Writer of words. Lover of justice. Hater of olives. Author of THE SOCIETY OF SHAME.
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Articles by Jane Roper
Enough already!
Here’s something I’ve been thinking about lately: If the first half of life is largely about accumulating things—experiences, skills, relationships, degrees, opinions, tattoos, etc.—then the second half of life is about learning to let go. I mean, yes, you can still also accumulate things. I am still enthusiastically accumulating experiences and relationships, along with wisdom (maybe?), wrinkles (definitely), and the spoils of my mother’s “Swedish Death Cleaning” as she calls it, to my dismay.
Lose 10 lbs on the egg and wine diet!
And other terrific advice from the 70s, courtesy of my grandmother I write to you in the midst of a clear-liquids-only fast for a certain, delightful procedure that those of us of a certain age and/or with a family history of colon cancer must undergo every few years. Needless to say, I’m really freaking hungry.
I’m entering my banjo and bell-bottoms era
I have a habit of using body-of-water metaphors when writing about my life: The crappy little boat trip of my daughter’s cancer. The river of the first 50 years of my life versus the lake of now. (A lake that occasionally goes rogue.) But I’m going to spare you the aquatic imagery this time, as it’s been raining for three days straight. Also: I’ve got a new, much dryer image that I’m digging at the moment—namely the final shot from Hal Ashby’s 1971 cult classic Harold and Maude.
The sky has never been that blue since
This isn’t what I had planned to post today; I have a whole other post mostly written, about AI and how I’m thinking about and making choices around it lately. It includes a fun account of my brief, co-dependent relationship with my Google Health coach. (He’s not the brightest, but was nonetheless a compelling figure. We had fun.
Telltale signs that the kids are home from college: A photo exposé
I am not feeling well at the moment — possibly a virus, possibly heat exhaustion triggered by an ill-advised climbing session in an extremely hot, humid gym, possibly a physical manifestation of low-grade existential malaise. Maybe a 48-hour tumor? The possibilities are endless! But while my limbs are listless, my heart is full: We’ve got both of our kiddos home at the same time again for a few weeks before they go back to college, Clio having recently returned from 6 weeks in Argentina.
Listen up, crone goddess
There was an opinion piece in The New York Times last week titled “Ladies, We’re Entering our Crone Era. It’s About Time.” I hoped maybe it would be about embracing aging and, you know, normalizing and celebrating looking like this: Instead of this: But as it turned out, the piece was about how it’s great that today’s 40- and 50-something women are demanding help with perimenopause / menopause symptoms, informing each other about remedies and treatments, etc. etc.
Some exciting news
It’s so hard to sit on good news for weeks (or longer!) but I wanted to make sure everything was 100% certain before I started shouting it from the mountaintops and the internets. (Mostly the internets.) And now I can: I sold my new novel! Woohoooo! (Apologies to those of you who follow me on the ‘gram and the ‘book or the …. ‘In (?) who already know this.) Trying to find a publisher (sadly, my previous one no longer exists) is a miserable experience.
Where did you go, wanderlust?
On Sunday, I saw my 19-year-old daughter Clio off to Argentina for six weeks at a language study program. «Insert tiny sob here» I’ve LOVED having both her and her twin sibling back with us for the past month-ish, and relished the temporary return to what feels normal not “new normal”(i.e. a lake that sometimes goes rogue). More noise, more voices, more shoes. More groceries and dishes, too, but whatever. At the same time, I am thrilled for Clio, and extremely proud.
Why I screamed into the bushes
Yesterday I did something very weird and uncharacteristic: I screamed into the bushes in the park by the pond in the center of town. Not a high-pitched, horror-movie scream. A yell, I guess you’d call it. A gravely roar. It was brief, but very loud. I didn’t hold back. (Not easy for me!) I’d considered waiting until I got home to do it, so as not to disturb / confuse / scare the people or wildlife (squirrels, Canada geese, ducks, etc.) around me.
3 reasons why I hang on to stuff I don't need (and that you probably do, too).
Observations from our huge—and hugely satisfying—spring cleanout. I’m about to head off to France for a spell and inflict my barely B2 French upon its unsuspecting residents. But I wanted to get a quick post in under le wire about what the Mister and I have been up to over the past week: a veritable maelstrom of purging and de-cluttering. (He has led the charge, God bless him.) We’ve been primarily working on the basement, with little forays into the attic and garage as well.
5 Novels I Can't Wait to Read
Yesterday while I was taking a walk with my husband, I made the profound observation that most of the trees are now fully leafed-out, and how weird is it that our landscape and surroundings look so dramatically different from one half of the year to the other? Right now, the view my office window is totally lush and leafy, and will be for months. Whereas a month ago, and for months before that, it was spindly and stick-y.
Get yourself some collective effervescence
I haven’t written in a while. My sincere apologies. I’m sure you’ve been suffering greatly, perhaps to the point of despair, without my words of hilarity and wisdom gracing your inbox. Why the drought? Well, the truth is I’ve been feeling rather…meh. If you’re a clinical depression sufferer, as I am, you know that it can be tough at times to tease apart “real” sadness/stress/existential dread and the kind that is a result of your brain chemistry starting to go on the fritz.
Help! The lake has gone rogue!
Back in November, I likened my new, empty-nest phase of life to a lake—a place to stay and explore and enjoy, in contrast to the river I’d been zipping along for the previous decades of my life, always looking forward to the next thing around the bend. At the time, I was thinking of that metaphorical lake as being something tranquil and beautiful and calm. Not boring, mind you; why, there was talk a of a pontoon party boat! But, you know, steady.
Another book bites the dust.
Ask any writer to open the proverbial desk drawer, and chances are you’ll see a lot of abandoned carcasses. Of books, that is. All of us have projects we’ve started but never finished. In some cases, this could mean just a few pages, in other cases, a few hundred. We lose steam, we get stuck, we decide to pivot and work on a different project, we see a squirrel. Sometimes we return to abandoned works later, but more often than not, we don’t.
A dispatch from cold-ravaged suburbia
Dear friend, I hope this missive finds you well. I write to you from the frozen depths of the Boston suburbs, where snow and relentless, bitter cold have tormented us for the past several weeks, with no sign of abating. As I write, the wind is howling through the barren trees, and I think I just heard our recycling bin fall over. Our patio furniture has been nearly consumed by the snows, and the solar-powered lights along our front walk are long since buried, and are likely crushed.
"You have to live in a world of hope"
A few days ago, a friend and I went to a talk at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, about the huge art heist that happened there in 1990—and about art theft in general. I love learning about heists and escapes (who doesn’t?) and expected it to be just a fun diversion on a cold night—a brief reprieve from the onslaught of miserable news. But it ended up being something more profound than that.
One thing is certain
As I’ve written in the past, I am not a fan of boats. This must be why, when life feels particularly difficult or uncertain, I find myself using boat metaphors.
Finding hope in humanity at the mall
As all of us who attempt to be Good People know, we’re supposed to support small businesses when it comes to holiday gifts. And I do try my best. (And make some recommendations along those lines as well.) But almost every year, usually at the very last minute, I find myself hitting a mall or shopping center out of sheer desperation. And you know what? I like it. Oh sure, the hyper-consumerism is a little gross.
The completely weird, probably useless Jane's Calamity Gift Guide
Well, it’s December tenth, and per usual, I’ve done basically no holiday shopping. I love going to stores and craft fairs and whatnot around the holidays (even when they play holiday songs that drive me crazy) but I find the obligatory nature of the shopping itself stressful.
Two lazy things I'm doing to fight the ravages of time on my bod
People are always asking me how I maintain my fantastic physique. Hahaha no they aren’t. And “fantastic” would not be accurate. Like many a middle-aged woman who has borne children (two at once, in my case!), I’m not exactly killing it in the abdominal region. I have a belly, and her name is Sheila. We have fun. But I am fairly fit and trim overall. I run, I hike, I go to an indoor climbing gym twice a week, I do some yoga.
I never dreamed about this
Well, the Jane’s Calamity kiddos have been in college for two months now, and while I do miss them quite a lot, especially around dinner time (we were big on family dinners), it’s not quite as terrible as I feared. And my husband and I eat dinner in front of the TV a lot now, which I sort of love. (We’re re-watching Mad Men, and it’s so good.) But I definitely feel…weird. And it occurs to me that it’s because something has shifted in a very significant way.
Won't you join me in hell?
Here’s some free and very important advice: If you ever happen to be talking with a writer—you know, just casually chatting with them about what they’re working on, or what’s going on with that book they were writing, etc.—and their reply is “I’m on sub,” that is your cue to back slowly away. Because the writer you are talking to is very likely not in a good state of mind. “I’m on sub” means “I’m on submission.” It sounds kinky but it’s very much not.
Here's why I unsubscribed
I am in my unsubscribing era. I think I’ve made this declaration before—maybe even here on this very Substack—but this time I really mean it. Unsubscribe. Unsubscribe. UNSUBSCRIBE! That’s me. Grinning maniacally as I scroll down to that teeny little line of type at the bottom of the email. I’m unsubscribing even from companies and organization I’ve been getting emails from for years, or that I’ve resisted unsubscribing from before. Even if I’ve semi enjoyed getting the emails.
Before I get into this post, I’d like to take a moment to exercise my first amendment rights—which I think I still have—and say that Donald Trump is a repugnant, sociopathic, pathologically stupid, fascist shitweasel with a face like a rotting pumpkin and I hope he dies a slow (but not too slow) and miserable death very, very soon. Ah. That feels good.
Absolutely Priceless, Utterly Worthless
Well, our kids are officially launched—we brought Twin A to RISD on Sunday and Twin B to Wesleyan yesterday. Bittersweet, exciting, sad, blah blah blah. The universe does not need another post about this rite of passage, so I’ll spare you. And I’ve already written (at length) about the fact that I’m less than thrilled by this whole empty-nest situation. BUT I will say, in the spirit of looking on the upside: I have started seeing this phase as an exciting opportunity to de-clutter.
Dear Diary: Billy Joel Rules
This post is dedicated to my high school friends. And also Calvin Hennick. OK, people. Because I love you, and because some of you, like me, may have recently watched the new Billy Joel documentary, AND because I apparently love humiliating myself, I’m going to tell you about the first concert I ever went to: Billy Joel. The Storm Front Tour. 1990. Actually, I’m not going to tell you about it. My fifteen-year-old self is.
From the Upper Verandah deck to the edge of the cliff
Well, hey there! It’s been a while. I was off on an Alaska cruise with my mom, and it’s taken me a minute to catch up on work, etc., and figure out what to write. In my last post, I shared my apprehensions about the whole cruise thing (as well as my admiration for Vicki Stubing’s hair).
A supposedly fun thing I'm about to do
Think of this post as a “before” picture — a picture of me, about to go on a cruise to Alaska with my mom. Today. She and my dad were planning to go on an Alaska cruise back in June 2020—it was booked and everything. But they never had the chance because, well, my dad died.
I'm a loser, baby.
OK, first things first: When I looked up the lyrics to Beck’s Loser(that’s song I’m quoting in the title of this post, Mom) to see if there were other tidbits I could borrow, I was bowled over to see that the line just before “I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me” is “soy un perdedor”— “I’m a loser” in Spanish. I never knew what the hell he was saying, but never bothered to look it up. Por qué did he throw a random Spanish phrase in the middle of the song? We’ll never know.
You look like you could use a coach.
As I touched on in my last post, the miracle that is generative AI may well make many of the services I offer my clients as a copywriter obsolete within the next two weeks several years.
Old lady rants about AI, eats gruel
Back in March, I took myself on a little writing retreat in a woodstove-heated cabin just outside of Brattleboro, Vermont, to work on my new novel. (Which I recently sent off to my agent for feedback. Woot!) “Cabin” makes the place sound a little more rustic than it was. There was indoor plumbing, a refrigerator, etc. But I try to do my part to play to romantic notions of the writer’s life.
Five books to make you laugh
Hey there! I just got back from New York, where I attended the award show for this year’s Thurber Prize in American Humor in writing, as one of the three finalists. [Pause for applause]. Thank you. Thank you so much. It was an amazing thing to be nominated, and even though I didn’t win—that honor went to WaPo humor columnist Alexandra Petri, for her very funy book Alexandra Petri’s U.S. History (more on that below)—I had a blast, and some excellent trout for dinner.
We all need a little shelter from the storm.
Well hello there. It’s been three weeks since my last confession post, but it feels like a lifetime. So many fresh hells and abominations since then! A veritable smorgasbord! People deported and abducted without due process, war plans shared by morons in Signal chats, stock markets clobbered, universities and law firms extorted, history expunged from websites and museums. It is hard not to feel completely overwhelmed by what is happening, and what may be ahead.
The story has changed
Buckle up, buttercups, because I’m gonna get a little academic on your asses in this post. A little philosophical, a little political, a little evolutionary. A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll. I’ll make it quick(ish), and there’s no test at the end. I promise. It’s just that I’ve been feeling awfully unsettled of late—as I think many of us are—and I’ve been trying to get a handle on why. I mean, I know why.
Good alternatives to Audible and Kindle, by reader request
Yesterday, I decided it was time to use up my remaining Audible credits and cancel my monthly subscription with Amazon. Having fairly particular tastes in audiobooks (as do we all), I finally took a dive into Substack Chat to ask my subscribers for recos. Not only did I get tons of wonderful audiobook suggestions, thanks to my amazingly well-read community here and on IG and on Threads, I got a lot of questions about alternatives to Amazon’s Kindle for e-books, and Audible for audiobooks.
Six upsides of an empty nest-I hope
This post is NOT POLITICAL! Hooray. I mean, Jesus, we all need a break from this shitshow, amiright? No fake executive orders, no Russian propaganda, no rainforest saving. Just life. Back in September, I wrote about my feelings of melancholy around it being the last year of our twin offspring being home with us. The last back to school photo. The last open house night at school. The last carving pumpkins for Halloween, and decorating the Christmas tree together. The last, the last, the last.
It's the rainforest all over again
Dude, I am failing SO miserably at moderating my consumption of news and social media. I was hoping things would not get quite so dire, quite so fast. But they are. I really want to get back to writing about things like middle-age spread and Tyler, my annoying ChatGPT intern, and husbandly grocery shopping exploits. Things of that nature. But I can’t. Not yet. Case in point: Remember I wrote a love letter to my fave supermarket, the Market Basket in Chelsea?
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.
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.
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.
Please don't call me f#@$y.
Well, it’s been a minute, as the kids say. I try my damnedest to write here every other week, but then there are weeks like the last few when I just can’t make it happen. In this case, I was busy with good, fun things. (And one problematic pair of digits.) 1.Getting my Erma on. I had the distinct pleasure of attending / teaching at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio last week.
Captain Von Trapp and I are deeply concerned
Our extended family got back last week from the trip of a lifetime: a cruise on the Danube, from Budapest, Hungary to Vilshofen, Germany. It’s not the sort of travel we normally do. We’re more DIY-types—guidebooks, not guided tours; crashing with friends or renting Airbnbs, not staying in places where turndown service is a thing. Meanwhile, I am not a big fan of boats, as I like having the option to leave any given place at any given time, which is not possible when you’re surrounded by water.
I'm so damned hot.
You might think, given the title of this post, that it’s going to be a self-affirming, foxy-at-f@#$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. (“So…just you…by yourself?” the photo booth photographer asked. Subtext: You don’t have any friends?
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 need a poem to get me through this sh*tshow
By Jane Roper, non-poet . I need a poem about resisting despair when the world feels like a knife in my kneecap or a boulder in my shoe or a hot cast-iron skillet on my forehead or some other very unpleasant thing. . I am not a poet clearly. I can, however, make line breaks to trick you into thinking that this is a poem. It is not a poem. OR IS IT? . I need a poem by Maya Angelou or Mary Oliver or Richard Blanco or any halfway decent poet, really. I’d even take an MFA student.
Menopause, mansplained.
I’m not gonna lie. Sometimes it is hard to come up with ideas for what to write about on this here Substack, and keep up with my breakneck pace of 1.7 average posts per month. But every once in a while a little something is dropped into my lap by the universe—or, in this case, into the mail by a friend—and, voila, a post is born. I knew before I even cracked this puppy open it was going to be a treasure trove.
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.
Hey, maybe I don't need a poem after all.
Well damn. Last time I posted, I was pleading for a poem to get me through the sh*t show of the presidential election, the insanity of recent Supreme Court rulings, the ongoing popularity of a certain weird wannabe dictator, and the creeping fascism here and abroad. But now—wow. Here I am, a few weeks later, feeling actually HOPEFUL. Energized! Pumped! And extremely relieved.
I don't love you anymore, September
The end of summer / beginning of Fall (in the back-to-school sense) has always been my favorite time of year. The days are still warm, but visions of Fall foliage, decorative gourds, and fun-size Butterfingers glimmer in the distance. I feel somewhat wistful and nostalgic, but also jazzed up to dive back into the routine of school and work and new projects. The nights are cool, I feel less bloated, and life is good. This year, however, I’m struggling to tap into that ole Steptember magic.
It's different this time around.
Good morning, America, how are you? As for me, other than the fact that the condition of my middle-aged neck continues to deteriorate, my right eye is occasionally doing weird, janky vision things, and 76 million people think Trump will make a swell president, I’m doing pretty well. I almost wrote a post here just a few days after that very bad election—you know the one—but I’m glad I didn’t.
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