the store on a given week because they’re drowning in work. They ask if you’ll do “the big shopping,” and hand you the list they have very carefully compiled, with helpful details to ensure a successful trip. “Don’t forget the reusable bags!” they add as you head for the car.
Below are some of the items on the shopping list. Select which thing you will buy in each instance.
Mixed greens
a.) A bag or box of the mixed salad greens that your spouse always buys, has bought for years, and that you yourself use when making salads
b.) A bag of baby arugula, because you weren’t sure what your spouse meant by “mixed greens,” so maybe this will work?
c.) One of those weird, expensive butter lettuce things with the roots at the bottom that’s barely enough for one salad and comes in a bulky plastic box that takes up half the fridge, because it’s what your parents always get, and you thought it might be a nice change.
1.5 lbs grapes, but only if they’re $2.49/lb or less
a.) 1.5 lbs grapes, because they were $2.29/lb.
b.) 3 lbs of grapes—half of which will shrivel into what look like tiny, semi-deflated balloons before anyone gets around to eating them—because they were only $1.99/lb.
c.) 1.5 lbs grapes even though they were $3.79/lb because “whatever, we’re fine.”
A 16-oz container of fat-free cottage cheese
a.) A 16-oz container of fat-free cottage cheese
b.) A 16-oz container of full-fat cottage cheese because you’ve told your spouse a million times they don’t need to lose weight for God’s sake, and even if they did, why should the rest of you suffer?
b.) A 16-oz container of fat-free ricotta cheese. Sorry—you thought they were the same thing.
A 12-pack of seltzer—any flavor but lime
a.) A 12-pack of some kind of seltzer that’s not lime
b.) A 12-pack of lime seltzer
c.) Text your spouse 4 times while they’re on a conference call: What flavor seltzer? Hello? Grapefruit or Black Cherry? HELLO??
Annie’s Bunny Fruit Snacks
a.) Annie’s Bunny Fruit Snacks, because your spouse probably had a reason for specifying the brand rather than just saying “fruit snacks.” For example, perhaps Annie’s don’t contain gelatin, so your vegetarian child can eat them, unlike other brands, like Welch’s.
b.) Welch’s Fruit Snacks, because they’re much cheaper. (And you’re already spending a lot on those grapes.)
c.) You can’t find the fruit snacks.
One can of coconut milk
a.) A standard, 15-oz can of coconut milk, like any normal person would buy if someone said to buy a can of coconut milk.
b.) A huge, 24-oz can of coconut milk that your spouse will have to freeze most of, because the chicken curry recipe they’re planning to make only calls for one cup of coconut milk. (Note: the frozen leftover coconut milk will be found in the back of the freezer in two years, and nobody will know what it is.)
c.) You can’t find the coconut milk.
1 can of plain tomato sauce (not spaghetti sauce)
a.) A standard, 15-oz can of plain tomato sauce, like any normal person would buy if someone said to buy a can of plain tomato sauce.
b.) A teeny 8-oz can of tomato sauce that isn’t enough for the chicken curry recipe that your spouse is planning to make, which calls for one can of tomato sauce, such that your spouse will have to make a separate trip to the store later, just to get more tomato sauce.
c.) A 24-ounce jar of spaghetti sauce.
Approx 3 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs
a.) 3 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs
b.) 5 lbs bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
c.) Shit, I knew I forgot something.
BONUS QUESTION: Did you remember the reusable bags?
a.) Yes!
b.) No
c.) No, why didn’t you remind me?
Now, tally up your score:
Mostly A’s: Nice job! Can you help do the shopping more often?
Mostly Bs & Cs: You know what? Forget it. I’ll go next time.
Happy shopping, y’all!
PS - Apropos of absolutely nothing, the author would like to note how very grateful she is for the fact that her husband does the lion’s share of routine housework, including but not limited to laundry, dishes, yardwork, vacuuming, and trash/recycling. The author also acknowledges that she leaves her shoes and empty water glasses / mugs all over the house. She would also like to note that she loves her husband very much—even when he does the grocery shopping.
PPS: For more exciting, grocery-related content, check out this post.
PPPS: Thank you for reading!
Brought to you by the Society of Shame(less) self promotion
August 3, 2022
The Society of Shame(less self-promotion)
Hello, friends, family, and far-flung others! I hope this finds you healthy, happy, and not melting in the heat.
I’ve got two pieces of news, and I hope you don’t mind my sharing. (This may be week-old news to you if you already follow me on Facebook / Instagram / Twitter…apologies!)
As you may or may not know, my new novel, The Society of Shame will be published in April 2023 by Vintage / Anchor Books.
Here’s how the publisher describes it:
In this timely and witty combination of So You've Been Publicly Shamed and Where'd You Go, Bernadette? a viral photo of a politician's wife's “feminine hygiene malfunction” catapults her to unwanted fame in a story that's both a satire of social media stardom and internet activism, and a tender mother-daughter tale.
I know next April seems like a long way off (will we all be using self-driving cars and wearing futuristic metallic jumpsuits by then? Will monkeypox have overtaken the globe? Who knows!) but the wheels of pre-promotion are in motion, and I’m proud to reveal that my book has a COVER!!
I love it, and am so grateful to the folks at Anchor, and especially designer Vi-An Nguyen, who created it. It’s nothing like what I had imagined, and yet it’s perfect.
Why the swan? Why the sunglasses on said swan? You’ll have to read the book to find out.
Which brings me to news item #2: The Society of Shame is now available for pre-order! You can learn more about it and order at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Bookshop.org (my fave, because you can use it buy at local bookstores, and because it’s not run by people who spend millions of dollars to go up in rocket ships for no reason).
I would be SO grateful if you put in your order now. Why? Because pre-orders are huge help for authors. They send the message to publishers, reviewers, consumers and others that there is demand for the book, and they should probably see what all the fuss is about—by promoting it / buying it and/or turning it into a sure-to-be-Emmy-winning streaming TV series. Also, it’s fun to have something show up in the mail that you forgot you ordered months before, right?
Finally, finally: To those of you receiving this email who are not already subscribers, I’d be delighted if you stuck around. I send this newsletter once or twice a month, usually with an essay-ish thing musing on such diverse topics as the oppressive nature of excess tupperware, dreading the empty nest, my ridiculous old photos, and a lot of hilarious stuff about mortality. I’ll post occasional book news / events, too.
But if you’d rather not receive these missives, it’s totally fine, I get it — just hit that unsubscribe link at the bottom. I won’t even know, so you don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings. :-)
Again, thank you so much for reading this. I promise not to go overboard on the self-promo. I’m just very excited about this book—my first to be published in 10 years!—and I truly hope you will read it.
xoxo
Jane
P.S. Here’s the story of how The Society of Shame got written—and why it’s so different from anything I’ve written before.
It’s a long story…..
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July 27, 2022
50% Natural
Bracing for what’s ahead
July 26, 2022
Rancor is an anchor
Every so often—ok, very often, these days—I escape to New Hampshire’s White Mountains, my number one “happy place” (barf). Back in 2020, when I took my hiking up a notch, I started keeping track of the 4,000-footers I summited, and now I’m close to hiking all 48 of them. It’s fun to have a goal.
When I’m driving to the trailheads, often quite early in the morning, surrounded by the peaks, I get a delicious feeling of anticipation. I’m on the brink of escaping the everyday world, into a realm of spruce and rocks (oh, the rocks…) and roots and moss, and views of mountains beyond mountains beyond mountains.
But until I get there, I have to drive through a gauntlet of ‘Let’s Go Brandon’ and ‘Trump 2024’ and ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ and ‘Blue Lives Matter’ signs along the way. A defunct bakery in Twin Mountain has, in addition to a ‘Let’s Go Brandon’ sign, a hand-lettered sign that says: “First Amendment! Triggered yet?” I don’t even understand what this means (who’s triggered by the first amendment?) but, as Democrat, I’m pretty sure that I’m the target of this ire. Ugh.
New Hampshire is a purple state, and decidedly redder in the more rural parts. But the (rural-ish) White Mountain and Lakes regions are constantly flooded with hikers and skiiers and vacationers from more liberal Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York. I don’t think I’m wrong in assuming that all of the flags and signs and all the rest are intended in part to “trigger” us.
And, in my case, they do. That is, if being “triggered” means feeling angry and frustrated, hated and hateful, not to mention downright dismayed about the state of our country, which, I think it’s fair to say, is in the midst of a not-always-bloodless civil war.
But then, I put on my pack and hike up into the hills and all is (mostly) forgotten. People don’t tend to talk politics on the trail, and it’s rare to see political t-shirts or hats. On my most recent hike—a glorious two-night trek across the Presidential range with stays at two AMC huts—my hiking pal Marah and I shared a bunk room and dined side by side with folks who I’m pretty sure spanned a range of political views, based on some little “tells” in the course of conversations. And I know based on the “Hike the 4000-Footers” Facebook group I’m in that the range of political persuasions out on the trails is wider than one might think—especially of late, when so many more people are hiking.
But in the huts, we didn’t talk about current events or hot-button issues. Instead, we talked about hiking and gear and travel and hometowns and food and family and whatever else happened to come up.
Yet when the sixty-something thru-hiker from Texas across the table from me on our second night let drop a little comment about “bozos like Cuomo, with their pandemic restrictions,” I felt myself getting angry. Ironically, not so much because of the substance of the comment itself—I actually think the issue of pandemic restrictions was and still is very complex—but because I associate that stance with others that I find more unequivocally problematic.
But dammit, I didn’t want to feel angry at this person who had just passed me the bread, and who had been sharing stories of his family and his section hikes on the Appalachian trail—this person who had fancy waterproof socks but also duct-tape covering a tear on his jacket, who said that the pumpkin curry soup we were eating reminded him of something his wife made, and who loved being in the woods and on the mountaintops as much as I did.
And it’s weird; I almost felt like I was obligated to be angry, as a loyal member of Team Liberal.
But I made a concerted effort not to go there. I gently pushed the anger to the side. I tried to stay in the moment of our shared humanity, and the things that we had in common, known and unknown, rather than the things we might vehemently disagree on. It actually felt like a kind of mindfulness exercise: making the choice to focus on what my eyes and ears were telling me in that moment, rather than following my assumptions and stereotypes and fears and tribalistic impulses down a rabbit hole of anger and dismay.
It felt good. It felt like something I want to try to do more.
Now, let me qualify this a bit, because I can just hear my fellow liberals revving up their “yeah, but” engines: I am not saying I want to stick my fingers in my ears and close my eyes and sing LA-LA-LA so I don’t have to feel icky sad mad feelings. I’m not talking about shrugging and saying “We can agree to disagree! Pass the peas!” when it comes to matters of major moral weight. I’m never going to cozy up to an unrepentant racist or transphobe, or trade recipes with a right-wing militia member or January 6 Capitol invader. And you can bet your bippy I’m going to stay mad at the people in positions of power who are curtailing rights and undermining democracy and blocking legislation that I believe would help improve life for all people, and at the pundits and propaganda peddlers who are stoking the flames.
But the kneejerk anger I so often feel toward ordinary people on the “other side,” usually without knowing a thing about them except that I know, or even just suspect, they’re not on my “team,” feels corrosive. Hypocritical (I don’t want them being reflexively angry at me). Indulgent, even. Because the fact is, aiming my anger at ordinary, individual people—as opposed to larger political and systemic realities, or those aforementioned powerful folks—doesn’t change the world for the better.
And seething and muttering “fuck you, asshole,” when a flag-flying pickup truck emblazoned with Trump stickers passes me on the highway isn’t accomplishing anything, except probably raising my cortisol levels, which leads to increased belly fat, and nobody needs that.
I don’t know. There’s a lot about our current political and cultural reality that really does make my heart hurt and my blood boil. And you can’t just turn off your feelings. But it seems that if I try, I can fiddle with the knobs a bit when it comes to fellow humans, such that my anger doesn’t completely overwhelm my empathy, my curiosity, and my belief in the inherent worth and dignity of all people.
Which, if nothing else, is good news for my belly.
Now. On a COMPLETELY different note! Things are moving with regard to my book!! Galleys for The Society of Shame are in the works, to send to reviewers and booksellers and the like, and pretty soon I’m going to reveal the cover. Here’s me forcing it upon unsuspecting tourists on the Swan Boats in the Public Garden, where I shot a cover reveal video. (Why the Swan Boats? You’ll find out soon!)
So….to see the cover, and some of the sillness that transpired in the park that day, kindly follow me on Facebook or Instagram. Or keep reading here. Either way, thank you.
July 1, 2022
50% Natural
So, look, I was originally planning to write one of my philosophical posts I seem to keep writing of late about the fleeting nature of time and life and blah blah blah. Specifically, I was going to write about the strong pull of the past, and the strange way nostalgia works. (Just got back from my 25th college reunion, so, you know. Relevant)
But the truth is, it’s been a particularly shitty couple of weeks for our country. Between watching these fuckers in the Supreme Court overturn Roe, make it harder for the government to curb emissions and easier for people to carry concealed weapons, and also watching the January 6 hearings knowing that millions of brainwashed MAGA cult members won’t belive or care the last president fomented a coup based on a lie, one can’t help feeling a little, well, exhausted. Disheartened. Powerless.
So today, I just don’t wanna write about the shifting sands of time or boats being borne back ceaselessly into the past. I wanna write about Carob and SuzyQs.
Carob: I’m not even sure exactly what it is. Some kind of bean? Anyway, in the seventies, some sadistic ex-hippie / earth mother types started using it to make a waxy, bitter chocolate substitute and pushing it on unsuspecting white, suburban mothers. As a result, my mother started incorporating it into our family diet (even our EASTER BASKETS, for the love of God) along with wheat germ, homemade granola, and “fruit leather,” which I’m pretty sure was just baked applesauce. She grew her own alfalfa sprouts in jars, and I can only assume she made her own yogurt at some point. Meanwhile, for several years in the early eighties, my brother and I were only allowed to have sugar-free lollipops. These tasted like a lollipop crossed with a candle.
Now, flash forward ten years or so: I’m a teenager, and our kitchen is regularly stocked with Diet Rite, Gorton’s fish sticks, and Suzy Qs. (If you’re not familiar with them, they are the Hostess verison of a Devil Dog, but far superior on account of the softer cake part and the higher cream to cake ratio. One could also describe them as the Kardashian version of a whoopie pie.) We still ate fairly healthily overall. My mom cooked a well-balanced family dinner nearly every night. There was no white bread in the house, only wheat. But neither was there any wheat germ or carob.
I often wonder what happened between 1977 and 1987 that led to this change. Certainly, there were larger cultural forces at work. The earth mother / Our Bodies Ourselves / Free to Be You and Me culture yielded to microwaves, aerobics, and Smurfette. But I aso suspect that on some level my mom got to a point where she was like “eh, fuck it.” Pass the Suzy-Qs.
I can relate.
Except my shifts from healthy to unhealthy, earth mother to….space mother (?), environmentally responsible to unresponsible happen not on a decade to decade basis, but month to month or week to week. Sometimes even day to day.
Example: There was a period when I declared (to myself and those around me, including my husband, who rolled his eyes): WE SHALL EAT NOTHING BUT HUMANELY RAISED AND LOCALLY SOURCED MEAT! Because it’s better for the environment (if you’re going to eat meat) and nicer to the animals. And if it means spending more and going out of our way to find it, well, it’s a sacrifice worth making!
Flash forward a few months, and maybe our checking account is a little anemic, and I’m crazy busy, and I’m at Stop & Shop (where I am buying whole wheat bread and also Oreos) and I’m all “This time, I’ll just buy this store-brand ‘Nature’s Promise’ chicken, because the package has a leaf on it, and it’s more expensive than the regular kind, so that must mean it’s better for the environment, and the chickens, and my children’s insides, and come on, I can’t be perfect.”
And then, next thing you know I’m saying eh, fuck it. It’s probably exactly the same meat as that stuff over there on the yellow trays that’s on sale for $1.89 a pound. We have solar panels and one of our kids is a vegetarian, so it cancels it out.
Flash forward a few more months, and maybe I happen to have just gotten a big fat check from a client so I’m feeling flush with cash, and I just read something about pesticides ravaging us all from within, and I’m at our local farmer’s market slapping down $20 for two pounds of chicken from a farm in Western Mass., declaring NO, THIS TIME I MEAN IT! ONLY HUMANELY RAISED AND LOCALLY SOURCED MEAT!
Rinse, repeat.
(Speaking of rinsing and repeating: I once tried that shampoo that comes in bar form—no plastic packaging. It made my hair look like shit.)
Periodic oscillations aside, I suppose I have actually gotten gradualy more “eh, fuck it” as the kids have gotten older. Like, I used to buy the fancy, all-natural frozen waffles when the kids were little. At some point, I shifted to Nutri-grain Eggos. Now, I just grab the cheaper, ‘Homestyle’ ones and call it a day. The kids like them better, and I’m pretty confident that eating the non-whole-grain kind won’t subtract years from their lives. I mean, if they’re going to eat frozen waffles anyway, right? (But did I mention the wheat bread? It’s organic wheat bread. So I think that cancels out the waffles. And maybe the Pepperidge Farm cinnamon raisin swirl bread, too.)
I admire the commitment of the 100% natural and organic and healthy and sustainable people. I really do. But this is one area where I think I will forever be inconsistent.
I feel like I should make some larger point here now, as I often do at the end of my posts. Something about everything in moderation, or perfect being the enemy of good, or the importance of balance in one’s kitchen and one’s life, or something like that. I should probably also touch on inequality and food deserts and the connection between "virtuous” eating and wealth / privilege.
But…eh, fuck it.
You stopped thinking about Roe vs. Wade for five minutes, right?
You’re welcome.
May 11, 2022
Bracing for what's ahead
I am a master of the clickbait headline am I not?? Bwah ha ha. This is why I make the big bucks in advertising.
So, what’s this terrible thing looming on the horizon of my life? Other than jowls?
Before I get to that, let’s start with a really good thing that’s happening right now: I am really enjoying being a mom. Like, more than ever. Which is pretty unexpected—even shocking—given that my kiddos are 15.
Because who likes being a parent of teenagers, right? Teenagers are the worst! They’re selfish and rebellious and pimply and rude and sullen and stinky! They don’t want anything to do with you—until they need money or a ride somewhere! They call you a Boomer when you are GEN-X DAMMIT!
Except…not really, in the case of our resident teens. I mean, some of those things above are definitely true at least some of the time. (Seriously, do I look like a Boomer?) And it’s a damned good thing neither of them wears anything with lapels, because there are most certainly times when I really want to shake one or both of them by them.
But mostly…I gotta say. I like our kids! They’re funny, smart, curious, interesting people! They’re good conversationalists! And Lord knows they’re more rational than they were as little (if slightly less cute). And although they’re quite independent, they also seem to still enjoy being around me and Alastair, miraculously.
Frankly, they’re really quite lovely. (Having written this, I will now probably come home to one of them smoking a cigar whilst rifling through the liquor cabinet.)
NOW. This isn’t to say that there aren’t times when things are tough. We did go through an extremely rough stretch last summer with one of our kiddos, owing to some mental health and other struggles. There certainly may be more struggles and thornier issues to come.
But at the moment, anyway, I’m loving this phase. I did not expect to. But I do.
So it breaks my heart that in three short years, it’s going to be over. Both kiddos gone in one fell swoop, assuming they both start college in the fall of 2025.
That’s the thing. The thing I’m bracing myself for. (That and jowls.)
Look, I know they’ll always be my kids. And hopefully I’ll still see them plenty once they fly the coop. But the idea of not having them living full-time at home, being part of the fabric of day-to-day life...not hearing them tromping up and down the stairs…seeing their rooms empty, day after day…it’s like a punch in the stomach every time I think of it.
And I’ve been thinking of it a lot more since the kids started high school.
Meanwhile, when I lament all this to Alastair, he responds by saying absurd things like, “Yeah, it’ll be a little sad, but I also think it’s gonna be great!”
GREAT? Great HOW??
In talking to various female friends, it seems this is a common dichotomy: Moms dreading the empty nest and Dads looking forward to….I don’t know what. Spontaneous trips to the Bahamas? Sex every day in every room of the house? (Like that’s gonna happen…)
In my own, neatnik husband’s case, I actually think it’s the thought of fewer dishes, less laundry, and fewer shoes littering the front hall that’s most appealing. See, whereas I will miss the messy evidence of the kids’ presence. I will miss all of it.
I mean, yes, I will probably enjoy having more time for my writing, and will most likely do more hiking, too. I will probably enjoy the opportunity to spend more uninterrupted time with Alastair, and maybe more time with various friends and family. And maybe there will be spontaneous trips to the Bahamas. Or, you know, New Hampshire.
But if I could trade all that away for five, six, seven more years of the kids being at home, I think I would do it in a heartbeat. (Sorry, honey.)
It would be a very selfish trade, though. After all, a big part of our job as parents is to get our little birds ready to fly on their own and then, when they’re ready, let them.
But I think it’s going to be the hardest part of this whole parenting thing yet.
I’m trying not to think / worry about it too much. Trying to enjoy and live in the moment and all.
Plus, In my experience, there’s no way to minimize the sadness of endings by trying to brace yourself for them in advance. All you can do is let them come, feel the loss, and keep going.
Dammit.
