The Work

 Once again, I'm cracking open this musty old blog that died under Trunp. I had this plan to dust it off, exercise my brain in a fun way, and write about how my "not ready for Christmas music" was messing up my enjoyment of Christmas music, Instead...

Look, that verdict yesterday wasn't surprising - it wasn't just the judge's million pound thumb on the scale, it was the massive weight of American white supremacist authoritarianism and resentment. But it was still enraging. Because we keep talking about the wrong thing!

I'm tired of giving any air to that weepy, baby-faced fascist. I'm tired of the American media endlessly trying to humanize him - a person whose whole entire raison d'etre is inextricably tied up in the worship of authoritarianism, in denying the humanity of others. Suffice it to say, you don't walk into public spaces wearing one of those goddamn giant guns without hoping you'll get to use it - they are the most cowardly expression of "patriotism". 

Suffice it to say, I am no longer concerned with the feelings of those who value property over people.

But I know so much about that fucking strapped-up authoritarian asshole. And when I do a google on Anthony Huber, I can find out he had a daughter and he loved skateboarding, I guess. JoJo Rosenbaum had some mental health issues. Jacob Blake had a knife ... in the car, not on him. But I guess, still? Derek Chauvin is in jail, so George Floyd's murder is all taken care of, I guess? 

We have to stop bending to the narrative shifts that distract us. 

I don't think I'm being histrionic when I say we are teetering on the edge of fascism. This is not about squishy white guilt. This is not about getting a cookie for being woke (god, I hate that word). This is about how every white person in America knows (and likely loves) someone who embraces an increasingly violent, racist, authoritarian ethos and we stay polite about it. We all know how the Nazis happened now. We're living it. 

So this is my exhortation to the Whites - every single one of us needs to be keeping our own houses tidy. We have to call fascism by its name, reject Trumperism in all its formats. Show up at school board meetings, vote in every election, donate money where we can, and, most importantly, tell the people we love that we will not stand for white supremacy in our homes, no matter how inconvenient that is.

Maybe start here. Here's one neat trick. Tell the people you love that if they won't say it in front of a Black person, then they shouldn't say it in front of you. Because, white people, we all have to admit we've let things pass in the interest of keeping the peace, of avoiding the awkward. But we all need to stop being safe white spaces; we need to do whatever we can to urge the people we love to think about their own reactionary, unexamined racism. 

There's so much work to be done and it all needs to be done by white people, in white places; where we're not performing it for Black people. It's not about a baby-faced assassin with a permanent hard-on for the police. It's about all the ways we abet a slide into fascism by allowing its white supremacist roots simply to go unremarked on.

The Time I Got Blocked by Tom & Lorenzo

Sometimes I think about how many Americans have died from this virus. Sometimes I think about how this vaccine rollout has been corrupted and mishandled so much that it feels like an anecdote you'd hear from a Soviet defector in the 80s. Sometimes I think about how the most venal and craven GOP senators and representatives spent years leveraging lies and wackadoo conspiracy theories in service to their naked power grab and now those crazy conspiracists are holding actual elected office as well as the future of representative democracy in their nutty, nutty hands.

And then that all starts to feel too overwhelming and so instead I focus on something I can handle: how I got blocked on Twitter by noted fashion bloggers, Tom & Lorenzo. Please note, this is an extremely stupid thing to worry about.  

Way back in 2004, I came home from drinks with work folks and my husband told me about this really cool show he watched where a guy made a dress from cornhusks. It was this famous dress, by Austin Scarlett, from the 1st season of Project Runway:

We were hooked and became big Project Runway fans. This was back in the days when blogs were everywhere. I miss those days. Everyone was doing recaps and reviews and Television Without Pity was around. If you liked a TV show, you could find ample places to talk about it with other people, get insight, get questions answered etc. 

At that time, Maureen Ryan, who is great, was doing TV critique for The Chicago Tribune and covered Project Runway. In one article, she mentioned the invaluable insight of a blog called Project Rungay.

I hopped over to their site and have been hanging out there since. In the ensuing years, the blog migrated from Project Rungay to Tom & Lorenzo, and the scope expanded well beyond Project Runway. I have been a fan for all those years. I think they're smart and funny, and have great insight into fashion and television and pop culture at large. I love it when they're recapping a show I watch. 

And then, last spring or early summer, I responded to them on Twitter while I was in line at Home Depot. The exchange we had was fairly anodyne, I thought. They said something about not going to restaurants. I replied something about how it was OK if you stayed masked up. They said "lol no." I was frustrated by that response (actually, I was frustrated by Covid 19 and having a husband who had to go to work at restaurants) and so complained about the glibness of that response on my own Twitter, without tagging or referencing them. And then it was my turn to check out.

One day, a couple of days later, someone linked to one of their tweets, and I clicked on it, and saw this:

I was... crushed. 

Lookit. I know that neither Tom nor Lorenzo have the foggiest who I am. I know that this isn't personal. These guys, and I cannot stress this enough, have no idea who I am. I further understand, elementally, being annoyed by someone on the internet. But I am Gen X enough to have really enjoyed being their cool, in-the-know fan. The one to say: "Oh! Tom and Lorenzo? I've been reading them since the Project Rungay days." Someone who always knew they were good - and not some johnny-come-lately poser who only found them during the Mad Men costume posts (those are great, by the way. If you do a Mad Men rewatch, I'd suggest visiting those posts).

Instead, I'm just the the dumb fan they found too tiresome to deal with. 

I have a sensitive internet ego. I really couldn't handle that many people being to talk directly at me with their opinions. I get how overwhelming and annoying that must be. I understand it all. Still, my dumb feelings are hurt.

Which makes me feel even MORE like a dumb, tiresome fan. 

It's such a stupid thing to waste any mental headspace on. But, and this is important, it's a helluva lot easier to focus on than the larger state of the world. Maybe it's like picking at a hangnail to distract myself from a cancer diagnosis, or the increasingly loud rumbles of fascistic white nationalism. 

Regardless, I would have enjoyed their tweets about Bridgerton. 

Hi, It's Me Again

Look, I know it's been a million years and it's not like folks have exactly been clamoring for the return of this dumb blog (or, really, any blog). But I have got to stop talking to myself in the car, even if mobile devices provide plausible deniability that someone else is actually listening to me rant. They do, right? Or is there a TikTok out there called "Crazy white lady speechifying to no one in her Passat?"

I've been listening to the Slate Slow Burn podcast about the Clinton impeachment. At one point, one of the players in the whole gross thing talked about how she supported it since Bill Clinton was disrespecting the same office that Ronald Reagan wouldn't even enter unless he was wearing a jacket.

That was how literary agent Lucianne Goldberg justifies telling Linda Tripp that she was making a good and moral choice to secretly tape her conversations with Monica Lewinsky. I mean, this is rationalization as an art form!

Also: Do you think Goldberg imagines respectful Reagan in his jacket, ignoring the tens of thousands of gay American men dying of AIDS under his watch? How about when he was fine tuning his toxic, racist "welfare queen" myth? Maybe as he was engineering the "trickle down" economic policies that are why we're all gonna have to work until we drop (basically so Jeff Bezos can have $182 billion instead of only $80 billion, like a common dock worker or something!)

The way that so many on the American right perform respectfulness while supporting policy that does deep, sustained damage to real American citizens. I hate it.

It is not all I hate.

In service to my plan to really lean into grumpy middle-aged lady, oh my god, I hate those two damn Aaron Sorkin clips from West Wing and The Newsroom that lefties have been sharing on Al Gore's internet since the day he bestowed it upon us. It's not just that the image of middle-aged men wagging their fingers and hollering at young women irritates me on a molecular level... although it really really does. And it's not my endless frustration with Sorkin's undying conviction that we can only be led from the desert by a good-talking white man. What gets me the most is the sheer number of people who seem to believe it. People who believe that when confronted with their hypocrisy and venality by passionate, honest, and, most importantly, real good-talking white men, the bad guys will be moved to change. They'll stand up like the religiloon Bartlett yelled at. They'll be chagrined like the girl that Jeff Daniels broadly insulted using incredibly sexist language... I'm sorry, I meant to say "the young woman to whom Jeff Daniels told the truth about America."

Y'all. If the ghost of Joseph Welch, bedecked in chains all Jacob Marley style, showed up at his bedside and said "at long last, have you no dignity," Mitch McConnell would sigh, say "it's adorable you think I give a hoot about dignity," tuck his head back into his shell and carry on with whatever evil fucking plan he has to wrest democracy away from American citizens and into the hands of his fellow soulless rapacious American money goblins.

Lookit, I am a big fan of good talking. I love a soaring speech. I'm a pacifist and a coward, but I think that "once more unto the breach" thing would have had me reaching for the nearest broadsword. A good speech inspires people to action, makes them feel less alone in the world, less crazy in their awareness of how scary things are. I come not to bury Sorkin, but to praise him (untrue - I am not a fan, but even he would allow me a wee rhetorical flourish). I love a good speech. But they will move not a single Trump fan and it is dangerously naive to think they will. 

Lucianne Goldberg, and all those obscenely wealthy Republican power brokers are far too comfortable worshipping at the wholly fictional altar of Ronald Reagan and "respect" and "dignity" to be made uncomfortable.  Republican senators have been inoculated against shame. The regular folks who have leaned into Trumpism cannot be pried away from the "fake news" defense. Good speechifying, as much as I love it, will not bring folks who've made a virtue of naked power grabbing into the liberal fold. They're a lost cause.

America is not. I don't believe that we are a lost cause. But we're gonna have to drag those motherfuckers along to progress as they dig in and resist at every turn. We're gonna have to prise their wallets out of a vise grip to make 'em pay their taxes. We cannot talk them into caring.

Also, FWIW, you're probably not actually going to bring a 20 year old into the fold by calling her "sorority girl" and talking about her "accidentally walking into a voting booth." God, I hate that clip.

Next time I come back I'll be less grumpy. Maybe.  

A Quick Story

Many years ago, I went into work and a guy I worked with asked me, "Is your hair a different color today?"

"I don't think so," I said.  "I used the same stuff I normally do."

But before I got to the end of the sentence, he and the other guy were already doing that laughing, pointing "gotcha" thing.

I think about that a lot. You may have no fucking idea how much work it is to overcome default mistrust; to walk around in a body that makes half the world (shit, more than half: internalized misogyny is a thing) assume you're a liar.

The most pernicious, insidious, everlasting misogyny is the deep, uninterrogated conviction that women lie and cannot be trusted. It rots away everywhere and feels likely to get us another four years of Trump.

...just in case you were wondering why Elizabeth Warren isn't running away with this thing.

The Lazy Bliss of Subscription Services

Here is a brief list of the items to which I subscribe:

• Billie Razors (every 3 months)
• Quip toothbrush (every 3 months)
• L'Oreal Medium Rose Blonde hair dye (every 6 weeks)
• L'Oreal Age Perfect Day Cream (monthly)
• L'Oreal Revitalift Night Cream (monthly)
• Lubriderm Daily Moisturizer Body Lotion (monthly)*
• Bert's Bees Makeup Removing Face Wipes (monthly)
• St. Ives Radiant Skin Body Wash, 6  bottles (bimonthly)
• Listerine Ultraclean Oral Care Antiseptic Mouthwash (bimonthly)
• ArtNaturals Organic Moroccan Argan Oil Shampoo and Conditioner Set (bimonthly)
• Lady Speed Stick Antiperspirant Deoderant, pack of six (every 4 months)

Oh, my friends, there is something so soothing about never running out of deodorant - never having that moment where you blindly pop the top off, being to apply and suffer the plastic scraping up your tender underarm. You don't have to make a CVS run today. You never have to make a CVS run again. Amazon is there for you, friends. I'm Doctor Faustus, Bezos is Mephistopheles and my sweatless, scentless armpits are my 24 years.

The following is a true story: 18 years ago I saw a pretty good production of Mother Courage and have, in the intervening years, frequently pondered how I would get my upper lip de-moustachioed once the wars come.

Intellectually, I know Mother Courage didn't give a shit about the state of her upper lip. But... still...

I'm not all that particularly well-groomed. I work from home and so most days, I don't bother with makeup and keep my hair in a ponytail or bun. But the basic maintenance stuff - the care and keeping of me? How will I manage once the apocalypse comes?

I think about very important things!

In these dark, parlous times, there's just something comforting about having these products all lined up in a row in my tiny little upstairs hall closet. Sometimes I just stand in front of it and look at the St. Ives and the Lady Speed Stick all lined up next to each other and feel so relaxed.

I think I need to add floss to my Amazon Subscribe and Save. Oh! And tampons!

These are magical times we live in. Not sure what kind of magic... but magical nonetheless.

* This is a lot of moisturizer. I know. I cannot abide dry skin. I know there are people who get out of the shower, towel off and then just get dressed and I do not understand what even is your life. Lotion  is wonderful! Get some!

Deep Sighs and Eye Rolls in Toronto's Pearson

Backstory: two days of meetings with reluctant Canadians. Readers, your beloved American corporate traveling blogger is pooped to the poop.

I am in Toronto Pearson. I arrived four hours before my flight was to take off. I was second on the standby list for the earlier flight. The AA gate lady said "You just have to wait." So I waited with two other weary, hopeful would-be stand by flyers. The AA gate lady kept taking calls and discussing the dire situation of some guaranteed flyers with a delayed connection. She kept repeating: "I don't think they're going to make it." Hope reared up in the chests of three weary travelers.

Right before the door closed, one of the three of us waiting got standby. She told the other two of us "Sorry. It's full now."

Oh my god, AA Lady! What sick games are you playing?! There was only ever one seat remaining? Your "they're" on the calls referenced one person not a few, And I don't think you were being respectful of a gender non-binary passenger. I think you were fucking with us! Evil woman!

You held our dreams of an early arrival in the palm of your hand and you toyed with us!

Respect.

So I wandered through Duty-Free. Here's the thing about brief work trips to Canada. You get all the little inconveniences of being in another country (your money don't work, your cell phone don't work), but it doesn't feel any different than any other Anywheresville, (North) America. Sure, there's an occasional "aboat." But mostly, we're cut from the same cloth.

This is probably deeply offensive to Canadians. I would apologize only I didn't make the earlier flight and am not feeling inclined to regional sensitivity.

So I wondered through Duty-Free where I learned that my math skills are not equal to the task of combatting sticker-shock at Canadian prices. You want SEVENTY dollars for that?! I know it's only *clicks tab to google currency converter* $51 in my money, but it sounds like SEVENTY DOLLARS!

So then I wandered to a bar (shocking) where I learned that at Toronto's Pearson the only bourbon you can get is Knob Creek (YOU WANT $24 for one double bourbon!!).  Which was better than in the terrible Hilton Garden Inn in Vaughan, OT, where they only had Maker's Mark and did not even have the good manners to feel bad about that. Maker's Mark is terrible fucking bourbon and if you drink it you should feel bad about yourself. I said it. Fight me. Go to the island of people who buy overpriced bad booze and hang out with a bunch of senselessly smug Grey Goose drinkers.

So I sat at this bar and ordered a Knob Creek (double. Don't judge me. I DIDN'T GET ON THE EARLIER FLIGHT!) and a glass of ice water. The 60-something lady bartender returned with the bourbon but not the iced water and I said "Can I get that iced water?" And she engaged in the world's most inadvertent deep sigh and eyeroll and said "I know. I'm just getting it."

Did I get my dander up?! You bet I did! I (silently... never piss off the bartender) got my dander up and engaged in an internal diatribe railing against that inadvertent deep sigh and eyeroll.

Dander determinedly still up, I decided that since I had all this time to kill, I should probably do some work*. I opened my laptop, logged onto a VPN and then an RDP session at which point a Windows OS had the rank AUDACITY to ask me for a password.

Obviously, I let loose a deep sigh and an inadvertent eyeroll.

And now I feel a deep kinship with this bartender.

The world is fucking exhausting and people (and operating systems) are always requiring us to be polite in the face of dumb things and we really all just deserve to sit on comfortable couches and watch endless reruns of Schitt's Creek while drinking lovely cocktails and, I don't know, probably snuggling a cat or a cute little dog or something and instead we just have to keep smiling through all this nonsense!

I really thought I'd slide into the second half of my life as a lady who offered wisdom and kindness.  I pictured myself a disseminator of pearls of wisdom, hugs and auntuncular (THERE IS NO FEMALE EQUIVALENT TO AVUNCULAR GODDAMMIT PATRIARCHY!) enthusiasm. I may still be that lady.

But I cannot stop myself from the deep sighs and the eyerolls. I have earned them.

Also, Woodford Reserve which should be available at every airport bar in North America!

Goddammit, Toronto's Pearson!

*I did not do any work. Instead I wrote in this dumb blog. It's way more fun.

David Byrne Thinks I'm Doing Fine, right?

I have a pretty good job. I work from home which means the days when I wear a bra are outnumbered by the days when I do not, which is amazing. Also, I like most of the people I work with; they're nice and funny and smart and come up with clever and interesting ways to do get the work done and to keep the ship moving. It's nice.

But it's still corporate America. It's still all that shit. It's still emails and calls with people who think that sounding less human makes you sound more professional; it's still the bleak, nagging, constant awareness that the men (always men) a few professional tiers above me are barely aware I exist beyond whatever potential I have to increase or decrease a bottom line.

And so, no matter how much fun I have with my colleagues, no matter what little successes I enjoy, on the daily, I'll find myself poring over a string of text in a log file or entering my 90th minute on a conference call and suddenly...

I like to think there are people out there enjoying professional lives in which they, also on the daily, stop and think "Yes. This. This is exactly what I'm meant to be doing." But I also know that even if you have the most fabulous career... even if you're an alpaca farmer or a dolphin trainer or an astronaut... you still have moments like:

And I think that's just life. Or maybe it's the middle of life? There was a time when I got a huge gas out of business cards and meetings and feeling like a grown-up. That was fun. But then, at some point, I can't help feeling like a banal cog in a boring wheel and I'm sure I'd be a huge disappointment to the kid you used to be.

Sigh. That's probably not true. I have a nice life. I have a great family and a good salary; I'm healthy and fairly strong and, this really cannot be overstated, often go DAYS without having to put a bra on. Still, I'm curious, how do you handle the existential dread? The feeing you missed that left turn at Albuquerque? Right now I'm watching Stop Making Sense with my daughter and a glass of pretty decent red wine. It's working. It's mostly working.

God David Byrne was such a fabulous weirdo.