World Whale Day

This national recognition day began in Hawaii to celebrate humpback whales.

I have been whale-watching three times in my life. I have never seen much more than a tail. Don’t get me wrong, that was impressive enough, but all those social media videos of full breaches or the whales swimming alongside the boat? Yeah, that won’t happen if I’m on your cruise. It might not even happen if we are at Sea World at the same time. (Do people still go to Sea World or has that outfit been canceled into nonexistence?)

The first time I went, it was on a boat out of Long Beach. I went with my friend Sharidan and was ridiculously queasy the whole time, but had a lot of fun anyway. That was due in large part to our docent, a delightful self-described old broad named Marjie who was a good friend for a few years when I lived in California. She was retired and intent on spending as much as she could of her children’s inheritance. She loved all kinds of rocks, and she had amazing collections of both geodes and jewelry. She invited me to a blowout birthday celebration—her 60th, maybe? Or 65th?—and she told me, “I’ve spent my life being good. I was a good daughter, a good wife, and I raised my kids right. So what’s left? I love my grandkids, but now I think I want to do all those things people kept saying I wasn’t supposed to.” Then she asked me if I could get her some cocaine or heroin. (She stayed my friend when I told her I could not.) We fell out of touch when I moved to Florida. I wonder if she’s still alive.

The second time I went was on a family vacation to Hawaii when the kid was 6 or so. I think the kid was OK with not seeing much whale action because he was allowed to steer the boat for a few glorious minutes. He had so many happy moments doing things like that, I am occasionally surprised he is not a tour captain somewhere. Of course, the day ain’t over—he might do that yet.

The third time we went was in Alaska, the summer after we went to Hawaii. That was a fun cruise because whales were, like, third on the list of what to expect, and the guaranteed attractions—glaciers and puffins— were super hard to miss. We also got to see a bunch of otters frolicking, which might actually have been more fun than whales anyway.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to see a whale someday, though. It’ll be hard to do living in a landlocked state—I suppose I’ll just have stock up on Dramamine and get back out west someday.

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Susan B. Anthony’s Birthday

For a long time, growing up, I was under the impression that Susan B. Anthony was the founder of Sue Bee honey, and I found that a much more important day-to-day contribution to society.

I know better now, of course. Sue Bee is a misspelling of Sioux, for Sioux City, Iowa.

Oh, you thought I was going to talk about anti-slavery, or women’s suffrage? Ha! OK, let’s do that.

Here are some things about Suzie B that you might not have known:

  • She was homeschooled because her dad said the local schools sucked.
  • She flirted with spiritualism.
  • She hopped into politics because she hated booze, not because she wanted to vote.
  • She was pals with Frederick Douglass until a falling-out over the Fifteenth Amendment. (Douglass went on to be the running mate of the first woman to run for president, Victoria Woodhull. I go into her story in the book I wrote lo those many years ago—the link is on the right.)
  • She was the first non-allegorical woman on a U.S. coin. They aren’t minted anymore, presumably because they were too dang easy to confuse for quarters.
  • One of her catch phrases was “failure is impossible.” I find “failure is not an option” a tad more catchy, but that’s me.
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Book Giving Day

I don’t have much to say today. I’ve been a reader since I was three and my mom got tired of reading to me, so she taught me to do it myself. I love reading so much I went into it as a profession. I love meeting who people who read and asking what their favorite book is. (My go-to answer used to be The Great Gatsby. It is just so perfectly written; every word counts. But as I reread it over the years, I hate all those characters more and more each time, so I’m not sure it’s true anymore.) When they say that question is too hard to answer, I sympathize and ask what they’re reading RIGHT NOW. (I’m almost always reading stuff for work, but my current funsies book is A Knight of Another Sort: Prohibition Days and Charlie Birger by Gary DeNeal.)

So, in honor of book giving day, if you leave a comment telling me what you’re reading, I’ll send you a “You might also like” as determined by my non-encyclopedic brain.

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Apology Day

I recently recommended the TV show Lucifer to my mom, and she loved it. So when she was done, I binged it too. (And you should give it a go, if you are as behind the times as I am and haven’t seen it.)

In this show, the construct of hell is that you live your guiltiest moment over and over on an endless loop. At one point, Lucifer says that the silliest thing about it is that it’s entirely voluntary; if anyone ever decided to walk out at any time, they could do it. But nobody ever does.

To me, this sounds horrible. It’s a brilliant idea of hell, and if it’s real I will absolutely end up there and I will probably never escape. My mom, on the other hand, thought it was a wonderful idea, that you could work through your guilt with the prospect of moving on. We then talked about what our moments would be.

Mine would be when I had a temper tantrum at 6 and left a gate open, which resulted in our dog escaping and getting hit by a car. My mom had to bury the dog, and my great-grandfather had to teach her how to use a pick to get through the concrete-hard late-summer dirt. When I shared this with her, my mom very sweetly pointed out that I learned from this and to think of all the dogs that haven’t died since because I never leave a gate open.

I don’t think that matters, really; I reckon that is still my guilt loop. One of the nice things about going through life in a generally oblivious state is that although I’m pretty sure I have upset and offended people to greater and lesser degrees, I am generally not aware of it unless they bring it up. And I’d like to add here—there are nice ways to do that, and not so nice ones. I’ve been subjected to both, and I’m always grateful to the folks who assume good faith on my part. I’m almost never out to pick a fight. You can tell when I am. Coming at me like I’m an ogre when I was just cluelessly bumbling along trying to get shit done is likely to get you an apology, but it’s likely to resemble one delivered by a narcissistic character in the fantastic Whit Stillman movie The Last Days of Disco: “Anything I did that was wrong, I apologize for. But anything I did that was not wrong, I don’t apologize for.” Furthermore, although I will apologize, I will also likely put some distance between us since I clearly have no idea what will set you off and would just as soon not go through all that again, thanks.

But today is apology day. So.

I apologize to my Japanese friend in preschool who wanted to be blonde and made me laugh when she put on a Shirley Temple wig made of gold sequins.

I apologize to the girls in my grade school for being the smart one and not hiding it while also not helping them along as much as I could have.

I apologize to the boys in junior high that I blew off because they laughed funny, looked funny, smelled funny, or weren’t funny. I could have told you what was up, and I’m sorry I didn’t.

I apologize to my first boyfriend for not picking up more of the bills. I was ancient before I realized how much you probably spent on me.

I apologize to all those girls I knew in college and fell out of touch with. I’m glad Facebook exists and some of us have reconnected. I’m also sorry to my college roommate that I fell out with. (But I actually did try to apologize to her years ago and got no answer. So I kinda think that’s on her now.)

I apologize to all the old-timers I worked with and didn’t take their lessons to heart. I loved to hear their stories, but I didn’t really appreciate the perspectives or intended messages until much later.

I apologize to all those people I mentioned above that I inadvertently and unwittingly insulted who never pointed it out.

I apologize to my kid for not figuring out how to deal with his brain issues until his brain was pretty fried trying to get me to understand him.

And finally, I apologize to my husband for all the sound and fury, past, present, and future. Thank you for knowing it signifies nothing.

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Hug Day

Today is National Hug Day. Props to folks who like hugging.

I am not a hugger. With the exception of my grandmother, I come from a long line of non-huggers. My grandfather would pat your head if you hugged him. My mother would back up if you approached and stick out her hand. My uncle—who to my childhood image was about 9 feet tall— would crane his neck and stare at the sky when I would pelt at him with my arms out.

That’s not to say we are completely no-touch. Family hugs are generally exempt. Nor are we all rude and stand-offish to non-family. We tolerate hugs; we just don’t do them. As my uncle put it, COVID was probably one of the best things that could have happened to us in terms of socially acceptable greetings. We are all far more amenable to an elbow bump.

I’m not quite as bad, I don’t think. I don’t mind being hugged. But it literally never occurs to me to hug someone else. I’m always on the responding side. And if someone doesn’t hug me, I don’t wonder if they’re waiting for me to initiate it. I don’t wonder at all. I just wave and go blithely on my way—for all I know, leaving a trail of wounded huggers in my wake.

I just asked my husband if he would consider himself a hugger. “Only of you,” he said. My son: “Nope, not a hugger.” So I guess the pattern continues—although up until he was about 11 and got too horrified by it, I would have smooshed that kid all the livelong day if he would have sat still for it. Maybe that’s what turned him off from them.

I do have an exception, and it’s probably the same one most non-huggers would cite: Any dog gets big squeezes. Most cats get smooshes. I’d probably hug otters and bears and wolves and lions given a chance, and then I would die or be maimed.

How about you? If you’re a hugger, what’s the appeal?

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Grandmother Achievement Day

I am not a grandmother. At this point, my kid informs me I’m unlikely to ever become one. (That’s OK. That’s exactly what I told my mom at his age.) But I was lucky enough to be born to young parents and thus get a lot of exposure to both my grandmothers.

My dad’s mom—my grandmother—was bonkers, and not in a good way. She alienated my parents early on but did not cut ties entirely. She never offered to visit us, and she found excuses to avoid us when we offered to go see her. My mother even tried to work it so that it would be just me to go visit, thinking maybe my grandmother would like to see me without my mean and disappointing parents. No dice. (My favorite excuse over the years was, “Can’t meet up for dinner, sorry; we have squirrels in the attic.” Which is why at 14 “squirrels in the attic” became my new phrase for “batshit crazy,” and why I was delighted at 17 on my first viewing of The Wall to learn that “toys in the attic” was an ACTUAL euphemism dating back to the 1960s.) Back in the days when long-distance was expensive and inconvenient, we talked on the phone on birthdays and holidays, and she was always quite excited to tell me what “the little neighbor boy” was up to. It rankled. She also had a big streak of A Christmas Story’s Aunt Clara in her: While I was, indeed, a girl, I was not perpetually four, and my love of pink did not extend to creepy clown dolls and terrifying teddy bears.

My mom’s mom, on the other hand—she was Grandma. And she was literally everything you could want. She was loving, she was accepting, she was funny. Even better, she thought I was funny, and when she would visit she was always up for whatever adventure I had in mind. She showed up to help with birthday parties; she gave me the best Barbie swag for Christmas. She rode roller coasters with me at Disneyland and Disney World. Unlike my mom, she loved shopping, and she would take me to the good stores, not just JC Penney and Kmart. She loaned me the car in college, even after a terrible trip to San Francisco that resulted in a flooded back seat and a big dent (neither of which was really my fault, but they happened on my watch, so I felt awful).

I was embarrassingly old before I figured out that she was also her own person, and that she had her own things going on when I was not around (which was, like, 50 weeks out of the year). She went to church. She belonged to groups. She helped with events and dinners and I don’t know what all—things that were completely foreign to me, as my family did not go to church and I am pretty sure my mother’s first instinct was always to hide if anyone rang the doorbell. She had opinions. I’d always known that she had advice and experience, but her opinions were generally something she kept to herself, and my grandfather was always the one to tell you what he thought (and thus, what you should think) while she would keep her own counsel and just keep drying dishes while he talked. I think I was 25 before I ever caught her making a face about someone’s behavior and even then she winked and me and put her finger to her lips. I about died.

One of the best things my grandma ever did was make me feel better about my grandmother. I was grousing about whatever slight that woman had committed most recently and said I just didn’t see why she was like that. My grandma cocked her head and said, “I have no idea why she is so unhappy. But I feel sorry for her. She is missing out on SO MUCH fun with you. It’s her loss.”

Can I tell you, those four sentences upended my entire world view. The idea that I wasn’t an actual target and just an unlucky relative of a miserable human being was mind-blowing. And on my better days, it really has affected how I react when people lash out. (But I’m not my grandmother, because I definitely have my off days, too.)

It’s probably clear by now that my grandma’s greatest accomplishment was not one of those Mighty Girl things people like to read about. She had her incredible traits, for sure: She could shoot free-throws for hours without missing. She put up with my grandfather, which was no small feat. She drove back and forth across the country well into her 70s. But her greatest accomplishment was her ability to engage with other people. For a long time I thought it was just me—and I still like to think that what she and I had was a little different from everyone else. My grandfather came home from work one Friday while I was at their house doing laundry on a college break, and he walked into the kitchen and went, “Good lord, it’s just you two? It sounded like a whole sorority in here.” So, yes, we had a lot of fun, but she was just the kind of person who could bring that out. My grandfather always said that “she never met a boring person, which I never understood because everyone I met was boring, and they were all the same people.”

I hope I picked up some of that from her. I try to embody that. I hated being a reporter, as I said in my last post, but I don’t hate people in general, and I like it when I can find some common ground with someone new. I try to honor her accomplishments, and I hope I live up to them.

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All the News That’s Fit to Print Day

So, this one is a day late, but better late than never. (And no, the irony that I missed a deadline on a post about journalism is not lost on me!)

I studied journalism in college. I thought I was going to be a globe-hopping reporter until I realized I hated talking to people. Then I found out that I could get paid to read what those globe-hoppers wrote and clean up their typos and sentence fragments. It was as close to a dream job as I could imagine—instead of paying for a newspaper subscription, I would get paid to do something I was already doing anyway.

I worked for six newspapers in six years, five in California, one in Florida. Then I moved to Virginia and worked very briefly for a niche magazine focused on HBCUs, and then I moved over to work at a company that covered Congress via a weekly magazine, daily newspaper, and eventually 24-7 website. The industry changed a lot behind the scenes while I was paying attention, and I could see it wasn’t going anywhere good, so I bailed. It has changed a lot more since then, and it gives me no pleasure to say that I am not surprised with how things have deteriorated.

However, my view of what has changed is probably not what you consider bad journalism. People go on and on these days about how they miss “unbiased news.” I am here to tell you that your news was never completely unbiased. Choices are made all the time, and it is literally impossible to make that many choices without introducing some kind of bias. What news story will you deploy your team to cover (and what story will you ignore in the trade-off)? Who will reporters talk to (and who will go unnoticed)? What will the headline writer focus on? What kind of language gets used to impart the information?

People talk about how Fox and CNN are awful because they are biased garbage. But here’s the thing: You know where you stand with them. Newspapers aren’t the heavy hitters they used to be, but they’re not blameless in these shifts. Anyone who thinks that “Democracy dies in darkness” isn’t expressing a bias is kidding themselves. I haven’t been in a newsroom in decades, but I would be very surprised to find that the average metro newsroom now has a majority staff—or even a 50% staff—of MAGA supporters, or Mormons, or anti-abortion activists.

Plus, all this bias business is not without precedent. Back in the 1800s, virtually all newspapers had a slant. There was also generally more than one rag per town, so—sort of like Fox and CNN now—news consumers could pick their poison. I don’t think it gets more honest than that.

The problem with news today, as far as I can see it, is a decline in intellectual curiosity and suspicion. A reporter asks a mayor, “What is the plan for gentrification?” The mayor answers, ”Gentrification is terrible, we do not want to displace anyone.” The reporter relays what the mayor says to the news-consuming public. That’s all well and good up to a point, but it seems like these days that point is the end point, and it shouldn’t be. It’s rare that anyone bothers to ask a follow-up question “OK, so what is the plan for dealing with the cruddy neighborhood that’s there now, and what about the resulting lousy economy?” I don’t see a lot of coverage along the lines of “we talked to the people who own those buildings, and here’s why they aren’t cleaning up the slum.” Some reporters might go talk to the folks who want to gentrify, and that might yield one “we are very disappointed” quote in the story that might or might not make it to the public eye. Some reporters will almost certainly talk the folks at risk of being displaced, and that story is far more likely to reach news consumers. But there is next to no squinty-eyed questioning of “who’s benefitting from this? Who has the power? What is the real story behind why this is happening or not happening?”

There are a lot of places to throw blame for this. I am not sure if journalism schools still teach critical thinking, but the college kids I encounter make me think these schools—all schools, really—might need to throw some extra effort that direction. But even if kids do come out of school able to sniff out a full story, shrinking reporting staffs can’t cover as much news. Shrinking editorial staff can’t review coverage with a critical eye. There’s always pressure to cover what “experts” think consumers “want” (and—she said cynically—there’s probably more pressure now to use language that consumers want used; for example, “spending cuts” rather than “smaller increases in spending than was originally requested”). The current news cycle doesn’t really allow for reflection or follow-up. A story goes out, it hits social media, and then the story becomes the story and the folks reposting get spun up and shouty and those people get other people spun up and shouty without actually doing any research.

I don’t know how we get away from that. The easy answer is that the news consuming public should demand better information, but the hard part is that most of them aren’t willing to pay what it would cost to provide. Once upon a time, paid and classified ads generated most of the revenue to provide this service in print and online, but online marketplaces wiped that out to a large degree. Subscription fees help, but it’s not much. When someone finds a way to make a ton of money from investigative journalism, it will come back. Until then, I guess the answer is for the news-consuming public to be a little more dubious. Pick your battles, do your research. Read the source texts for legislation and court rulings; find out what the bureaucratese means in English. Maybe make sure you know what you’re shouting about before you add to the noise.

I imagine a lot of my J friends (and ex-J friends … and probably J ex-friends, but I assume they aren’t reading this), have a lot of thoughts and feelings on this, so what do you guys say? Do things need fixing? How do we fix them?

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Pizza Day

For all its nearly universal appeal, pizza is a matter of rather personal taste, I have found.

For most of my childhood, pizza came one of two ways: sausage and cheese for my mom or laden with all kinds of unbecoming garden-y things (mushrooms, peppers, onions) for my dad.

I literally had no idea there were other options until I went to a slumber party in third or fourth grade and was introduced to pepperoni. Life-changing. Even my mom got on board. (She’s now an extreme meat lover gal.)

I ate a fair amount of pizza in college, when you are traditionally supposed to, but it required a fair bit of effort compared with hopping down a flight of stairs to the snack bar on the first floor of my dorm and scarfing down an order mini tacos. But in college I discovered there were options: thin crust, thick crust, deep dish. California Pizza Kitchen was very trendy in southern California then, and I went. I wasn’t impressed. Apparently I’m a traditionalist. New York style, regular crust, a lot of sauce, please.

Then I worked in newsrooms, and pizza took on a new meaning: busy shifts and late deadlines. Usually this happened on election nights, when reporters and city editors were still hanging around and when the copy desk was too busy for folks to take 20 minutes for meals. It was like locusts, man. Twenty, thirty boxes of various kinds would arrive and five minutes later there might be a couple sad pieces left. (Oddly, this was the only time I ever had anything resembling germophobia. All those different grubby hands hovering over those still attached doughy slices and pulling it all apart grossed me out. I liked “free” food as much as the next person and if I was among the first to show up at the table it was fine, but eventually I decided it was just easier to skip the fray and feed myself. I would bring a microwavable Mama Celeste Pizza for One, which barely qualifies as pizza but was close enough.)

My husband, who also hails from newsrooms, had a different objection. He is a pizza purist, and will only eat (1) cheese pizza and (2) “good” pizza, which pretty much lets out Dominos and Little Caesars and the low-price fare delivered to the masses in our workplaces.

The habit persisted, though. We still make it a point to have pizza for dinner on Election Day.

When my kid was in grade school, we developed a different habit and Friday nights were traditionally celebrated with pizza and a movie. We ate a LOT of pizza in those years, most of it picked up on the way home from work.

When we moved to Illinois, we encountered what is apparently referred to as “St. Louis pizza,” which is a very thin crust, almost like a saltine, and cut into squares rather than wedges. My son was horrified by this “abomination” and was happy to get back to school in Florida where they “do it right.” My husband and I are still searching for the best offering near us. So far, the one we like most is an hour away. Our too-lazy-to-move fallback is to order from Casey’s, which has surprisingly good food across the board for a gas station chain.

So for all of you pizza-ing today as part of your home game, where do you order from? What’s your preferred style or topping set?

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Opera Day

Pretty Woman? Moonstruck? Aria!

I was not an opera fan in my younger days. My perception was that it attracted snobs who pretended to like it while knowing nothing about it, and I wanted nothing to do with that. I also thought you had to be pretty well off to attend, which I assuredly was not.

Then my not-yet-husband took me to New York for my birthday one year. He proposed to me on top of the Empire State Building, he booked us a room at the Algonquin, and he took me to Madame Butterfly. It was probably the best birthday of my life, and that’s including the year my parents gave me a Mazda RX-7 in place of the ’66 Cadillac that had been “my” car. (Then I went to college and poor little Mazzy got run over by a monster truck whe my mom was taking it to get the brakes fixed.)

I knew in advance I was being taken to the opera, so I asked an opera-loving friend what I was in for. “I love it,” she said. “You’ll love it. It’s like the pro wrestling of live theater. Over-the-top performances and costumes, and lots of drama.” This was an odd way to sell me since I wasn’t a big wrestling fan (and I’m still not—some things DON’T change), but I was intrigued.

And then I went and was hooked. Opera is awesome. Opera at the Met is doubly so, because they have little screens in front of your chair that translate the lyrics so you can follow the plot. We made it a tradition and went to the opera on my birthday for a few years after that. A lot of Puccini. A little Verdi. Some Mozart. No Wagner, because the hubs won’t toss his money to antisemites even if they’ve been dead for more than a century.

The only down side was that even in March, New York can still be pretty nippy, and running around and failing to hail a cab in those pre-Uber days was no fun. Then we had a kid and went to one opera closer to home in DC, and then we pretty much traded in opera for trips south to spring training games.

But hey. The kid is gone. We live where it’s cold. Maybe it’s time for us to pick it back up!

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Periodic Table Day

I don’t have a lot to say about this day. I loved chemistry in high school; I met one of my best friends in that class and we both laugh-choked when our teacher singed his eyebrows while lambasting a student that their Bunsen burner was not defective, “here I’ll show you.”(He was not hurt. I’m not even sure he was embarrassed.)

She went on to do science-y things, working in labs and ultimately becoming a nurse.

I’m also amused by how many chemistry dad jokes revolve around sodium (Na) but only Monty Python gives due credit to nickel (Ni). Fly your nerd flag: What’s your favorite elemental joke?

My greatest chemistry success was probably to expose my kid to this song, making him the fourth generation in my family to love it and fail to memorize it. This song pops up in odd places every now and then—it featured in an episode of the Big Bang Theory (go figure), some nerdy kids sing it on a bus in an episode of the Gilmore Girls, and Daniel Radcliffe sang it on the Graham Norton show. If you like it, I recommend you check out Tom Lehrer’s other stuff. You might learn a lot, and not just about chemistry or math.

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