• Bridge Ladies

    Bridge Ladies When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
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And It Wouldn’t Be Make Believe if You Believed in Me

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Why is everything curated from artisanal pickles to a reading series in Dumbo.  One editor I met at a lunch date said she curates her Instagram account. You mean you put up pictures that you choose?  How does a smart Vassar graduate recently promoted to assistant editor say, over cobb salad, that she’s curating projects in the non-fiction space. I give up. Stop with the curate. Stop with the space. It’s happened. I’m no longer that young thing in a rust colored raw silk blouse and a black Ann Taylor suit trying to impress some agent bitch with her lacquered nails and signature necklace. I hate the world right now. I’m in the self-loathing space.

What are you curating.

 

26 Responses

  1. Oh, I love this. Happy Holidays, dearest Betsy.

  2. The death of my 14 year old poodle. So there. Space.

  3. I’m curating Time. Everyone else can have Space.

  4. Hahaha. Made my day Betsy!!
    Merry merry.

  5. Hating the world is okay, but stop with the self-loathing already, ’cause you rock, Miz B. Curate that.

  6. i curate vintage betsy lerner posts.

    It’s 10:30, do you know where your clients are? Writing, flogging, blogging, reading, watching re-runs? Drinking, spanking, on-line banking? Looking at art books, reading The Believer? Fighting with their spouse, sexting their neighbor, walking the golden, rolling a doobie. Correcting their pages, emailing their agent, snacking and by that I mean “snacking.” Watching Entourage, admiring Ari, making crepes, singing Adele, shaving legs. Writing in their diaries, cranking out footnotes, on-line dating, on-line shopping, playing poker, commenting.

    What about you?
    (October 18, 2011)

  7. Yes, to all of this. Thank you for your signs of life. I am curating my own.

  8. I fucking hate the term curating, unless you work in a museum. But, of course, after curating comes editing. Kill me now.

  9. This is a “curate-free” zone. I want to ship that, along with the following, to the trash dump:
    The “rhetoric of” blah blah blah;
    At the “end of the day”;
    What’s “your takeaway on this?”;
    How do we “unpack this”;
    Just a start.
    But to the point where I’m tempted to shoot the GD TV with my LC-9 the next time I hear any of those…you’re welcome.

  10. I’m curating nothing. Too busy on my journey, my fucking journey to nowhere, with stops to marvel at how remarkable it all is, how unprecedented. (Oh! Unpresidented, remember that one?)

    Okay, that’s me attempting to be cynical but my heart aches for these earnest young things. Your editor was probably in the 2019 equivalent of an Anne Taylor suit and was wearing glasses she doesn’t need and writing with a pen she bought when she started her dreamy new job, and I kind of love her for trotting out her big words like that. I used to wear a garter and heels to my job as a file clerk; at least your one has Vassar.

  11. AMEN

  12. Been curating sorrow, but that’s got to be over with at some point.

    Happy holidays/Hanukkah to all who comment or lurk here.

  13. Yeah. Curate is part of the language I call “snowflake speak” which, of course, is said in “up speak?” Is everything a question? Ugh. The real world will eventually eat them alive.

    These days, I’m curating my introversion and my solitude. I’m stronger when quiet.

    Happy holidays, all.

  14. I may be in the self-loathing space, too, but I prefer to project the loathing and let it wash over the uncurated external space.

    I’m not curating a damn thing. Wouldn’t know how. Here’s what I do: I read and I write (I do other things, too, bodily functions, money-grubbing, etc. — oh, and earlier this year, I watched the entire MCU series, what an interesting and entertaining jaunt that was, who would have seen that Iron Man would be the central and unifying character). From what I read I save the occasional passage that strikes my fancy, and share it later on my website, on El Libro de la Cara, and lately sometimes on Wonkette. From what I write I send finished fictions (odd that a fiction could be finished in fact) to various litmags and small presses where the work is hardly ever picked up for publication. All those literary ships have put to sea and I stand dockside, an okay boomer neither old nor in the way but rendered unexpectedly inconsequential, except that I find myself among the cohort being blamed for the handbasketed world and the hell into which it is headed.

    And the pictures! Let me not forget the pictures, the photos, photographs, images from scanned-in negatives, that is. Another thing I do, and did, though I rarely any longer take a snap. My dad died a few years ago and that kicked me in the mortality nuts, I thought I’d better get with a few things, get as much of my life wrapped up before it was my time to go, for who knows when the thread will be snipped or snapped. You see, I have all these photos, having been an artsy photographer type, stronger on pretension than on accomplishment — though I did have work in a couple of NYC gallery shows long ago (nothing sold) — and decided I’d best start getting the images finished. So I do that, while listening to various musical distractions (lately Linda Ronstadt, she of glorious voice and passion, not to mention she was one drop-dead hot babe in her day). I post the finished images to the aforementioned FB so that at least a few people may see them. I no longer try to sell them in any form. I’m so sick of the selling.

    So sick of it. It’s not myself so much that I loathe, or even the things I’ve been bent to do and become — it’s just all of it. I have more than enough reading, writing, photofinishing, and money-grubbing to last me to whatever end I reach. Curating is beyond my ken.

  15. I’m curating everyone who commented. It’s Christmas night, everyone has left, the dishes are done, my husband is asleep on the couch and I just read an article about fasting. It’s the f-en season of miracles, put that in your empty stocking and curate it.

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