Like Sex and the City, Rosie O’Donnell is very aligned to me culturally.
In case you don’t remember the 1990s, Rosie O’Donnell was HUGE—one of America’s biggest cultural figures. Her daytime talkshow The Rosie O’Donnell Show won multiple Emmys and the media nicknamed her “The Queen of Nice.” She was truly a household name. I watched her a lot. She adopted her first child Parker in 1995, the same year I became a mom. She kept me company during the day when I was home with my kids. She was funny, kind, warm and loved Broadway musicals like I did.
In the 2000s, her image shifted as she came out publicly and became a strong advocate for LGBTQ+ rights, which made me like her even more. Later, when she was on The View, I didn’t watch her as often because I was back working, but I know that’s when her public fights with Donald Trump really ramped up. My recollection is that it was primarily a beef between two New Yorkers that had history and absolutely hated each other in a way that only two New Yorkers can.
Well, lo and behold, thirty years later, Trump is the most authoritarian President the United States has ever seen and Rosie has escaped to Ireland.
In fact, since I discovered her TikTok and Substack shortly before my trip to Ireland, I’ve been following her time abroad closely. She seems to really love living in Dublin, although she misses her family. I even went to the Dublin comedy club where she had been practicing her act for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. By all accounts, she was a smashing success there. She plays Australia next.
I’m happy for Rosie that things are going well for her abroad, but I’m very aware of the absolutely dystopian reasons she left the country.
We are in uncharted waters now.
We live in a time when an American President publicly threatens to revoke a natural-born American’s citizenship for no reason other than that he just really fucking hates her.
Tom Cruise on The Rosie O’Donnell Show (and BTW, good on Tom for declining to accept a lifetime achievement award from Orange Mussolini at The Kennedy Center)
I think it is the nature of things for parents to care more about their children than vice versa.
Our children love us, but not how we love them. Oh how we love them. If they are struggling, sick or unhappy, it can be hard to function ourselves. If your parents live to be very old, you will be old too. You may be dealing with old people problems like osteoarthritis and macular degeneration at the same time as your parents. In some cases, very old parents outlive one or more of their children, which is obviously terrible for the parents. Nobody should have to bury a child. Ever.
But here’s what I think I want to say. You don’t owe your very old parents a myth of your own happy carefree existence. You’re old too. And things have gotten worse. The country has gotten worse.
I’m definitely not saying you should call up your very old parents and unload your problems on them. (If you’re still doing that at age 60+, you may have Peter Pan Syndrome.) I’m saying that if they call you a lot (and are of sound mind), it’s OK to be yourself. You don’t have to make up cheerful bullshit all the time just to keep them happy. Because that’s exhausting. And you’re old too.
On the flip side, if you’re having a good day and feel like chatting, call your mom. Nobody’s ever gonna love you like she does.
It’s painful to go back and read this post from about a year ago—the day after Kamala Harris accepted the Democratic nomination for President of the United States. I had cried during her acceptance speech.
After so many months of dread and fear, I finally let myself feel hope and optimism for the future. My little granddaughter would be coming into a world where a woman of color was President, women’s rights to their own bodies would be restored, protecting our planet would be an international mission, and hate and racism would recede.
My father turned 91 yesterday. My granddaughter will turn 1 next month. And this beloved poem from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, which I first read in college, still resonates so deeply with me.
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.”
Predictably, I was a fan of Sex and the City and have eagerly watched all three seasons of the reboot—And Just Like That. (I saw both of the Sex and the City movies too.) We now know that this will be the final season of And Just Like That, so fans are getting ready to bid goodbye to Carrie Bradshaw forever.
My obvious connection to the show has been that I am the same generation as the main characters. Sarah Jessica Parker and Kristin Davis are my age exactly—sixty. They are among the group of actresses born in 1965 that I tend to keep tabs on.
I know there are plenty of haters out there, based on very legitimate criticisms of the show, but for me Sex and the City was like an alternate reality. By the time the show first aired in 1998, I was married with a three-year old, living in a somewhat dilapidated antique house in suburbia. What if I hadn’t gone that route? What if I had had the gumption to leave Boston for the real city in my twenties, like several of my friends? Would I be dashing around Manhattan in a tulle skirt, going to art openings and brunch?
The 60-year old versions of the characters in the reboot, still living in Manhattan in fabulous clothes, have been dealing with some relatable GenX problems from bouts of vertigo to ageism at work. Still, they’ve kept it mostly light and escapist. Even when Carrie’s husband (Mr. Big) drops dead in the shower, I wasn’t exactly heartbroken. The female friendships are still central. New York City is still central.
We’ll see what the final two episodes bring. How will my life in an alternate universe turn out?
SJP as Carrie Bradshaw in Season One of Sex and the City (1998)
Me hosting a rather cramped birthday party in our living room in 1998
Lo and behold, I’m able to answer today’s daily prompt! (Typically I see a message saying that I have already answered the daily prompt, as I’ve been blogging regularly for well over a year now.)
How do you waste the most time every day?
The big news is that I started this blog when I turned 50 and named it accordingly, but the seasons…they go round and round…and now I’m 60.
And, I’m still wasting far too much time looking at social media. I’ve even added TikTok to my repertoire. Oy.
But here’s what I’m going to try to stop wasting so much time on this decade: controlling situations and worrying about outcomes. I’m really REALLY going to try to live in the moment more. I want to enjoy my life.
Stephanie’s terrific response about worry reminded me that just recognizing when you’re fretting is a step in the right direction.
From the moment we get a positive pregnancy test to the day we die, moms will worry about their kids, but the active “molding” phase of that job is over for me. I can relax. I’ve told my kids everything I think they should know. We got them all the shots, hosted all the birthday parties, went to all the games, helped with all the homework, paid all the tuition bills. We did good! If I die tomorrow, they will be fine.
So, as a first step, here’s three things I enjoyed recently:
Swimming outside – my outdoor lap pool is open for the season and how lucky am I that I get to swim in a nice, warm, sun-filled lap lane?
Strawberries 🍓- It’s strawberry season here and they are delicious.
Books – I got a free Audibles subscription for two months and have started listening to books, which is a very different experience. I find that memoirs read by the author are especially good, because they know exactly which words to emphasize! (Currently listening to Molly Jong-Fast’s new book: “How to Lose Your Mother: A Daughter’s Memoir”)
Final thought: hating DJT and everything he represents and does has been a pretty major feature of the past ten years for me. In order to enjoy my life more, I need to somehow let that go a bit. My feeling is that maybe by staying involved in my church (which is full of activists), I can feel like I’m doing something without letting the political situation make me feel hopeless. Would love any tips that other like-minded people may have about this.
On our last full day in Ireland, we figured out how to take a commuter train from Connolly Station in Dublin to Drogheda (about 45 minutes away) and then grabbed a cab to the Brú na Bóinne Visitor Center—commonly referred to as “Newgrange.”
Brú na Bóinne is one of the world’s most important prehistoric archaeological sites. Older than both the pyramids and Stonehenge, it’s home to the massive passage tombs of Newgrange, Knowth, and Dowth. With advance tickets, you can tour Knowth and Newgrange with a guide.
Knowth (dating from 3,200 BCE)
Knowth includes one large central mound surrounded by 17 smaller satellite mounds.
The large mound at Knowth (behind us) features two opposing passageways—one facing east and the other west—which are believed to relate to the equinoxes.
The decorated stones around the bases of the mounds are referred to as kerbstones. These large stones feature intricate megalithic art, including spirals, concentric circles, and other abstract motifs carved by Neolithic peoples.
Hard to make out, but experts believe this is an ancient lunar calendar on a kerbstone at Knowth.
The view from atop the largest mound at Knowth. We happened to visit on Father’s Day (which is the same day in Ireland) and there were Irish fathers and sons visiting too! ☘️
You can ascend to the top of the largest mound at Knowth and actually go inside the Newgrange tomb through a narrow, rocky passageway to experience this 5,000 year old sacred space which was engineered with astonishing precision to align with the solstice sun, when it miraculously lights the inner burial chamber.
Newgrange (3,200 BCE)
It’s a surreal feeling to stand in an underground chamber built by humans 5,000 years ago. At one point, the guide extinguished all light in the tomb, submerging the chamber into pitch blackness, and then demonstrated with an artificial light how the chamber lights up (for about 17 minutes) on the winter solstice.
The entrance to Newgrange—the opening above the door that allows light to enter is called “the roof box.” It was ingeniously designed to align with the rising sun during the winter solstice, allowing sunlight to illuminate the inner chamber—an extraordinary feat of Neolithic engineering and astronomy.Detail of the Kerbstone at the entrance to Newgrange. No photography was allowed inside the tomb (a rule I reluctantly obeyed!), but there was a magnificent stone inside the chamber with a similar (but perfect) tri-spiral.This is a postcard picture of the tri-spiral in the chamber. Isn’t it beautiful? What do you think it means? The experts can only guess. The exterior wall of Newgrange This is a replica of one corner of the Newgrange chamber in the Visitors Center. It shows how the light first comes in on the winter solstice. The actual chamber was much bigger and very tall when we stood inside it, with large recesses on three sides for sacred objects, including one with the perfect tri-spiral stone.
It is believed that the passage tombs of Brú na Bóinne were Stone Age burial sites for high-status individuals, where cremated human remains were placed in stone basins within the chambers. These tombs reflect a Neolithic belief system centered on death, ancestor worship, and a deep reverence for cosmic cycles—especially the sun.
In addition to human remains, archaeologists have found animal bones—including those of cattle, birds, and dogs. It is thought they had ritual significance, possibly as offerings or symbolic companions in the afterlife, reflecting complex spiritual beliefs that linked humans, animals, and the natural world.
Pre-Christianity is fascinating, right?? Because nobody really knows what they believed or were actually thinking! What do you think?
After Kilkenny, it was onwards to Dublin—the great capital city of the Republic of Ireland. We approached Dublin from the south, which was described as the “posh” side of town.
After a lovely lunch surrounded by ancient giant trees at The Fern House (and quick shopping in the attached Avoca store), we headed to the city for something completely different— a moving tour of Kilmainham Gaol.
The Fern House Cafe
Our tour guide at the Gaol (jail) was very dramatic and deadly serious about Ireland’s history and struggles for independence against “the colonizer” (aka Great Britain).
This historic prison is a powerful symbol of Irish nationalism, as it held many leaders of Ireland’s rebellions, including the 14 men executed after the 1916 Easter Rising. (On the way to the prison, the guide played Rod Stewart’s beautiful song Grace about Joseph Plunkett—one of the 14 rebellion leaders—who was allowed to marry his childhood sweetheart Grace shortly before his execution.)
Kilmainham Gaol
The next morning, the sun came out and we did a walking tour and saw many of the city’s iconic sites:
St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin
The Long Library at Trinity College, Dublin, which you enter after viewing Ireland’s most famous artifact—The Book of KellsThe Temple Bar, Dublin
Meanwhile, my son John (who had been in Sweden for work) joined us in Dublin, which was fantastic. It was so great to spend time with him!
My son and me at a pub on Camden Street
We did several more museums with him, including EPIC (the Irish Emigration Museum) and the National Museum of Archeology. We also went to many pubs, stores and even a sold-out comedy show, where we were the only Americans and the comedians knew it. 🤣 (They did not hold back on the Trump jokes, which was awesome.)
Check out the International for great stand-up
And NOW, if you’re still reading, here’s the most amazing thing that happened in Dublin. You may remember that this trip was inspired, in part, by my Irish roots. Thanks to my mother’s extensive genealogy research, I have a lot of information about my great grandmother’s family, including the names and addresses of her parents—and their parents.
One night we walked by the address of the home where my great grandmother’s mother grew up and believe it or not, her father’s name is STILL on the door: Beverly Smyth.
30 South Anne Street is right in the middle of all the action in Dublin City Center—just off Grafton Street. Beverly Smyth (1817-1898) was my great, great, great grandfather. The company he started in 1846 (Beverly Smyth & Sons) is still in existence. It’s now a well-established Irish moving and storage company known as Oman Beverly Smyth.My maternal grandfather, Henry Beverly Powell (1906-1964) reportedly hated having “Beverly” as his middle name and only ever went by Henry B. Powell, but it turns out that Beverly (his mother’s grandfather) was a successful Dublin businessman.
I also found the church where my grandfather’s maternal grandparents got married in 1879:
St. Andrew’s Church, Westland Row, Dublin
And of course, I went inside the church too, because I’m like that!
My great great grandfather John Barry (1846-1881) married Beverly & Bridget Smyth’s daughter Mary in St. Andrew’s Church in 1879.Their eldest child Mary Barry (so many Marys! Very confusing!!) was born a year later — in 1880. She then emigrated to America (Brooklyn, NYC) in 1903 at age 23. She died in 1952, just 12 years before her son (my grandfather).
I had two other Dublin addresses for the Barrys, but did not have time to see them when I was there, so I’ll have to go back.
But the bottom line is: I’m a DUBLINER people. My people were city folk. They were not digging potatoes in County Cork. So the next time I go to the Dubliner bar in Boston, I’ll know I belong.
My son John in front of his great great great great grandfather’s house in Dublin
It really is in a prime city location and currently up for rent! Here’s the street it’s on:
According to the realtor, the “Beverly Smyth & Sons” nameplate can never be removed because the property is on Dublin’s list of protected properties. So maybe someday my granddaughter will visit Dublin and see her great x5 grandparents’ home.
FINAL THOUGHT: we have far too many Johns and Marys in the family tree (on both the Irish and Italian sides). Giving your kids unique first names will help future generations keep it all straight. 😜
I’m losing my patience with rich old white people. And by “rich” I mean comfortable…people who are in absolutely no danger of not being able to pay their monthly bills and buy groceries. People who take vacations—without fail. And by “old” I mean people who were old enough to vote for or against Ronald Reagan at least once. People like me…and my friends..and my parents…and their friends.
We are the privileged. We can say what we want. We can protest publicly without fear. Nobody is going to deport us.
If people in this demographic haven’t publicly taken a side by this point, I really don’t want to sit around and make small talk with them anymore. Politely avoiding the big three (money, politics and religion) is so tedious. I really don’t give a shit if there’s a new Trader Joe’s opening near your house, if you haven’t done one single thing to denounce Trumpism. In fact, if you’ve never made it clear (through conversations, social media posts or other actions) that you do not support Trump, I’m just gonna assume you do. And in that case, I’m really done with you, with very few exceptions.
Other than a handful of federal judges, a couple of law firms, and Harvard University, there is really very little institutional power behind the resistance at the moment. The American people are the only thing that’s gonna stop this train.
And as a reminder, everything that we ever wanted for our children and grandchildren is at stake now—even for the rich white ones.
Public education, our great national parks, scientific research, the planet, equality, freedom, democracy, healthcare, world peace, the rule of law, economic security…we could lose it all.
If you think I’m exaggerating, please read this gift article from today’s NYT.
So, to my fellow old rich white people: be brave, do something, say something, write a blog or a Facebook post, contact your legislators, fly a diversity flag, make a sign, go to a protest (maybe your first!), confront your MAGA relatives, donate to the ACLU or another organization in the fight.
Then, maybe, I’ll be interested to hear a bit more about that new Trader Joe’s and whether or not they carry wine.
If you’ve ever been on a goddamn river cruise in Europe, you should have spoken out about at least one issue by now.
Yesterday we got together at my daughter’s house in central Massachusetts. My son drove out from his new apartment in the city. My daughter cooked a lovely meal for us. My granddaughter was able to sit at the table with us in her high chair. She watched us eat and talk and occasionally dropped one of her plastic stacking rings on the floor for someone to retrieve.
There were six of us around the table. And I loved it so much. My heart is full.
Beautiful cupcakes made from scratch by my daughter for our first family meal at her house with my baby granddaughter at the table 💕
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