Problems with Time
And why I'm all knotted up, inside and out
On Saturday, I taught a class on metaphors through The Loft Literary Center. The class ran from 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. Teachers are asked to sign on fifteen minutes before the class. Which I did.
And I waited.
And waited.
At 12:59 pm, I started to panic. Where was everyone? There were nine names on the roster. Did they all decide not to participate?
I checked the email again. And again. And again. It was that third time I realized it started at 1 pm CENTRAL time. Which is 2 pm my time. Oops. Oddly, I’d told my Tuesday night class that I was paranoid about getting the time zones wrong. But is it paranoia when it’s clearly something I do? At least I showed up an hour early, not late. And I got a bonus hour out of it, giving me the time to write this newsletter.1
You’ll think of something…
about the January
I realized—too many rows in—that I’d screwed up the count on my crochet project and I was making a mess. I decided to frog2 the project and start again. No problem. However, somewhere along the way, I seemed to have dropped the ball of yarn and it knotted. And I mean knotted.
How? Did Bailey get to it? Did I put it in the bottom of my bag and forget about it for twelve years? Did the husband sneak in and tie millions of knots into the yarn? I have no idea. This knot is completely unreasonable. The knot is endless.
I’ve been trying to unknot it for WEEKS! I don’t know why! I can simply cut it out and still use the rest of the yarn. But I am determined. Yet I must I sleepwalk and reknot what I have unknotted a la Penelope, because even though on many days I think, “I’m almost there!” the knot persists. The strands of the yarn are ripping. There’s a huge matted area that resists all machinations.
And yet, even though I have started crocheting again with a new ball of yarn, I persist in trying to undue the motherf*cking knot.
Did I mention I taught a class on metaphor yesterday? Because January was that knot.
Oddly enough, last year I made a point of saying that I like the month of January. And it’s true. I do like January. Just not this January.
I think everyone reading this understands that the first month of 2026 was a dumpster fire and a news overload for most of us. Between NPR, The New Yorker,3 Substack, and The New York Times, I’m on a constant diet of ICE atrocities, fascism, climate change weather, and general horrors. I feel a tug whenever I log on to teach my classes—the Loft is located in Minneapolis, and most of the students are from Minnesota—because I want to shout, “You are all amazing! Keep standing up against ICE!” but of course it’s completely inappropriate for me to bring up any kind of politics in my classes, as I’m not teaching political writing, and I don’t want the Loft to fire me.
I successfully completed dry January in a month that deserved nightly bourbons.
So for February, I’m going on a diet. A news diet. I’ll read my daily newsletter from the Times and listen to my NPR morning brief, but I’m going to do my damnedest to stay off the news the rest of the day. I’ll crochet red hats, listen to Springsteen, and continue what I do: writing, volunteering, drinking too much hot chocolate, donating to places I think will help make things at least a tiny bit better, and trying not to worry about the world my kids will be inheriting.
And working on my knot. That goddamn knot.
I’m not giving up on that knot.
Make of that what you will.
about research
Moving on to a lighter subject, I had another day of “writing”4 that led to me reading a 1926 newspaper for a few hours. How do I get any words on the page with all these digressions? I have no idea.
I discovered a 1926 syndicated column called “Meditations of a Married Woman” written by Helen Rowland. Helen Rowland was considered the American Bernard Shaw of her time.
I’ve read Bernard Shaw. Mrs. Rowland, you’re no Bernard Shaw.
Shaw wrote quips about the world in general. These feel fairly apt:
If there was twenty ways of telling the truth and only one way of telling a lie, the Government would find it out. It's in the nature of governments to tell lies.
It is not that I am so clever; it is that everyone else is so stupid.
Beware of false knowledge; it is more dangerous than ignorance.
Rowland writes quips about men and women. Only. No passing the Bechdel test here! In short snippets, she writes about the evils of women, of men, of marriage. I’m sure at the time it was quite funny. Today it reads as the misogynistic ramblings of a Republican.
I wonder what Mrs. Rowland (who was really, it turns out, Mrs. Lutz, but I guess that’s not sexy enough for an American Bernard Shaw) would make of romantic relationships today? My hunch is she’d be cancelled before we could find out.
about Bailey
Bailey prefers it when she’s taller than the snow.
Until next time, make good choices.
jennifer
P.S. See that little heart button below? It helps a pal out—if you enjoy my newsletter—to click on it.
My sister, who keeps track of these things, is probably wondering why the hell this newsletter is going out on a Sunday anyway. For the past year, I aimed for it to go out every other week. But I was constantly thinking, Wait! Is that this week or next week? I’m not so good on the time thing. (Note: see above), so I’ve settled on sending it on the 1st and the 15th of each month.
It’s called “frogging” because you pull on that yarn and “rip it rip it.” If that’s not clear, say it out loud.
And I’m actually completely up-to-date on my New Yorker reading. Not sure how long that will last, but I’m starting off strong.
No actual writing was done.
Your sister did make a little "hmm" face when she saw the email appear in her inbox. Always happy to see the newsletter, though, whatever day it chooses to come calling.