Hey everybody! This is our Palate Cleanser - a break before we switch gears to the next dinner party, where I get to wax poetic about whatever I feel like. So far, I’ve written a real banger on loneliness (you can read it here), and a piece on one of my biggest inspirations for Ruined Table - Elsa Maxwell. I grappled on what the subject would be for this one, which is strange, because I almost always have something to say, and there’s plenty to talk about right now. But that’s the problem - everyone has an opinion, and I don’t want to contribute to the noise, so instead, I’ll tell you a story about my week last week. It was a week from HELL!
I’d just returned from a twelve day national press tour for Lessons in Chemistry. (Now streaming on Apple TV+!) I finally made it home, exhausted but exhilarated, and a little strung out on all the attention. I was looking forward to some R&R, and getting to sleep in my own bed. I tucked myself in, all nice and cozy, and dreamt I could fly. I was about to kiss a tall, dark and handsome cowboy, when my alarm awoke me to some strange bug bites on my face and feet. My worst nightmare had come true. Bedbugs had hitchhiked home with me.
I had to wait four days for the exterminator to come, and oh what a pit of madness I fell into. I didn’t sleep. I tore my place apart. I vacuumed every hour on the hour. I washed everything I owned, every day. I dried it all on high, and ruined some really nice clothes in the process. Anything that couldn’t be washed, I steamed. My couch now has some interesting steam stains on it. Speaking of my couch, which is fairly new and somewhat expensive - as I deconstructed, steamed and scoured it daily, I came to the sad conclusion that it’s just another mass-produced and shoddily-made couch. On day three, my precious bed bug-sucking vacuum attachment cracked right down the middle, then the dial on my precious bed bug-singeing clothes drier stripped and became forever stuck in the on position. So, on top of the insomnia and bedbugs, I got first hand experience of just how deep we are into the quantity over quality economy. I descended deeper into madness - everything I owned was breaking (not true), but it didn’t matter because I was going to have to get rid of it all anyway (also not true); in fact, I was probably going to have to move, but moving is so expensive, I’d likely end up homeless (definitely not true). The bites on my face and body were beginning to scar, so I would have to say goodbye to my smooth, doll-like skin forever (emphatically not true). None of these things were true, but I knew all of them to be fact. That is, until the exterminator finally made it to my doorstep.
I was a shell of a human by then, covered in cortisone cream and shaking like a chihuahua. He took a look around, and told me he was confident I did not have bedbugs. In fact, he said, “There is absolutely no evidence of bed bugs anywhere in your house.” He instructed me to steam my suitcase one more time, if it’d make me feel better. Then he told me I have fleas. He exterminated, and the problem was solved in under 2 hours.
My point is this - it was my opinion that I had bedbugs, but I treated it like a fact, and it ruined my life for four days. We all have our opinions, and it’s so easy to lean into them as our worlds fall apart. Often, they are the only way we can make sense of things. But sometimes our opinions are the reason our worlds fall apart. It’s unwise to treat these opinions like facts, until we’ve actually learned the facts. But how do we suss the facts from all the noisy opinions out there? That’s the thing that keeps me up at night, (besides bed bugs) - it’s knowing that we can’t have the facts without all of the… other stuff. We can’t have freedom of press without… freedom of press. We can’t have freedom of speech without… freedom of speech. Our greatest strength is also our achilles heel.
And look, I’m not saying people shouldn’t have opinions; I’m the most opinionated person I know. But when people espouse their opinions as fact, it’s called propaganda, and it’s dangerous as hell. There is something strong and admirable in admitting you don’t know something for sure. Maybe if more people did that, we’d be better off. My internal bed bug propaganda was devastating. Imagine how much worse it can get when propaganda is politicized? I mean, we don’t really need to imagine that, do we… just read the news or go on social media for 2 seconds. What’s the answer to all of this? I have a hunch that it starts locally by staying open, loving, and kind with those in our neighborhoods and communities, and spreading out from there. That kind of action becomes contagious. And if everyone could stop being so fucking mean to each other on the internet, that would also help. This is all just my noisy opinion, of course, but it definitely feels like fact.
I’m gonna take a short break for Thanksgiving, but will be back the following week with a new dinner party, A Very AI Christmas with guest host Nick Thorburn of the band Islands. This one will be super fun and extra ridiculous. It’s also the first dinner party segment where I’ll be enacting the paid subscribers policy, so if you want full access, you’ll need to level up to a paid subscription. These newsletters don’t write themselves. (Or do they?...)
As a thanks for being an early adopter to Ruined Table, hit the link below for fifty percent off a full year’s subscription. Paid or not, many thanks to all of you for subscribing. I see you and I appreciate you!
Oh gosh, personal facts! Was just having a conversation aka tear fest this morning with my partner about needing a new way of looking at things aka my job to find better tools for coping and ultimately thriving from my creative center. Bed bugs to fleas to freedom I guess:)
Amen. I'm glad you didn't have bedbugs (although I'm unsure how much of a consolation fleas are) but I'm sorry life was so chaotic for those four days at home! Hope things have quieted down for you since then.