O for 3, Then a Home Run
Keep swinging until you connect with what's right for you.
0 for 3.
I was walking my dog this week and striking out with my listening choices.
I downloaded Sinéad O’Connor’s autobiography, Rememberings, to play on my bone-conducting headphones. Read by the author. Home run, right?
I’ll never know because I didn’t make it past a handful of chapters. By the time her mother was beating her and making her repeat “I am nothing”, I was ready to run. Then she locked little Sinéad in a dark room for 3 days … and it broke me. Didn’t break Sinéad but it broke me.
I reluctantly returned that book to the little library that lives in my phone. Just couldn’t hear more of Sinéad’s dark memories. Sorry, Sinéad.
Second at Bat
I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jeannette McCurdy.
The title was harsh so I almost didn’t bite — but it’s a huge hit and I was intrigued. Read by the author and containing a dry sense of humor that I enjoy — and it started off with a captivating intro.
But by the time she was 6 and signing with an agent, I was already horrified by the sad and overly prescriptive parenting. I’m sure it’s a humdinger of a memoir but it’s just not for me. I returned it.
A powerful episode of the podcast We Can Do Hard Things.
This one was called Being Left Out: Navigating That Lifelong Ache.
Confession: I have a love/hate relationship with Glennon Doyle. I love her wife Abby Wambach and hate Glennon.
Ah, maybe it’s more like 60% dislike/40% like of Glennon. Mostly because she’ll say something insightful … and then she’ll reveal that she doesn’t know how to buy a plane ticket on the internet and she giggles and wants us to think it’s cute. No, you’re a grown woman acting helpless, Glennon, it’s not cute. Can you please find your way back to saying something insightful? You’re 47 years old: does Abby cut your food into tiny bites and tuck you in with Mr. Snookums, your glow-in-the-dark unicorn? (Ohhhh, wait. Maybe she does. That would make a lot of sense.)
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