Some things to know about Christo: He’s married to my brilliant, funny friend Izidora, a writer and translator, and together they’re raising three fantastic daughters. I first met Christo when Izidora brought him and his brothers into the restaurant where I was hostessing a few years back. It was the night before Thanksgiving and I was feverishly selling pies from our bakery in hopes of winning a cash prize. Not only did their family’s orders push me over the finish line, but somewhere in the chit-chat, Christo complimented The Jesus and Mary Chain song I’d shared in an edition of Whelmed.

Between the choice music taste, a house full of exceptional women and girls, and abundant opinions about creativity, Christo has long seemed unusually well-positioned for a Whelmed guest spot. You know I wouldn’t hand the reins of this particular operation over to just any ol’ man.

Music, fashion and film by Christo Thornycroft

The summer guest spot harkens back to when late night talk show hosts took off to the beach with their families and handed the desk keys to a respected talent. The Tonight Show did this, with Joan Rivers and Jay Leno stepping in to entertain the monoculture while Johnny Carson worked on his tennis game. In a lot of ways, it speaks to summer’s irreverence (as does this 1:36pm sake I just popped). This most revered of Midwest seasons requires a certain languidness in order to find its true rhythm. And in the spirit of this ease, Whelmed has her first guest host to celebrate the month of our drenched afternoons and tomatoes splitting hopelessly.

MUSIC

I’ll set the scene: It’s Lollapalooza in the city. It’s not my Lollapalooza anymore; it’s been a few new generations now. I’m driving to pick up my 17-year-old daughter from her job. Her shift at the Crumble at Michigan and Wacker ends at 11:15pm. Without a military draft, maybe mandatory terms in food retail service are an appropriate substitute to build our national character. Every night, my daughter gets in the car thankful for leather seats and a comfortable ride home. She has stories of the clientele that range from bewildered to entitled. She drinks too many energy drinks during her shifts. Lord knows her mother and I did far worse in our service time.

Outside our windows on the sidewalks, the crowds shimmer in the rain. They’ve just witnessed Charli XCX taking the top off of Chicago summer. With her new album “Music, Fashion, Film” supplying the core to her sweaty, fervent existentialism, and some “Brat” hits providing the ligaments, Charli banged her head and really hurt her neck to dance, rock, and spectacle.

This album is mostly two-and-a-half minute songs of breathy, glitched-out anthems, packed with vulnerability that took me back to a teenagers’ view of inspiration. “Rock Music” is the declaration of new ground and new status. “Camera” is defiance. “Yeah” is the fight and submission to the creative act. “SS26” is for my nine-year-old in the car. “I’m Afraid” a 90’s confessional rocker track, and finally, “No One Lasts Forever” is the coda, the outcome, the final note, an admission to the endless and the finite, and the distance between.

Welcome to rock music, Charli. It’s good to have you in the pit.

FASHION

I grilled chicken thighs around 9 PM for a late family dinner recently. Once we reach the end of August, it’s pitch-black at this time. The cooler air brushed my ankles and all at once, it struck me: Fall attire is near.

My summer wardrobe of black workout shorts and the occasional black T-shirt and cowboy hat will soon switch back over to long sleeves, sweaters, jeans, boots and — still, always — the occasional cowboy hat. I’ve got to steal back my clothes from my 14-year-old daughter who treats every day like it’s a Reality Bites tribute, regardless of temperature. Other than that, I am ready for the seasons to change.

As I write this it’s getting near midnight, I’m waiting on Izidora’s buzzed return from the British School mom’s book club, and I’m wearing my best fitted faded black jeans, and a flattering Calvin Klein v-neck. I’m arriving early. Fall fashion, this man is ready for you. (Here is the Goodwill where I find my best v-necks.)

Also, it needs to be said that I can clearly see the future, and this fall the fashion of Chicago street walks will be dominated by dark navy (Pantone PMS 5359 C) and burnt orange (Pantone PMS 1665 C).

Invest early.

FILM

This is a defense of a billion-dollar film.

“The Odyssey” moved me in the way Charli’s album moved me. I was gripped, enthralled. Not as a visual spectacle, but as an exploration of man. Obviously, others felt this way too, as the movie put a billion dollars’ worth of asses in seats to watch the reimagining of a 2,700-year-old, 582-page Greek poem.

As with all things in this fractured little world, with great popularity comes great criticism. My wife, Izidora, immigrated here in the early 90’s, and her communist heart beats faster whenever she sees a male-centered Western film make a shitload of money. I have heard her cackles and takedowns daily since we saw “The Odyssey” together (which she was taken with in the moment, mind you).

Much of the source material of Izidora’s Bulgarian put-downs originated in pull quotes from Emily Wilson’s well-written takedown of the movie “An Uncomplicated Man.” Emily Wilson is the expert in the room; the phrase “entitled to her own opinion” (which is the lamest phrase in conversational English) does not begin to capture her position to critique. She is famously the first female translator of the Odyssey into English to have published her own translation of the iconic first line: “Tell me about a complicated man.”

Wilson and my wife agree that Christopher Nolan’s Odysseus is “uncomplicated.” As a man, I have to say I experienced him differently. Nolan’s Odysseus struck me as haunted, broken, and self-loathing. He’s been driven to glory by ego and duty, and has become undone by the conquest that took him to the peak of his capabilities. This is the story of men.

Call the movie too puritanical if you will. It’s another way of saying that the movies traded out sexuality in the place of dollars. But choices were made to humanize Calypso rather than categorize her as lust personified. Last I heard, these were the choices we wanted from male directors to better portray women on the screen.

This wasn’t a great sex film (though I do think Hathaway and Damon’s bed scene, in the face of certain death and impossible betrayal, is vulnerable and hot). But it was a great film about the failure of men. The failure of ego, the lostness, and the redemption of subjugation.

This is as complicated as men get, if you ask me. Everything else is just cheating and drinking problems.

Thanks for letting me be your Joan Rivers. Throw on some Charli, love some art, and have a Happy Labor Day. – Christo

Linky link links

OK, briefly back to me.

• Dolly Parton’s devotion to the working-class woman was no small thing. (I’m rereading Sarah Smarsh’s book if you’d like to join me.)

• Helen Rosner considers the oyster: “There are many reasons to love oysters on the half shell, but, for me, the most vivid is the concentration they demand, at every step.”

• A pimento-tomato sandwich should be 1/3 of your diet right about now!

Next month, I’ll catch you up on my watercolor work and what we’re doing with Rough Drafts after a summer off.

Stay tuned,
Bridget

I wonder how long my deeply Midwestern sister and I will last at Jimmy’s. The crowd feels heavily initiated and eternally loyal. How long till they find out our bootleg Knicks shirts were just purchased that afternoon? I’d originally tagged along on my sister’s work trip just so I could see Kusama’s Infinity Room at the Guggenheim. The citywide bliss over the Knicks is unplannable and undeniable. We’re shy to claim our unearned piece of it.

“We can always watch the second half elsewhere,” I offer. As if every TV-adjacent seat in the boroughs isn’t long accounted for.

A couple minutes into the first quarter, two older gentlemen in matching Knicks hats swivel around with a question.

“How does basketball work?”

They’re from South Africa, they tell us, in town for work and watching their first-ever game.

We’re stunned to find ourselves out-outsidered.

As our little corner of the bar soon starts to commune, it comes to light that almost none of us are New Yorkers or bonafide Knicks fans. The two loudest guys flew in from North Dakota that morning just to watch the game in freshly acquired jerseys. Even the guy from Queens doesn’t count himself a fan. He makes this clear right before he explains free throws to our new South African friends.

In the final minutes, the bar reaches its most raucous pitch. We’re losing our collective minds, closing our tabs and poising to run to Times Square at the buzzer. And that’s when an elderly woman in a rhinestone denim jacket walks in and claims a barstool near me. I ask her how much she loves all this.

“I’m from Dallas,” she says. “I only root for the Cowboys.”

Everyone else in the world, it seems, roots for New York.

And for one night, New York – or at least the corner we landed in – let us.

More just-right things

• Uniqlo has Frederick kiddie pajamas. I gifted a pair to my friend’s mouse-obsessed toddler and she wears them constantly, on the playground and the CTA. A true die-hard.

• Marquette’s Tyler Kolek is now the chicest man in the NBA.

• Ahead of Father’s Day, Obama’s pitch-perfect address to his daughters in his speech yesterday: “What can I say? You mean everything to me.”

Love,
Bridget

P.S. Thanks to my friend Patrick for first recommending Jimmy’s Corner to me!

P.P.S. I’ve had to postpone Rough Drafts this month - but stay tuned for our next meetup!

P.P.P.S. The cover photo for this post is by artist John Donohue.

It’s Friday morning and I’m thinking about beer. After 177 years, Schlitz—the beer that made Milwaukee famous—is no more.

The story of Schlitz is the story of America. An immigrant in Milwaukee, Joseph Schlitz, climbed from bookkeeper to CEO after the brewery’s owner died in the 1850s. Fifteen years later, the Great Chicago Fire struck—and opportunity knocked. The brewery deployed train cars full of Schlitz barrels to the devastated city, and generations of loyal blue-collar drinkers were born.

As Chicago rebuilt itself over decades, Schlitz was part of the blueprint. The company constructed taverns all over the city, marked by its signature globes. (Ten are official city landmarks today.)

A booming business was born from disaster. But it couldn’t survive a more harrowing threat: executives tightening their belts.

Schlitz changed ingredients and tweaked formulas to lower costs in the 1970s, but drinkers tasted the shortcuts. Insulted, they reached for other brands’ 12-packs.

For half a century, the brand struggled to recover with new owners, sold-off properties and flopped nostalgia plays. More recently, Schlitz products disappeared without a word. You may have noticed Schlitz Premium lager missing from your favorite tap handles in the last few years.

The brand will release one final commemorative batch this summer. But it won’t change the moral of the story. Let a good thing be a good thing. Sometimes, the best version is the one you already have.

Rough Drafts update

This may come as a surprise after my obituary to a beer, but Rough Drafts is moving outside for the summer!

Our next gathering is June 20. Stay tuned for our location!

Same format as always: Bring whatever you’re working on, be it a vacation itinerary, a gouache painting, a wedding toast. We’ll share a space, bounce ideas, and make progress and/or friends. Everyone is welcome!

Foraged crushes

Photo crush: Stephen Shore. Uncommon Places is the colorful result of his cross-country road trip in the 1970s. I sincerely love every single shot, but especially this photo of Yosemite.

Writer crush: “I sincerely don’t know why poetry can be mortifying but tattoos can be cool.” – Jenny Zhang

Landscape crush: Piet Odulf. Forever. He designed Chicago’s secret garden and so much more.

Storefront crush: Canadian pharmacies. I was recently in Vancouver for work and made a 9 PM run for contact solution. I was prepared to be depressed, like I get around CVS carpet. Instead, I was delighted. Canadian pharmacies are like Sephora and Whole Foods had a baby who received customer service training at the Ritz-Carlton.

Crush-crush: 90’s-era Adam Duritz. I was a child on the public pool’s high dive when “Mr. Jones” blasted out from every speaker everywhere, so forgive my late arrival. I’m obsessed with finding male songwriters who write interesting, three-dimensional women, as so few can—and Adam is among the best. He also took a gig as a bartender for a year to cope with his skyrocket to fame. Charming. (I owe this crush to the Counting Crows HBO documentary.)

🍻,
Bridget

Sometimes the backseat is my pulpit.

It happened recently on a trip with my girlfriends. We drove past a blocks-long line of girls and young women waiting for their turn at a Harry Styles pop-up.

I straightened in my seat, suddenly pissed. I thought about the scarcity girls are taught to accept early in life. It seemed unfair, this queue of them waiting to pick at merch and line the pockets of a supposedly enlightened, feminist male pop star on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.

The literal cost of experiencing Harry on tour puts waiting in line to shame. His latest 30-week tour consists of mini-residencies across seven international cities – one in the U.S – with dynamic pricing that hikes ticket prices up to nearly three times that of his last tour. The format is meant to minimize strain on him and his band; their last tour took nearly two years.

Fandom has always been built on scarcity. Expend all the time, money, and energy you want – you’ll never outbid the unreachability of a star. Meanwhile, the cost of showgoing keeps rising; ticket prices are up 40 percent since 2019. Harry didn’t create this dynamic. But as I took in an entire block of girls waiting their turn, he certainly emerged as an engineer and profiteer of a machine meant to be fun.

My friends, compassionately, disagreed. They defended his tour, citing work-life balance. I tightened my grip onto my pulpit. Give me a break, you guys, I barked. He needs to get his ass on the bus to Omaha and earn a paycheck like everyone else.

Even I had to laugh at the role I’d chosen: tour manager drill sergeant. Maybe in this job I’d sport a buzz cut. Surely I’d terrorize the joy out of the crew, the band, the star. Our tour bus would be silent, our smiles manufactured. But damn if we wouldn’t meet every girl in the world where she wanted us.

A day or two later, I turned on Harry’s “One Night in Manchester” on Netflix, my first time hearing his new album, “Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally.” I wanted entertainment while assembling a Wayfair cabinet. The cries of my battery-powered screwdriver drowned out much of the set – until we got to “Paint By Numbers,” a pretty song about the hollowness of a public image.

“What a gift it is to be noticed / But it’s nothing to do with me,” the song begins. It struck me instantly as a gentle rebuttal to people like me: inclined to fight scarcity with more scarcity, to seek a scapegoat for shapeless frustrations, those difficult to discern the beginning and the end. He closed his show urging the arena to take care of one another, then he walked backstage, through fluorescent-lit halls, smiling at custodians and security guards.

I set down my drill sergeant whistle and screwdriver. It’s easy, in the comfort of the backseat with a built-in audience, to drive a bold take a bit too far.

Sometimes I don’t know how to love the music and hate the machine that delivers it to me – babies and bathwater. I find myself increasingly at my pulpit, spotting problems, inequities and deep flaws around the very things I lean on for pleasure, delight, fun.

I don’t want Harry Styles to get on a bus to Omaha and grind himself to smithereens for my moral comfort. I do want a world where more people – girls, especially – can get as close as possible to what they revel in.

Foraged words

“Don’t Try To Figure it Out, Just Love Everyone and Tell The Truth” – A bumper sticker I spotted on Armitage yesterday

“Normally, an anchor’s job is to deliver the news. Guthrie is showing her audience an example of how to live with no news.” – NYT’s TV critic on Savannah Guthrie’s return to work after her mom’s disappearance

“Bring cash, remember your manners, and leave while you’re still having fun. Generally speaking, learn to drive stick and improve your vocabulary.” – Jemima Kirke’s rules of life

“Nature abhors a void! Create space and watch what rushes in to fill it.” – From ‘an extremely non-comprehensive list of how to increase your surface area for luck and magic (and instantly sprinkle fairy dust on your life)’

Good things

• My friend Izidora Angel’s translation of a novel – “She Who Remains” by Rene Karabash – is shortlisted for the Booker Prize. She said that misinterpreting a text message can cost you a friendship; imagine translating a 25,000-word masterpiece.

• This poem: “Addendum” by chen chen.

• I made you a playlist for a kinder gentler sweeter spring.

• My current holy trinity of treats: Propitious Mango ice cream (three-packs at Pete’s on Western and Madison!); strawberry peach sour candy mango mix of Fruit Riots; and Trader Joe’s milk chocolate crunchy corn bars.

Psst!

The next Rough Drafts is April 18! It’s a creative meetup for anyone who likes to get stuff done. Find all the details here and bring a buddy.

💋🪩,
Bridget

I can’t blame you if you plan to spend tomorrow on a patio. But if you’re looking for something else…

Tomorrow! Come hang at Old Town Ale House for ROUGH DRAFTS, a creative gathering for anyone who has a work in progress. (And honestly, who doesn’t?)

Every third Saturday, our Ale House friends open up the bar two hours early just for us. Come and sketch, paint, write, doodle, or hatch an idea as you chit chat over a Schlitz. (We call it Rough Drafts for a reason.) No RSVP, no cost, just come with your own materials, ready to make some progress and friends!

The details:
Old Town Ale House (219 W. North Ave.)
Saturday, March 21
1–3 PM
Free (bar + jukebox are cash only!)

Hope you can make it! If not, our next dates are April 18, May 16 and June 20.

Foraged words

“I’m a firm believer in promoting the idea of questionable taste when it comes to objects and interiors. The most layered, beautiful rooms often include something a bit off, something unexpected, or something that’s just plain ugly.” – Benjamin Reynaert

“Look at the teeth! They are seashells!” – The description of a 2’ paper machet horse I feel permission to want thanks to Benjamin

“When I write, I feel like an armless legless man with a crayon in his mouth.” – Kurt Vonnegut

“The key to good small talk is to believe, if only for a moment, that it is just as urgent and consequential as any philosophical conundrum or national event. At the core of this belief lie kindness and tenderness.” – Roger Rosenblatt

Love,
Bridget

P.S. This video of the Hamnet cast and crew’s dance party at the request of the child star, Jacobi Jupe, makes me smile and cry at the same time. (I call that a sun shower.)

Squinting at the illustrated instructions, I turn to YouTube – only to find rows and rows of videos of people assembling pieces in utter silence.

My headache deepens when I unwrap some key parts to find them broken. I grasp some words of the four-letter variety. I collect myself before I call customer service, ready to punch a series of numbers and talk to no one.

The rep, to my relief, is a human being – the kind who repeats every word I say while typing it out.

“Tabletop,” he echoes. “Cracked in half.”

I love this excess of words. So much so, I can barely care that the tabletop is broken in two.

As he starts to detail my refund, I leapfrog ahead with a question about the delivery fee.

“Yes,” he starts to laugh. “You’ve read my mind.”

It’s the first – and only – thing I’ve read in the whole ordeal.

I’m writing this from my new favorite place in my new apartment (!!!). (It’s the loveseat in the window.) Moving took something out of me, and put me back together in a different shape. There’s a cash-wadded little mobster within me now where the lackadaisical little sister used to be.

I see the tenacity it takes to live alone. To decide what gets built and what gets sent back. To sign every dotted line and call every shot, with no choice but to then live among all those shots. To favor forgiveness over permission, even when no one’s there to grant you either.

Foraged words

“That’s what a notebook is: a break from your own voice.” – Daniel Poppick on fragmented notebooks vs. polished diaries

“After I read that, I screamed, fell violently to the floor and tore out large patches of my own hair.” – My dad reacts calmly to insufferable writing on the internet

“A goodbye manages the uncertainty of separation; it’s a signal that you won’t be gone forever, that you’re parting on good terms, and that eventually you’ll pick things up where you left off. Studying the rest of the animal kingdom reminds us just how much we’ve complicated that message.” – The New Yorker investigates why animals say hello but not goodbye

“The most romantic thing you can do is the dishes.” – As a girl who just gave up a dishwasher, I’m gonna remember this NYT Cooking subject line.

“Ian MacKaye from Fugazi and Minor Threat says it well, too, which is, ‘I care, but I don’t give a f*ck.’ That’s a really healthy balance, and it’s maybe not achievable for everybody.” – I feel this, Jason Narducy.

All scrap, no sap

I’m popping up this Saturday (aka Valentine’s Day!) at Vosges Haut-Chocolat with an arsenal of handmade valentines for you, you and you. My friend Mirela (aka Bread Cult) will be there selling her first-class signature sourdough loaves. It’ll all make for a very sweet, very Chicago Valentine’s Day.

On each valentine, I’m collaging a watercolor heart and hand-stamping only the BEST of the best love song lyrics. (At this time of publication, I’ve not yet found a way to include every word of “Tougher Than the Rest.”)

If you have a song suggestion or a request, send it my way!

Love,
Bridget

It’s so cold this weekend in Chicago that even the Polar Plunge is canceled. In other words: Ideal conditions to post up inside with a creative project and good company…

Tomorrow! Come hang at Old Town Ale House for ROUGH DRAFTS, a creative gathering for anyone who has a work in progress. (And honestly, who doesn’t?)

Our Old Town friends will open up the bar early just for us on Saturday afternoon, so come in from the cold and collage your 2026 vision board, tweak that gorgeous love poem or break in that brand new sketch book. Make friends (inevitable) and a little progress (optional).

The details:
Old Town Ale House (219 W. North Ave.)
Saturday, January 24
1–3 PM
Free (bar + jukebox are cash only!)

Sorry it’s short notice; I meant to write you much sooner! But if you can’t make it tomorrow, we’ll keep meeting for Rough Drafts on the third Saturday of the month in 2026. Same time and place.

Hope to see you there!

Inspiration menu

• Jessie Kanelos Weiner’s permission slip to try on another artist’s style

• George Saunders on the importance of human contact

• A self-taught textile artist wound up on Harry Style’s next album cover

• Artists reimagine Betty Boop, Nancy Drew and other 1930s icons who’ve entered the public domain

• Doodle a different bird every day during Birbfest

• My current still life inspiration: David Hockney, “The Round Plate”

• This poster sums up the Rough Drafts ethos. That it’s sold-out is a good omen for 2026, I think.

Love,
Bridget

P.S. Enjoy my friend Anne Marie’s throwback-galore winter Whelmed playlist!

Hosting is one of my very favorite things. I love the constant balancing act: creativity and pragmatism, forethought and improvisation, grit and grace. Strike it right, and everyone feels they belong.

It’s a lot like writing. I love reading to see how others strike that balance; how they build a perch others …

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Here’s a story social media won’t tell: One sunny Saturday morning this October, I hit the road in my 15-year-old Corolla and joined a family caravan up to Traverse City to celebrate my mom’s birthday. Halfway there—in a McDonald’s parking lot, where else—the metaphorical wheels fell off. Warning lights flashed on my dash. Scents of melting plastic flooded the car. White smoke appeared.

I did my due diligence and popped the hood, though it was all Japanese to me. I sent photos to my parents, then waited. Closing the hood, I caught my reflection in the windshield. I had chopped my hair to my chin the night before. It was shockingly straight and terribly small. I resembled, let’s say, a broom in a cardigan and glasses. And that’s what kicked off the spiral: first disgust, then despair; a six-piece McNugget interlude; and finally, the inevitable lambasting of myself for caring so mightily about my hair when my Corolla could be on the verge of combusting, for all I knew.

My car stayed in the hands of the Pep Boys mechanics for the weekend while I tried my darndest to be present with my family. There was so much to savor: blue skies, peak fall color, enormous sand dunes, my parents healthy, all of us together. I wanted to soak it in.

I was close to getting the hang of it—possibly warming up to the bob, too—when my phone dinged on the last day with an update from Pep Boys. Even in the typo-ridden voice-to-text jumble, it was clear: My once-trusty car was no more.

I’m telling you this story not just to catch you up on the less-documented parts of my fall, but because it reminds me of the inherent challenge of the holidays: Can you show up for the good stuff even if your world happens to be glitching, melting, smoking? Can you mute the spiral and take note of all that is good—even when none of it looks perfect, and you don’t either?

The holidays are all about not pushing ourselves, but sometimes a push is what I need. Not to be more productive or more impressive or more together, as the world demands year-round. Just to be a little more generous. With my reflection, and especially with everyone who helps me see it all more clearly.

Foraged words

“Love will make you fit it all in the car.” – First I saw it embroidered by Squash Princess, then I heard the song by Cameron Winter.

“Most of our lives we live closed up in ourselves, with a longing not to be alone, to include others in that life that is invisible and intangible. To make it visible and tangible, we need light and material, any material.” – Anni Albers. I am newly obsessed with her weavings.

“I used to think if we could just get through this time everything will be peaceful,

At least we won’t be terrified and exhausted, but it turns out there’s lots and lots

Of ways to be terrified and exhausted. Who knew? So hold my hand and let’s go

Up this next mountain. Who cares about other mountains? Isn’t this one lovely?”

– Brian Doyle. Also newly obsessed with his poems.

Let’s get crafty: December 14 + 20!

I’m excited to host a holiday card-making workshop next weekend! Join me at Pallas Studio in Lincoln Park on Sunday, December 14 from 1-2:30, and collage your own set of festive winter cards. All materials provided. Just cop a ticket and show up!

If you can’t make it, no worries – I’ll be hosting another workshop on December 20! More to come.

And if you’re interested in buying some of my handmade cards, just shoot me an email and I’ll take care of you.

Loving lately

• Learning that well-fed pigeons always coo, and so much more about our little city companions thanks to The Pigeon Hustle, recommended by my friend Emily

• A recent Tuesday night out with my friend Carolyn that started with Yoko Ono and ended spontaneously at the Patti Smith show

• Relishing the photos and Rachel Tashijan’s write-up of the recent Chanel runway show in a subway station

• Whipping around in my grandmother’s fire engine-red, turbo-powered car until I can secure my own set of wheels again

Love,
Bridget

P.S. Your friends are cars; who’s most reliable? Forward this email to them! xo

In my childhood, the holiday season began the Friday after Thanksgiving — and only at the precise moment my dad hit play on the instrumental version of “Christmas Time is Here” on our much-loved Charlie Brown Christmas CD. It had to be the instrumental version. …

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I’ve been house-hunting, and it’s more of a spiritual exercise than I expected.

Every showing is a séance: You try to summon a version of your life that could exist in a place still breathing with someone else’s. Some spaces make it easy; others fight back. At one showing, the bathroom mirror was still steamed up from the tenant’s morning shower. Another had a kitty litter box with all the fixings of a spaceship — lights, an automatic door, a fan — yet the entire place begged for an air freshener.

Even with imagination, house-hunting feels unnatural, not to mention deeply impolite. When else do you let yourself into a stranger’s home, size it up, and picture your life layered over theirs?

Forcing your version of “home” onto a place someone else inhabits makes every house feel haunted, and every life seem interchangeable. Rick Barot knew this. In his poem “Ode to Interruptions,” a series of small domestic hauntings unfold in his parents’ 100-year-old home in Oakland. There are no names, only “someone”—a person who could be anyone, or everyone.

He knows something I’m just learning: Our homes may be unique to us, but our houses will outlive us. They’ll just keep holding what they’ve seen, forever.

Foraged words

“I’m ‘Mr. Born to Run’… but I live 10 minutes from my hometown.” — Bruce Springsteen

“You need to scare yourself. Get gothic. It’s romantic.” — Heather Hravilesky on good vs. great writing

“Last year, I completely redecorated the house. The rooms were painted using an entirely new and beautiful palette of colors. The furniture was carefully edited, and the cupboards were rearranged so that only the nicest things remained. I increased my menagerie of pets, adding two more kittens to the six I already cherished. I started keeping chinchillas as pets; they now number seven. The already bountiful gardens were enlarged, and more trees and shrubs and perennials were planted — all to entice me to stay here.” — Martha Stewart on trying to redecorate her suburban angst

“The story of real estate is also a story of reincarnation.” — A profile of New York’s premier stager

“Be a Communist, a stamp collector, or a Ladies’ Aid worker if you must, but for heaven’s sake, be something.” — Marjorie Hillis, “Live Alone and Like It”

If Halloween were a poem

“The Nature Poem” by Richard Brautigan

The moon

is Hamlet

on a motorcycle

coming down

a dark road.

He is wearing

a black leather

jacket and

boots.

I have

nowhere

to go.

I will ride

all night.

Trick or treat?

Help yourself to some fun-sized goodies: Alexander Calder’s handmade circus (it’s on display now at the Whitney!), spiders’ superb interior design skills, tired impressionist girls you could dress up as in a pinch (top knot + night gown + dramatic fainting), and maybe the most legendary-ever skeleton costume (of course, a mom made it!).

Spookily,
Bridget

P.S. Who’s your favorite pumpkinhead? Forward this email to them!

The old Whelmed on Tinyletter was the girl in the back of the classroom. She hid Johnny Cash’s autobiography inside her calculus book, owned a flip phone, and the words online student portal were all Greek to her. She prayed hard for a B minus (and hot damn, she got it).

But Substack is the girl in the front row of the class. One of her hands is working away on her immaculate, color-coded notes, and the other is perpetually raised. Omniscient, polished and slightly infuriating, she founded a networking club that nobody asked for.

The seating chart may have me plotted in the front row this year – but I’ve skipped class twice this week. Here’s what I’m scribbling in the margins.

Passing notes

“Oh of course I imitated every writer I fell in love with, in sequence! Embarrassing but necessary!” – Molly Young on the very topic of voice

“When I bought the expensive watercolor paper for the bird, I touched each sheet like I were in a silk shop. The clerk watched me too long, and I’m sure she thought I was unstable, or worse, pretentious. She was probably right. But then again, that’s part of the transaction. You can’t buy real paper without also buying the story of yourself as an artist.” – My latest art crush, Estee Zales, recounts her August creations

“POLISH PRINCESS” – The XL T-shirt I couldn’t resist at a recent Milwaukee garage sale. I’m now repping a beloved fraction of my heritage at bedtime.

“In many ways, she theorized, junk journaling is a reaction to the impermanence of digital life. These journalers, many of whom are young enough to have lived entire lives online, have seen firsthand just how transient social media memories can be: platforms shut down, accounts get deleted, photos wither on a camera roll.” – The NYT’s feature on junk journaling

“All I’d really want to say is, you’ve fucking got this. Keep going! Don’t cut bangs!” – Mara Hoffman’s message to her 18-year-old self

“I fear that we won’t stem the deluge of bad news any time soon. But I do think we can build small dams with our own wonder in the meantime. Sometimes, I am a beaver gathering Christmas decorations in an attempt to clog the hallway, sometimes I am a beaver scientists consult to mitigate wildfires.¹ Most of the time, though, I’m just stumbling into ‘wow’ just when I most need it. I hope you are, too.” – Telling everyone I know to add Emily Gielshire’s newsletter to their own dam of wonder right now!

Letter of Recommendation: Frederick

It’s my pleasure to recommend “Frederick,” a 1960s children’s book about a gray field mouse, for permanent placement on your bookshelf. While his fellow mice are busy stockpiling nuts, seeds, and sensible winter supplies, Frederick is also at work, gathering something rarer: the colors of autumn, the warmth of the sun and the memories that will carry his pack through the long winter ahead.

What sustains us isn’t always tangible. When his family’s resources dwindle and winter drags on, it’s Frederick’s supplies – imagination, poetry, and beauty – they rely on.

I picked up this book to build out my collection of babysitting bedtime books for friends’ kids. Loving its message and curious to read more, I looked up the book’s author, Leo Lionni, and found his life just as compelling. A deeply artistic kid, Leo came of age under Italy’s fascist regime and witnessed the destruction of books and musical instruments. He refused to do the fascist salute in school and was twice flunked.

“I probably owe it to my first encounters with the political realities of Fascism and Nazism that early in my adult life I reached the conviction that all human acts have social and political consequences,” Leo said.

Half-Jewish, Leo sought refuge in the U.S. in the late 1930s, where he became a prolific ad man. Among many feats, he coined “Never underestimate the power of a woman” for Ladies’ Home Journal. In the campaign’s final ad, he juxtaposed Hitler with Lady Liberty – a tell that even in commerce, his politics guided him.

In the winter of his life, Leo turned to authoring children’s books with the hope of seeding critical thought and creativity in future generations. “Frederick” became not just a story but a mirror of his own resilience, a reminder that our imaginations must be tougher than the times we live through.

I recommend this little mouse without reservation. May he bring color and courage to your shelves and seasons.

*bell rings*,
Bridget

P.S. Know a guy who knows a guy who might like Whelmed? Pass it on! xo

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I got my wish on a recent Monda…

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For many years, Mexico City was at the top of my travel list. So I was ecstatic to book a trip there this past winter with two of my closest friends. In spreadsheets and itineraries, we’d planned each day down to the hour: meals, monuments, outfits, cocktails. 

All that went out the window — literally and suddenly, sick in…

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Ever since I started painting watercolors in the pandemic, I’ve wondered this. Often desperately! A painting can look done without feeling done, and vice versa — a maddening phenomenon.

Then, this past winter, I started cutting up and weaving together some of my watercolor paintings. I learned this from Shaine Dra…

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I’ll bring the inspiration. You’ll bring your favorite art materials, a friend, and some curiosity. We’ll paint and draw ourselves and each other; no rules, no experience needed.

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The lovely staff will open the bar just for us at 2 PM — so join us with your sketchbook and cash for an Old Style. (If you’re able, consider chipping in $10 to thank the staff for welcoming us in off-hours. I’ll collect at the event, no fuss.)

Please comment or message me to let me know if you’ll be there! I truly can’t wait.

Cheers,
Bridget

Like me, for example, every spring, re-teaching myself the difference between an annual and perennial. My pea brain may grasp the concept for the duration of a nursery visit, but not much longer. 

Last May I planted some creeping phlox on my back porch, having already forgotten which category it was in, let alone what the difference meant. When the leaves crisped up in fall’s first few frosts, I assumed it was dead, and stepped over it all winter without a second thought. 

I felt a sudden urge to deal with it on one of the first warm days this year. I reached down to pull the plant from the soil, only to find its roots were deep. And strong. And very much alive. Sheepishly, I tucked the phlox back into its dirt bed.

Delicate purple buds soon emerged. One or two opened. Then a dozen. Then more. My little Frankenstein phlox staged a full-blown comeback. 

I thought of the Bruce Springsteen refrain — everything that dies someday comes back — but realized this plant never died. She stuck out a Chicago winter. She resisted my ignorant attempt to uproot her. Easy to underestimate with those delicate flowers, the thing’s got some fight.

Maybe that’s what defines a perennial: it’s not just something that comes back. It’s something that refuses to die. A tough little motherfucker in disguise.

I do believe that, like perennial plants, writers have a kind of grit that can go undetected. But writing is, to me, one of the most gangster things a person can do: to take your gnarliest thoughts and coax them into a pretty offering. Not because the conditions are easy. Not because you’re confident. Just because it’s what you do, and nothing has stopped you yet. 

Whelmed is a newsletter for stuff that refuses to die. Urgent thoughts scribbled on receipts. Enticing ear worms. Rabbit hole curiosities. Church laughter. Comforting refrains. Paper cups of joy that keep us pushing, pushing, pushing. 

So if you’ve been here before, welcome back, and if you’re new, welcome in. I’m Bridget Gamble, a writer, artist and occasional back porch gardener in Chicago who likes to weave together odd little things. I started Whelmed in 2019 as an experiment in noticing between my outbox and your inbox. 

And now we’re back for another season. Same roots, new buds. 

What’s new?

Mini masterpieces. Future issues will include visual art — sometimes for sale, sometimes just for fun. (You’ll know when it’s time.)

A paid subscription option. Emphasis on option. You’re welcome to keep hanging out for free.

Paid subscribers get:

• Occasional subscriber-only letters

• Freebies with art purchases

• Custom playlists

• And more! 

Whelmed meetups. I’m most excited about the chance to gather off the page — art hangs, sketch walks, maybe even a portrait session somewhere legendary! More soon.

Stitches n scraps

Last week I went to a screening of “Lilly,” a movie about equal pay icon Lilly Ledbetter. Tina Tchen moderated a panel afterwards with the movie’s director, Rachel Feldman, and Sharmili Majmudar, who heads policy, programs, and research for Women Employed. Sharmili said something that’s been echoing with me: Not everybody needs to be a Lilly to make a difference. You can be the friend, partner, child, coworker who stands next to her. 

Speaking of rabbit hole curiosities — my latest is leading me to Cedarburg, Wisc., this weekend to check out Heidi Parkes’ diary quilts. 

Another file in my “uncontainable excitement” folder: Cousin Richie’s character arc. The Bear picks up again next month. 

And because I’ve missed ya, I’m handing you a small selection of songs I’ve loved during the past year. These help me ease into a flow state at my dining room table, window cracked, paints nearby. Let me know what they do for you. And if you forgot about our old Whelmed playlist, here it is; I gave it a run-through recently, and yes, the bops still bop. 

In the next issue of Whelmed

Art for sale, Chicago summer hype, and surprises. 

Thank you for being here. I’m thrilled to be back in your inbox. I promise to work to earn every open!

Till then,
Bridget 

P.S. I once nannied the kids of an English teacher who had an incredible home library. During soccer practice and swim lessons, I devoured “The Mysteries of Pittsburgh” by Michael Chabon, and have dreamt of naming a daughter Phlox ever since. She, for one, would never confuse her annuals and perennials.