Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Words I Hate: Job Creator

Words I Hate: Job Creator

For years I have railed against particularly deceptive, misleading, euphemistic words and so I’m going to start an occasional series of blogs dealing with these words.

JOB CREATOR
Tom Steyer, the multi-billionaire vanity candidate for president who built his wealth as a hedge fund manager, has assaulted us with a barrage of TV and radio ads. He brags: “I started a tiny investment business and, over 27 years, grew it successfully to 36 billion dollars.” His argument is that he is a superior capitalist pig to tRump. With no governmental experience whatsoever, he brags that as a “job creator,” he is capable of running the world. His campaign has spent $17 million on ads so far.

What does it mean to be a job creator? McDonalds and Walmart and other minimum wage companies – they’re all job creators. They’re also union haters, do not pay a living wage to their employees, and in most cases offer no benefits. I don’t know how many or what type of jobs this Steyer “created” – these hedge funders usually just buy, ransack, and then sell companies. But what he really means is that he managed to exploit the labor of enough people to make him so rich that he can attempt to spend his way into the position of president of the USA. As a “job creator” he wants to create that one additional job – for himself.

New Credenza: It Takes a Village

I am actually decorating my living room – not a thing I’ve ever done before. I’ve always lived as if in a furniture shop, with lovely 2nd hand pieces lining every wall, things I was given or found on the street or bought on the cheap when I needed more stuff in which to stuff more stuff.

First I did a clear-out – what they now call de-cluttering – giving away many of those old pieces, even lovely art deco oak furniture (on left) that I brought with me from England but which have always been too imposing for my tiny apartment. I dispersed all my precious knick-knacks, picked up from places I traveled, or presents from… well, I hardly remember from whom. I even gave away four or five large cartons of books.

I have always lived in clutter and chaos, leading to my practice of going elsewhere to write for weeks at a time. But as I age, and as the airlines have become so dedicated to propagating misery, I’m less enthusiastic about cat-sitting in South London or Las Vegas in order to have a beautiful calm space in which to write my books. Besides, in thinking forward now that I’m in my 70s, there is not a person in the world who wants to be responsible for disposing of my copious possessions: it’s time to get a head start.

My new living room carpeting provided the excuse to do all of this. The carpet is a gorgeous grey that matches my newish little couch. In order to have it installed, I was required to pack up every single thing from every single piece of furniture and pile it all in my bedroom so that the furniture could be easily moved around as the carpet was changed. That made it easier to eliminate the heavy wooden furniture, leaving my possessions in a gazillion cartons. I had help moving those heavy boxes from Barry and Melsen and Bren and Mags over a couple of months. And on the day the carpet was replaced, Barry heroically unplugged every item that works on electricity, marking each wire, and then re-plugged them all afterwards. This was not a job I could have easily pulled off for myself.

For months and months, I have been searching for a long white credenza with simple lines and a lighter, modern look which will provide 80+ inches of storage and be soothing to look at from my desk. But I’ve found nothing to my taste. I enlisted the help of a long-time friend Debi Levine who roams online auction sites. Still nothing. Then my friend Bren, as we sat in front of my computer searching some more, suggested that I try looking for a color instead of white.

And then I finally came across a cabinet, just 48” – but I could easily fit in two – that came in slate blue. After consulting with Bren and Sandy and Jaya and Barry and Judy and Victoria and Sue O, and after seeing it on multiple sites for twice the price, I ordered two. However, it comes in a box and needs to be assembled, a task far from my own skill sets, which tend to congregate around words – spoken and written, dance steps, and my refrigerator.

Debi, however, has golden hands. Her mother calls her The Mastermind. She agrees to come and assemble them. I change my schedule so that I will be around on Wednesday for the promised delivery – intending to put up all sorts of signs in the building’s entrance to convince the delivery people to bring them up to my apartment for a hearty tip. But to my distress, the furniture arrives while I’m out at a Dr. appointment on Tuesday. They are propped up against the building’s wall of mail-boxes in the entryway, each cardboard container twice as wide as me and a foot or two taller, each weighing 99 pounds. Other tenants are buzzing my flat in fury at being unable to access their mail. I appeal to my landlady in the office and she rustles up two of her brothers – my landlords – and they somehow carry both of them up.

Debi offers to come on the Wednesday to whip them together – hoping to finish in an over-optimistic 90 minutes. However, it turns out that each cabinet has about a dozen planks of various sizes and a huge cache of hardware. Undaunted, Debi wrestles the slate blue participants into perfect order, crawling around the floor, bending over them when they resist, standing them up, screwing them tight, and lord knows what. My friend Judy comes over to offer moral support to The Mastermind, joins us for lunch, and helps me haul out the debris.

I have a chiropractic appointment I must leave for at 4:45. Debi has been working non-stop since 10:30 am, with a quick break for my tuna salad and cranberry sauce. The doors are the last piece to be assembled and they have, for both cabinets, been the hardest to subdue. The clock is ticking: 4:20. 4:30. And then, at 4:40, The Mastermind shuts those doors smoothly, helps me move the two cabinets side by side, as if they were one, gathers up her enigmatic tools, and we leave together – her exhausted by hours of demanding physical labor and shrewd problem-solving, and me dazzled by the brilliance of her competence and confidence.

It has taken a village but now my living room, for the first time in my life, looks like a grown-up lives in it. Now it is time to write those books that long to come alive.

 

Raise Hell: The Life & Times Of Molly Ivins - A Review in 100 words

Raise Hell: The Life & Times Of Molly Ivins

A Review in 100 words

Now here’s a documentary to see, indeed. Molly Ivins started her life of raising hell by resisting her rich authoritarian father. ‘I remember my dad and his friends sitting around fixing the price of oil.’ Later she said, “My teenage rebellion lasted 35 years.” Six feet tall and a devoted intellectual, her young years reading in her bedroom well prepared her to be a rebellious journalist who splintered glass ceilings and spoke truth to power. Her hilarious wit – unfortunately fueled by heavy drinking – and the confidence privileged kids inherit, combined to make her a sterling, popular syndicated journalist and author.

 

Review in 100 words: Toni Morrison: The Pieces I Am

Toni Morrison: The Pieces I Am

Review in exactly 100 words

Combine Toni Morrison’s fascinating life and fulsome talent with an elegant documentarian, Timothy Greenfield-Sanders, and you get that rare film that is both comely and edifying. Add in talking heads who love Morrison – from Angela Davis to Oprah to Walter Mosley to Fran Lebowitz – and you have a wondrous film. The racism and sexism she faced in her eventual journey to the Nobel Prize were countered by the 48 black writers who signed a statement deploring the lack of establishment recognition for her. Greenfield-Sanders showcases not only Morrison’s personal beauty, but also the soothing Hudson River view from her home.

 

Remembering Doreen Gordon who has died at 93

My friend Doreen Gordon is dead at 93. I met her when she signed up for my senior fitness classes at the Brookline Senior Center and she rapidly became the keystone to our community. Not only did she find ways to connect otherwise isolated seniors with each other, she inspired the personality of Lillian, the protagonist in my short story in the collection Lillian’s Last Affair. Well, in one sense. The old-woman-talking-like-a-sailor sense. More about that below. (From left: Doreen, Yolanda, me)

Doreen came from quite a posh South African background, lived a cultured life in New York with her late husband and two incredible daughters Jenny and Amy, and then moved to Boston to be close to one daughter and granddaughter after she recovered from being hit by a damned bus. Doreen was such a petite and put-together woman that between herself and the bus, it was not a fair fight.

To build connection among my students, Doreen began hosting high teas in her fabulous apartment, taking us group by group. Her closest friend from the class, Yolanda, often attended all the groups. We’d have finger sandwiches with salmon and the most luxurious selection of pastries known to human taste buds. I was often tempted to steal the leftovers – friendship be damned – but in fact she often made me up a care package with my favorites: the mini-scones and the crispy almond cookies. (Tea Party: Doreen third from right, laughing)

She used her baking skills to bring joy to every occasion we could find to celebrate, refusing to take money for the ingredients. She picked out the movies for us to see on senior discount matinee day. She told me privately when I was being too hard on someone in the class, or too soft. Doreen and I had what amounted to a secret consultation phone relationship behind the scene of our group. We talked about everyone and everything. She hooked me up with her daughter Jenny when I went to New Orleans for the first time, and Jenny pointed me to all the right places. Doreen invited me a few times to join her to watch the Boston Marathon on the sidewalk in front of her daughter Amy’s house, which is on the route. Amy would have oranges to peel so that we could hold sections in the flat of our hands for the runners to grab. It was on the way home from one such afternoon that my train was stopped at Kenmore Square and we all had to get off and run upstairs. The Marathon bombs had just gone off at the next stop. (Marathon day: Doreen and Amy in center)

But I digress. How did she inspire the character of Lillian? One day in the run-up to the 2008 election, we went to Trader Joe’s together (something we did a number of times). As we crossed the main intersection of Brookline at Beacon and Harvard, there was a man holding a huge sign, a large poster of Barak Obama with a Hitler mustache. Doreen walked right up to him, looked up to his face a good foot or so above her, and hissed, “Fuck You!”

I’m sure this man had already put up with plenty of abuse in that spot in the middle of a Jewish neighborhood, but he never anticipated such a curse from this tiny lovely white-haired woman. Later she told me that she had spent her whole life being prim and proper, but at this point she no longer felt the need to restrain herself. And with that sentence, the character of Lillian was born in my imagination, a woman who perfected swearing late in life.

Life is full of losses as we age, and this is a biggie. I’m only sorry that Doreen, with her love of humans and music and art and travel and good food, had to spend her final period under the regime of tRump. Many in the community which she built among my students pre-deceased her, but next Saturday I will be able to connect with dear Yolanda, with Doreen’s precious family, and with those of us who are lucky to still be around to mourn her.

Gina Ogden: August 9, 1935 – November 2, 2018

My friend Gina Ogden has died at age 83 of stage IV lung cancer at home surrounded by her long-time lover Jo Chaffee, her daughter Cathy and son Philip, and her close friend and nurse Tina, who came from Sweden to care for her.

After her diagnosis in January, Gina consulted a variety of medical and healing folks and decided to forgo traditional Western treatment, so that she would live out the time she had left as joyfully as always. She used complimentary medicine to build herself up for this last period and palliative care to get her through it. We went swimming this summer at Walden Pond. We met for our traditional bi-weekly teas at the Porter Square Independent Bookstore. She gifted me her most sparkling shirt so I’d have a new outfit to wear to the holiday party we always went to together.

Gina and I were writing buddies: she did close readings of my manuscripts and I did the same for her. We met through a mutual friend, a very successful writer, the late Sarah Wernick. We were all in a writers’ union together, although I did not then know Gina. Sarah and I had an additional connection: she was a student in my senior fitness group. Sarah offered to help me with my proposal for a non-fiction book in exchange for my working privately with her husband, who had Parkinson’s Disease. Even after he no longer wanted to train, Sarah continued to mentor my proposal, right through her diagnosis and treatment for cancer. When she became too ill, she asked Gina to take on me and my proposal for the last round. Gina read the entire proposal and sample chapters that very night – she was a super-fast reader – and we immediately began a tradition of mutual support.

Although we both wrote about sex, our approaches were as different as our personalities – but somehow it all worked brilliantly for us. Once we finished getting out her last book, just weeks before her death, she told me that she had said all she had to say and was ready to go. 

Gina was an award-winning pioneer in the field of sexology and a tireless advocate for everyone’s right to sexual well-being. For her 1994 (blockbuster) book Women Who Love Sex, she conducted qualitative instead of quantitative research. What that means is that instead of asking, as male sexologists always had, How many orgasms did you have? Gina asked, What gives you the most pleasure? Even Oprah Winfrey was curious about Gina’s groundbreaking work and hosted her on her show.

Gina went on to publish 13 books and countless articles, and to create a unique therapeutic system called the 4-Dimensional Wheel. She built a large international community that supports its teaching and growth, the 4-D Network (www.4-DNetwork.com).

As soon as she died, her closest people performed a ritual that Gina had arranged with them in detail, and then several others of us were invited to come break bread, listen to the gentle drumming of her drumming circle, and look at her body. She was wrapped in the expensive linen sheets she and Jo had splurged on decades ago, only to discover that they weren’t comfortable. Jo pulled them out of storage for the occasion and the linen wrapping was closed with several of Gina’s favorite scarves. This was the first time I was ever in the same room as a dead friend, chatting with others who loved her, and it seemed just right.

To learn more about Gina and her work, visit her website here: www.GinaOgden.com

Seven Words in February, 2025 (in 100 words)

I wrote a short story of 100 words exactly that includes the 7 banned words the government forbid the Center for Disease Control to use. It takes place in the future:

Rosie felt vulnerable. She thought her maternity care coverage was paid for with her $3,000 monthly insurance fee, but President T. Rump had signed away this entitlement by executive order. Only white Christian women in heterosexual marriages who owned property could access care for their fetus and themselves, justified by an “evidence-based” study of racial superiority. The other pregnant American women were subject to a diversity of exclusions. Transgender folks had to choose between child-bearing and identity. Despite science-based conclusions of their excellent parenting, lesbians like Rosie were forbidden access to IVF or adoption. Luckily, her partner was a midwife.

My Dad the ex-Trucker on his 100th birthday in 100 words

It would be my dad's 100th birthday today. In his honor, I have written 100 words about him, about learning to drive, about how complicated family relationships are.

My ex-trucker dad taught me how to drive in 1964 in his black ’53 Ford with the red seats. I practiced his technique of how to mount a hill, using the clutch to deal with intersections, but I chickened out towards the top. As I ran the stop sign, I crashed into the side of a police cruiser. The cops leaped out. “Sauly!” they cried when they saw him. “Your kid? Never mind. We’ll take care of it.” My dad was a Pittsburgh lifer and everyone – especially me – adored him. So why didn’t he stop his wife from beating me?

I lost NYT's 13-Word Love Story Contest

The NY Times had a 13-Word Love Story Contest in honor of 13 years of their Modern Love column. I submitted a story. Last night they published a bunch of winners (out of 10,000 submissions). Once I read through them - so middle class, so granola - I realized that mine was WAY outside of their point of view. Compare it to the ones they liked - full of "BMW" and "craft beer" and "organic mac and cheese.

"Here's mine.

The start? Her twinkling nose stud. The end? The revolver under her pillow.

Look at the winners here.

Obituary for the film “Obit”

Despite the excited buzz everywhere about the new documentary “Obit,” centering on the obituary journalists of the New York Times, I am sorry to say that the film killed itself today. A gaggle of white men dug the grave for a trickle of elite white men over whom a selection of white men gave eulogies.

I have written many letters to many editors over the years in which I say, “Whew. It seems that only white men die in your world.” I scan with rare success for the odd mention of the life of a person of color or a white woman in the hallowed pages of our premiere newspapers. But when you see the film “Obit” you understand why. White editors sit around assigning obituaries to white male journalists and none of them notice that something is awry.

The solitary woman on the obit team, Margalit Fox, is the only one in the film to touch on the subject, and she does so with a couple of incomprehensible sentences about how the people dying now were raised 60+ years ago and so times were different and it will take another generation for people of color and women to be making enough of a mark to rate a place in their paper. (!) Clumsy and convoluted and plain wrong.

A whole film on obituaries and there isn’t a single serious discussion of how and why subjects are selected or how the race and gender of the selectors might just be impacting the list of those whose lives are written about.

The only Black NYT employee we see – and that for just a few seconds – is during footage of a NYT editorial meeting. At that table is a Black man who, I discover in the credits, is Earl Wilson, an editorial desk assistant. We are shown celebrity subjects of color receiving obituaries, such as Michael Jackson and Prince and Whitney, but not scientists, politicians, or even athletes. The unexplained, unconnected photos of MLK edited into the visuals are bewildering as there is no narrative about any obit for him. The film is more excluding than the NYT itself.

As for women subjects, why the very first one named by “Obit” is the highly accomplished Candy Barr, a stripper who died in 2005. Thanks for highlighting our sheros. Nothing against Candy Barr (who has an interesting back story the film does not mention: she is also known, according to Wikipedia, for “shooting her estranged second husband; and being arrested and sentenced to a prison term for drug possession”), but the film might have mentioned anyone from Fannie Lou Hamer to Shirley Chisholm to Adrienne Rich.

The longest segment about a single obit subject focuses on John Fairfax, some white British adventurer who rowed across oceans and died in 2012. Why was he the film’s highlight? Why not others who died that same year (Etta James, Eve Arnold, Earl Scruggs – to name three)?

There were some scenes in the “morgue” – where clippings and drafts of obituaries for the still-living are stored in a chaotic crypt that one awkward white man works alone. He seems overwhelmed and startled when he opens random file drawers.

At the end of the film – after we’ve been subjected to talking head followed by talking head, everyone one of them a white man except for Fox – we are assaulted with a rapid-fire montage of images of life – random unidentified children playing, people ambulating, others laughing, jumping from era to era with no explanation or justification. My impression is that this was done to demonstrate inclusiveness, as not a few of this hodgepodge of images involves all those who are not at the NYT obituary-writing table. Sorry “Obit”: Not enough.

My final verdict. “Obit” is a lost opportunity. It is peculiar, but not in a pleasant or especially informative way. And it says soooooo much that we already knew about the New York Times.

The trailer: