Well shit, y’all. It’s June and the humidity that I had hoped to allude for a few more weeks has finally come barreling at me with the velocity of a high-speed train. See, I have a complicated relationship with heat and humidity. I grew up in Mississippi, a place in which August makes the moisture in a hot yoga studio feel downright temperate. Heat and humidity, for me, are cantankerous old pals. Impossible to escape, not always on my page, but cohorts I learned to live with, and at times, even appreciate, as they always remind me where I came from.
Though New York City is much further north, it still puts on quite a summer. When I moved there at 22 years old, the heat and I were quickly reacquainted. Familiar sweat stains would crop up in the armpits of my work-appropriate blouse after descending underground to the subway. Even in sundresses and flowing tank tops, unrelenting boob sweat would wash down my torso in a way that was annoying, but expected. I was so accustomed to dabbing the sweat from my foundation-laden face that I kept tissues in my purse, designated for dabbing dewiness. I walked slower. I took breaks. I did what needed to be done.
Unlike the air-conditioned south, the city has no mercy. During a New York summer, there is nowhere to escape, aside from a D’Agostino frozen food aisle or a Starbucks, already crowded by those of us seeking a “public” restroom. Our meager window units did their best to sputter adequate cool, but more often than not, I found myself ripping off my clothes as soon as I walked in the door and standing half-naked in front of an icy stream that barely blew about four inches from its vent.
As often as I groaned about sweat-saturated work clothes or having to shower more than once a day, the heat always felt familiar. Because I was a professional. Back then I had the humidity tolerance of a parrot. The heat endurance of a palm tree. HA! MOVE OVER NEW YORK, I WILL SHOW YOU HOW IT’S DONE. THIS HUMIDITY IS CHILD’S PLAY. Once as I was planning a trip to Spain in July, someone said to me, “Oh my God, Madrid is going to be so hot that time of year.” I scoffed and thought, “Pfffff…you don’t even know, sister.”
Now I’m in the Carolinas, having settled between the south and the east, and I gotta tell you: After not having lived in extreme humidity for a few years, my tolerance has wilted. Now I am that person who chooses her outdoor time based on when it will be coolest and when the sun will be at its weakest.
I’m dedicating today’s What Deenie’s Doing to the 90s, when I used to suntan with abandon. Here’s what I’m doing to survive my Hot Mom Summer.
Listening | Everything 90s. I’ve recently and unexpectedly fallen into somewhat of a nostalgia K Hole. It started when I’d forgotten I’d put The Cranberries’ “Liar,” on an old playlist, and it cycled on during a morning walk. RIP, Dolores.
This led me back to Our Lady of Angst, Tori Amos. Look, I was a cheerful teen, but all that pubescent angst has to go somewhere, and for me, it went into Tori Amos CDs. I have absolutely no clue what “Cornflake Girl” is about but have you ever screamed at the top of your lungs, alone in your car, “YOU BET YOUR LIFE IT IS!”? You should try it.
Last but not least, I tumbled upon one of my all-time favorite Pearl Jam tunes, one I always seem to forget about, and when I hear it I am as jazzed as a frat bro at a Jimmy Buffet concert. “State of Love and Trust” is, hands down, one of the most essential, most underrated Pearl Jam songs. Yes, I love “Better Man.” Of course, I was horrified by the “Jeremy” music video. But if you want a song that **holds up** when you need a dose of the 90s, here you go.
Reading | How To Stay Married: The Most Insane Love Story Ever Told by Harrison Scott Key. Full disclosure, I haven’t read it yet, but I am about to be on vacation where I plan to read it. Many years ago, I stumbled upon Harrison’s work in Oxford American. I hadn’t chuckled like that at a piece of literature in a very long time, so I did what all budding young writers do, and googled everything there was to know about him. Turned out, he was going to be in New York in a few weeks to promote his first book. I brazenly reached out and asked if I could take him for coffee to pick the brain of a better, more experienced writer.
After forwarding the OA pice to my brother (because obviously he would love it), he did what professors do and dug up a most crucial piece of information: Harrison was not only friends with our cousin, Kelly, he grew up in the same small, rural town as our dad. Now that is some real Mississippi shit.
Since our coffee date in downtown Manhattan, Harrison has graciously supported my writing career and I have continued to near-pee with body giggles every time I read his work. The World’s Largest Man is a must-read if you are a person from a family and have a beating heart, and I recommend Congratulations, Who Are You Again to every writer I know. (It’s part of my New Writer Starter Set alongside Bird by Bird and On Writing.) While his most recent book is a harrowing account of how his marriage survived perilous ups and downs, it will no doubt be a heart-wrenching and “near-pee” occasion as well.Shopping | J. Crew Swimsuits. While J. Crew didn’t really come into my periphery until Jenna Lyons blessed us with her vision in the early 2000s (a sequin skirt with sneakers and…a puffer vest?!), somehow in my mind, it is inextricably linked to 90s Banana Republic. You know, back when they only sold t-shirts with safari maps (but why?) and khaki shorts like Laura Dern wore in Jurassic Park. I think of 90s J. Crew as having been the WASPier cousin to BR. And even though Jenna Lyons is no longer there and its creative vision is…less eccentric…it’s maintained its reputation as an excellent resource for basics.
That said, I recently came to terms with the fact that I am basic when it comes to swimwear. Look—I have spent nearly all my life trying not to be basic. I’ve always wanted to buck the status quo, try something different, do anything other than what they told me I was supposed to do. I like my sartorial choices to align with that. But as a now-40-year-old mom who often finds herself in all sorts of unruly, primitive positions while chasing a 2-year-old on a beach like some cave man, I need swimwear that’s flattering and comfortable at all angles. For me, that’s the J. Crew French bikini top and high-waisted, ruched bottoms.
Eating | Wild-Caught Mahi Mahi. At the risk of sounding like my parents, I’m going to go out on a limb here and talk about Costco. During the pandemic, it became a small inside joke that my dad wouldn’t stop talking about the steaks he bought at Costco. “Hell, they’re as good as any!” “Restaurants are getting their meat from Costco!” “We need to get you some Costco steaks!” Then he started urging me to stock up on paper products, toiletries, etc.
“With what storage?!” I asked him, as we struggled to find anywhere to keep non-essential items in our downsized rental with barely enough storage for our laundry detergent. But now that I live in a larger space and don’t plan on moving another 60 times, like the last decade, we are card-carrying Costco members and let me tell you about it. We recently started buying this frozen Mahi Mahi and it’s a lifesaver on a weeknight. We’ve been whipping up fish tacos, bowls, or just baking it in parchment pouches and serving it alongside rice and veggies for a filling dinner that needs cooking in a flash.
Watching | Nick Cage movies. I love a theme night, and since I am in pajamas by 7 p.m. most nights, my kinds of themes are “Tom Hanks movie marathon” or “murder show night.” We recently watched The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent, which, if you are at all intrigued by Nicholas Cage, then please do yourself a favor and watch it. It’s so weird and delightful, not to mention man-of-the-moment, Pedro Pascal, is fantastic in it.
Then we embarked on a journey to rewatch as many Nicholas Cage films as our “Buy” or “Rent” budget would allow (Buy Con-Air for $18?! I’ll find another way, thanks). Our next film was Face Off.HOW DID THIS MOVIE GET MADE? (Answer: The 90s.) In the first 15 minutes of the film, a child is shot and killed; a pre-teen in a choir outfit is sexually assaulted by Cage’s character, dressed in a priest attire; a female flight attendant is propositioned and then thrown out of an airplane. The entire movie is totally bonkers. And what’s insane is that I first saw this film when I was 14 years old and remember thinking it was the best film ever. So, misogyny aside, it’s still a pretty insane story and if you can overlook how totally nuts we all were in the 90s for thinking “this is all totally acceptable!”
As mentioned, I’m going on vacation with my family, so there won’t be any newsletters for the next couple of weeks. I’ll be enjoying time with my family, but I’m also hoping to steal a few moments to craft up some new essays and newsletters. I’ve put out a call for questions: ASK ME ANYTHING and I’ll write an essay about it. If you think of a topic or question, shoot me a note! Til next time. xx
I loved this! And this pic should be blown up and at your front entry.
The 90s were a different time, truly. The 80s, too. Especially when it comes to movies that were deemed acceptable for children. One of my favorite movies to watch with my sisters and my parents was Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (80's movie, but we watched all the time 90s when we were elementary age). There's a scene where a guy's heart gets ripped out of his chest, and he's staring at it as it bursts into flames in this other dude's hand. Not to mention the fact that the plot is centered around this cult that uses child slaves as miners. And this was rated PG...