Category: Humor

What I Read July 2026

Now with less Geraldine

Graphic with the title "What I Read July 2026" and the subtitle "Now with less Geraldine." The featured book cover is When Women Were Dragons by Kelly Barnhill, with smaller covers of Vera, or Faith by Gary Shteyngart, Orbital by Samantha Harvey, and Joyful, Anyway by Kate Bowler below. "by Jackie Pick" appears in the lower right on a blue background.

When she was in nursery school, my daughter called me Geraldine. She would say “Ok, Geraldiiiiiiiine” when I told her it was time to clean up, take a bath, do chores, leave for school, come home, take medicine, and other unreasonable things.

Geraldine is the unfun part of me, the one in charge of things academic, rigorous, structured, and unwhimsical. She wants to be taken seriously and is one twitchy wrist away from saluting. Geraldine is the Assistant Vice President of Getting Stuff Done, Thank You. Geraldine is indispensable. One would not wish to tackle any sort of emergency without Geraldine nearby armed with a sharpened pencil. She is the keeper of outlines, the cataloger of margins. She is magnificent and exhausting. She is exactly who you want steering the ship through a storm and exactly who you do not want choosing the music afterward.

My point being that Geraldine has elbowed her way into more and more of these posts. Oh, sure, she lets Jackie come in all excited to tell you about what she’s reading and make occasional dumb jokes and do a lot of the heavy lifting. But Geraldine wants to make sure that the astute observation she had while reading makes it into the final draft. Geraldine has started interrupting my reading to administer pop quizzes on my own metacognition. “Are you reading in an Approved Literary Manner that can later be applied, however whimsically, to your posts?

I’m putting Geraldine on a reduced schedule. Mostly because I’m trying to add more mirth to my life, but also partly because I need to have fun reading the books and writing these posts. Otherwise I’ll end up resenting the writing, then the reading, and before you know it Geraldine and I will be on a performance improvement plan. I REFUSE.

I’m (re)turning this into more of a Book of the Month Club. Which is to say I’ll blarp about my new favorite book and then club you over the head with my enthusiasm.

The new format which I may or may not revisit depending on my hormones any given month:

  1. A full review of one book I can’t shut up about (possibly Very Smart, probably not).
  2. Honorable Mentions for other books I liked enough to finish.
  3. Tangents.

If this doesn’t work for you, please submit your complaint to management. Management is Geraldine.

Anyway, this month’s victim of my enthusiasm is…

When Women Were Dragons by Kelly Barnhill

Every woman has had at least one moment where she thought, “You know what? Now would be a great time to become an enormous fire-breathing creature.”

Usually it’s something small. An email. Someone asking where the ketchup is while standing directly in front of the ketchup. An interminable group text. DEFINITELY being told to smile.

We don’t have the luxury of actually becoming dragons. Most of us, anyway. Usually we sigh and maybe bitch a little in that group text, then we carry on participating in civilization.

Kelly Barnhill asked, “What if we didn’t?”

On April 25, 1955, in an alternate America, 642,987 women turned into dragons. And then no one talked about it.

Spectacle? YES! Subtle? NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST! Glorious? YES – GO TELL YOUR TEXT GROUP. I THINK THEY’RE STANDING IN FRONT OF AN OPEN FRIDGE.

Young Alex Green’s beloved aunt was one who dragoned. Alex’s family handled this in a way therapists would flag as “Whoa” by not talking about it. If everyone agrees something didn’t happen, did it, really? And how long can we repress it as a society? (see: Barnill’s mock research documents and Congressional testimonies).

Underneath all the scales and smoke, Barnhill writes about how societies pretend things didn’t happen. And if they did happen, CALM DOWN, LADIES.

Despite the title, this is a book about the impossible jobs women are routinely assigned. Be the mother. Be the sister. Be the shelter. Be the explanation. Be home. Be everything to everyone except yourself. Alex eventually learns that no one can be an entire village and surviving life is a group project. Those lessons, of course, come at a cost.

Yes, the dragons are obviously female rage, and they’re also grief. They are unrealized and directionless ambition. They’re the exhaustion of living as woman. And they are that awful and liberating moment when you realize you’ve spent years making yourself smaller so everyone else can stay comfortable. “Oh!” we say, “maybe it’s all this bending over backwards that makes my spine ache.”

One woman, in the middle of dragoning, offers perhaps the only necessary explanation for why the dragoning occurs:

“Everything is just too damn SMALL.”

If you’re hoping for a dragon-centered fantasy with detailed dragon lore and perhaps a helpful dragon appendix explaining dragoning and maybe some sort of cool hand-drawn old-timey dragon map this isn’t it. The dragons remain mysterious. They don’t explain themselves, and frankly, women shouldn’t have to, either

By the end of the novel, the dragons are still there, and we just care a whole lot more about the women they are. I hope the women in real life who have found everything too damned small find this book.

(P.S. I discovered When Women Were Dragons through Kari Bentley-Quinn’s wonderful Substack, The Long Climb. you can read that terrific post here Thank you, Kari!)


Honorable Mentions:

Orbital by Samantha Harvey

24 hours with six astronauts in the ISS. There is almost no plot and it is still one of the most most transporting novels I’ve read in years.

Read it if you enjoy books that blow your mind but also leave your resting pulse rate alone.

Joyful, Anyway by Kate Bowler

Living with suffering (aka “living”) and the refusal to pretend everything happens for a reason. Bowler selling joy-as-product or joy-as-reward. Thankfully.

Read it if you, too, believe joy is still worth noticing despite all evidence to the contrary.

Vera, or Faith by Gary Shteyngart

A struggling family in a near-future America where technology, politics, and consumer culture all mesh. No matter how many gadgets we invent, people still find new and exciting ways to lie to themselves and each other.

Read if you like cultural satire which doesn’t forget that people are actually real and tender.


And there be the July reads. Read any good books lately?

Hemingway on Perimenopause

An encore post

I have hunted lions. I have watched the sun rise on days when I was certain the world was ending and drunk enough whiskey to be sure of it. I have fought against the marlin, an enormous wet metaphor for my masculinity.

All of it was nothing compared to perimenopause.

I am a man, a matter of some regret in this context. I have observed and made notes. They are incomplete, as all honest accounts are.

It is unknowable, this Red Ledger of Womanhood, but I will explain it anyway.

Perimenopause, a word with too many vowels, is from the Latin for “the threshold between fertility and glorious cronehood.” It is a time when ovaries, like exhausted grenadiers, abandon their post and estrogen evaporates. Much like absinthe, for which it is also time.

Don’t bother deciphering if it’s happening or not happening. Most things halfway happen. You will know when you find yourself crying inexplicably in the grocery store as “Landslide” plays.

Having set down my credentials plainly, it remains only to tell you how it is in the borderlands between the era of spring-loaded hormones and the years that follow, which are less buoyant by degrees.

These are the things that must be endured:

  • Insomnia: The nights are the first to betray you. You will lie awake counting your regrets and your nemeses as a fisherman counts his catch, except you will throw nothing back. In the mornings you will feel like you’ve been hollowed out with a grapefruit spoon.
  • Bleeding: It will happen without pattern or mercy. It will lull you into complacency, then strike with malice. Like when you’re on your boss’s white office sofa. Do not speak of it to your boss. They can only pretend not to notice, and the awkwardness is yours alone. Soon enough, you will get to not miss this.
  • Hot flashes: A traitorous inner furnace ignites when you least expect it, which is to say, always. You will feel a powerful urge to strip naked in public and become visibly furious at the air. There is no dignified way to do this.
  • Moods: They will rise and fall like monsoon squalls. You will slam doors, then return and apologize. You will disassociate as the dermatologist removes questionable moles. You will bellow at the toaster if its settings are untrue. Know you are not hurtling toward operatic collapse. Probably.
  • Carousel of Other Indignities: Everything negative and mysterious you experience from now on is perimenopause. Physical discomfort. Metabolic chaos. That asshole who cut you off in traffic. Thinning hair. Itchy earlobes. People telling you to “let that sink in.” The betrayal of your bladder when you sneeze. Chi-Chi’s vague promise to reopen. Anything that causes the urge to hurl a shoe at someone indiscreetly.

You will seek a system to manage it all. It will fail because everything happens anyway. You will be tempted to try yoga, catalogue your ordeals in a leather-bound journal, or fill your online shopping cart with items terrible and proud.

Do none of this. If you must, cry behind a rack of discounted shapewear at T.J. Maxx. They’ve seen it all at T.J. Maxx. Just do not purchase the waist cincher. You will despise it.

Steel your resolve and proceed.

I hope to leave you with something other than recommendations to age gracefully. Perhaps punch a sandbag and, as you enter this season of dissolving composure, remember: it will pass.

When? A few months. A decade. Maybe longer than Friends, certainly not longer than Grey’s Anatomy. Don’t try to track it. Uncertainty is part of the process.

I warn you so you won’t be startled when chin hairs sprout like a godforsaken harvest. Fortunately, the forgetting will also begin, and you’ll be left holding tweezers. You will tweeze nothing. You will remember again when you touch your chin and wonder when you became late 1970s Barry Gibb. Those colorless bastards will be nearly impossible to remove. Your eyesight will also have gone to shit.

The point is, this is not the end of all things. Soon enough you will be alone with your pulse and the knowledge that no part of you was ever permanent except that tattoo you got one ill-fated evening with a guy known only as “Little Bowser.”

Perimenopause is natural. Also intolerable. This is the paradox you will ponder as you cry under the Zombie Wasteland Sewer Tunnel at any given Spirit Halloween.

That is the sum of it.

Now go and swoop through the world like a hormonally-imbalanced falcon, taking sweaty dominion over it all.

Or go punch a sandbag.

Please Enjoy My 2026 Holiday Card

Exactly on Time

Beach-themed illustrated title card for "Please Enjoy My 2026 Holiday Card." Subtitle: "Exactly on Time." By Jackie Pick.

Hello. It is June and this is my holiday card. Why? Because I did it last year and now I’m trapped by my own nonsense.

Besides, December is overloaded with holidays and various observances. It is the junk drawer of months. June has capacity for dumb stuff like this new tradition of mine.

Many traditions are just questionable decisions that gain momentum. This is how icebreakers, Elf on the Shelf, and Rob Schneider’s career got started.

Anyway. Greetings. Happy Asteroid Day, Outfit-of-the-Day Day, Frozen Yogurt Month, and Accordion Awareness Month however you celebrate.

(Is anyone unaware of accordions?)

Dearly Beloved,

We gather here today to squint at the smoldering crater where the first half of 2026 used to be and see if we can identify any remains.

Rest was once again on my 2026 to-do list. Are you familiar with Rest? People always recommend it. “Get some Rest,” as though Rest is something I should pick up next time I’m out running errands. Wonderful. Where is it? Is there a form? Does it come in bulk? Send me the link.

Thus far in 2026, I have acquired no new hobbies. I’d like to thank myself for that. I also did not renovate any part of my house, body, or mind. Nor did I write the Great American Novel (or the Terrible American Novel.) This is either existentialism or executive dysfunction.

Back in April, I accidentally did a squat.

Spring made a brief cameo appearance here in the Midwest before being escorted off the premises by eighty-seven consecutive weather emergencies. There were tornado warnings, air quality alerts, severe thunderstorms, tentative thunderstorms, and at least one day when outside felt like the inside of a crockpot. (Meteorologists are encouraged to fact-check me in their own annual holiday card, which I assume is called “Warm Fronts.” )

Yes, I consult the weather app frequently. I don’t know why. The weather app has never once improved the weather.

Unfortunately, the world is still producing horrific headlines at a rate normally associated with cocaine usage, and we’re still expected to keep up with household chores and careers and Duolingo and figuring out whether consciousness is emergent or fundamental.

Human beings were not designed for this. Human beings were designed to get excited when we spot a delicious non-lethal berry in the wild.

Still, we persist. Perhaps humanity’s greatest tradition is committing to ridiculous things.

From the Office of Glorious Offspring, my children continue their relentless campaign to grow up. I support this in theory, while also distinctly remembering teaching them things like “this is how to use a spoon” and “don’t lick shopping carts” and “that’s not how pants work.” It’s beautiful. I hate it. I am thrilled. I am devastated. I am proud. I am confused. I am excited. I am worried. These are not opposite things.

I am handling this magnificently, obviously.

The dog also persists. His monthly tradition is to shed enough fur to create an emergency backup dog. He is the household’s resident barbarian king, and we love him.

Clearly, love is just deciding that someone’s nonsense and fuzz is worth celebrating.

Surprisingly (and against mounting evidence) I continue to write. Writing is strange because much of it looks exactly like not writing. Then, somehow, words appear. Occasionally I gather with insanely talented and profoundly kind writers, which is fortunate because writers require regular contact with other writers. Left unattended, we wander into the woods and become lichen.

Writing is my nonsense and fuzz.

As is customary in holiday cards, I shall now announce resolutions that have absolutely no chance of surviving until Labor Day. There are but three:

  1. Learn to distinguish between “This is interesting” and “I now own three turnip-specific kitchen gadgets.”
  2. Avoid arguing with fools unless the audience is exceptional.
  3. Be punctual with holiday-related blog posts. I’m already drafting my Arbor Day piece. The jokes do not write themselves.

Traditions are the nonsense we decide to keep. Some are inherited and some are accidental. Few make much sense and most make life better.

And so, I present to you THIS BERRY for your excitement …

Close-up of a ripe wild strawberry.

…and some thematic music for the rest of your Asteroid Day.

May we continue to commit to the bit.