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I'm not a "joiner" by ANY stretch of the imagination, have been self-isolating since 1963, spent 95% of high school years in my groovy bedroom, embedded in a denim beanbag chair listening "Harvest" on 8-track or vinyl, but man oh man, at 7 p.m., I'm bolt onto my private patio here on the UWS, hoot and holler and clap, jump up and down like an imbecile, and my neighbors across the courtyard, with whom I've never had contact, come to their windows, wave their arms huge above their heads and shout along. It's oddly moving, even for a jaded Jewess.
Listen. If you voted for him in 2016, you're an idiot. If you support him now and plan to vote for him this year and haven't seen the grave, deadly error of your ways and still don't see how keeping him in office for another fucking four years is the worst thing for the entire fucking planet, I have ZERO time for you. I don't care if you love dogs and french fries like I do. You have to go.
I just defriended someone I have known since seventh grade because of this. I have no "loyalty" in this regard.
My sister and I talked earlier. We text, but her cell is from like 1974 (it's probably housed in a case that weighs as much as she does) and reception in my apartment is abysmal, so we use landlines. She told me an Indian couple named its newborn twins Covid and Corona.
Sis: Yeah, let's name our kid after a fucking disease. Hi, my name is Tay-Sachs.
Me: Nice to meet you, Tay. My name is Sickle Cell.
And it swiftly degenerated into nothing I can "print".
We were still cackling when we hung up. She is the absolute shit.
He looks like absolute shit now, uglier, more florid-faced, desiccated-wheat-haired (if that mess atop his head can even be called hair), white-ringed-eyed, corpulent, and bloated than ever. He looks like a fucking engorged tick (apologies to the actual insect). I hope the reports of him NOT having it are a lie and he suffers the most excruciating demise imaginable.
Just once I want the BREAKING NEWS to be that he's gone. I'll bolt to Broadway, a hop, skip, and pirouette from my apartment and do cartwheels, poorly executed, but cartwheels nonetheless, till my hands bleed, while cheering till I'm hoarse.
Listen. And I'm not even fucking kidding. If Anne Frank, her family, and their annex-mates did what they did for years, and managed to survive for the duration of their time there (notwithstanding their ultimate horrifying fate) without the benefit of constant communication with the outside world, TV, phones, the ability to stick a foot outside just to take a peek around and see, yes, there's a tree, and hello, there's a flower, you can certainly stick it out for the duration. So you can't lie in the sun in Central Park all day. Big fucking deal. Deal with it.
As if the endless Tiger King posts and memes aren't massively irritating enough, now we're going to be bombarded with endless knee-snapping jokes and rip-roaringly hilarious memes about the beautiful tiger from the Bronx Zoo who tested positive for COVID-19.
You won't be original, edgy, or funny. You'll be Fred Travalena on Bobby Van's "Make Me Laugh" and I'll be Jack Nicholson raising my eyebrow so far up my forehead even Joan Crawford and Marlene Dietrich would be green with envy.
And remember: Exploitation of animals is repugnant and nothing to fucking joke about. Ever.
Don't make me hate you.
What the fuck. Would you have discarded a USED CONDOM on the sidewalk when AIDS first reared its ugly head? No? Then why are miscreants discarding USED GLOVES on the sidewalk now? And if yes, you would've discarded a condom on the sidewalk back then, then you were a piece of absolute garbage.
Medical personnel are risking their lives to save the goddamned WORLD, and you're carelessly cavalier about this? How I wish there were a LIFE EXCHANGE program so every willfully ignorant asshole would have to trade in his life for that of a person who has lost theirs.
The "jokes" about Biden's gaffes are aggravating AF and limp at best. If we're on Biden's side, and we MUST be if we not only want but fucking NEED and REQUIRE a new, non-orange face in the White House, then give him something like, oh, I dunno, respect.
How repugnant that those who are bawling over Bernie's withdrawal and intend on not voting, don't care that their petulant selfishness could lead to four more years of an inhuman tower of babble who willfully spews deadly lies, instead of the installation of an actual human who may fumble over some words.
"Challenge": List five things that, in the first few days of lockdown/shelter in place/lockdown, you got all excited about because the time had finally come to start on all those projects you'd been putting off for years, but as the days turned into weeks, you acknowledged someor most of them weren't going to happen as you binged on Netflix, Hulu, and/or everywhere/anywhere else, and now as we're nearing a month, you've out and out said, perhaps aloud, oh fuck it, these seven "junk drawers" can wait for a rainy Sunday in 2021. (This is a beach and "unexplained" photo-free zone.)
This morning I used my 23-year-old 7-quart Kuhn Rikon pressure cooker to make a cup of plain millet. I hadn't used it for a while and thought perhaps something would be wrong with it. But when it was done cooking and I removed the lid, revealing millet that was fluffier than I'd anticipated, and a lot of it!, I shouted with all the glee of Archimedes, although I think "Eureka!" was replaced with "Yay!" Ordinarily I'd say I was "inordinately" excited over something this small, but given the current circumstances, I'd say it was juuust the right level of excitement.
I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. I miss the goddamned gym. That is all. This really fucking sucks.
My neighbors just across the way, a guy/girl couple from what I can tell, whose back-facing apartment faces my back-facing apartment, appeared at their window at 7 p.m. with a saucepan and clanging utensil, a first for them. I was on the patio already but dashed inside, grabbed a small red frying pan that I'd set aside a while ago to be placed on the front stoop for someone to take (common here), and bolted to the patio. We waved our pans in the air in acknowledgment of our joint additions to our repertoire. I love you, NYC. And them.
Okay, so you all have to stop with the insidious Facebook "quizzes". Do you really need to know that as a male, you'd look like Leonardo DiCaprio even if, as a female, you look like Gladys Kravitz? Do you need to be told, for the umpteenth time, that, yeeeup, you are indeed an introvert? Enough already.
As an antidote to that rampant foolishness, tell me three food and/or drink items that you would "kill" for during quarantine. Mine would be TaB, fries, and the vegetarian combo platter (which includes lots o' kasha) at Veselka (accompanied by Hysteric Bore, of course).
My neighbors just across the way, a guy/girl couple from what I can tell, whose back-facing apartment faces my back-facing apartment, appeared in at their window at 7 p.m. with a saucepan and clanging utensil, a first for them. I was on the patio already but dashed inside, grabbed a small red pan that I'd set aside a while ago to be placed on the front stoop for someone to take (common here in NYC), and bolted to the patio. We waved our pans in the air in acknowledgment of our joint additions to our repertoire. NYC, I love you.
Movies, The Dick Van Dyke Show, Better Things, and the occasional other show thrown in for variety. Stuff so I don't have to think or do any "work". So I can stretch out on the almost-as-wide-as-a-twin-bed sofa under the weighted blanket, a quart "refrigerator bottle" of water and a glass on the little table by my side and sometimes a can of Coke Zero or Diet Pepsi. My phone. My cat. I just want to be warm and comfortable and cocooned.
This was me pre-pandemic and it's me even more so now. Am I bored? Absolutely not. I never am.
I spent way too much time researching/comparing non-dairy chocolate chips online, putting them in my "shopping cart", even getting so far as the checkout, but not quite pressing SUBMIT or SEND or OKAY PLEASE SEND ME THIS STUFF THANKS. I try to pretend I don't care that some of the chips were processed on equipment used to process milk, but deep down I care because that means milk was in the room and there's no way they could rid the room of the grossness and sadness. This helps, though, in narrowing it down. So now there's that. Verdict: Obsession reactivated.
My brother and I were texting this morning, but texting is slow and inefficient here thanks to a poor signal, so I told him to download WhatsApp. Several minutes later, he used it to video call me. Neither of us could get sound on the call. I signaled for him to hold on, opened a blank Word document on my computer, typed, "It says your sound is muted," reversed my phone screen, held it up to the monitor for him to read, and called him back using my landline. It felt like mixed-media performance art. We've never felt Old Jew-ier.
I'm sick of this pandemic, as everyone is, so I need to stop writing about it. I need to stop thinking about assholes who aren't wearing masks, about my best friend in Philadelphia who's one of those people, who railed against a supermarket cashier who was just trying to do her job and who probably gets more grief than most people on a regular day and had no patience for my friend so suggested she not come into the store if she had a problem with the way the store was running things. I have to focus elsewhere next month.
My landlord, who I really like, who lives above me but left the city for his New Jersey house at the start of the quarantine (he's 80, has COPD, and is in a high-risk category otherwise), just called and told me that workers needed to come through my apartment and out to my patio to do something with a vent, part of a project that started a while ago, that has a "due date" of May 1. Three guesses what my first three words were to him. SPOILER ALERT: He agreed with me wholeheartedly and it's not going to happen.
Doctors, nurses, orderlies, everyone on hospital staff. EMTs. Grocery store workers. The sanitation department. Truck drivers, UPS, FedEx, USPS, and anyone working to transport stuff from one place to another. Police and fire personnel. Animal rescuers. The delivery people riding bikes to bring you your pizza. Never mind all of these people putting themselves out there. Never mind their bravery, even though many of them don't want to be thought of as brave. Those with the bravest faces are the vaunted celebrities who dare take to the social media streets to show themselves without makeup. Bravo. You deserve an award.
I have "officially" not left the premises in 30 days after returning from a run around 7:30 a.m., 22 March. The hardest part of this for me, other than not going to the gym, is not getting to smoosh dogs or just say "Hello, puppy!", if only quietly under my breath if I don't want to distract a dog on his or her walk. To that end, please share a photo NOT of your workout, because with few exceptions I don't care what you're doing workout-wise, but a photo of your dog (or cat or any non-human animal). Thank you!
Lola and I have a routine vis-à-vis her breakfast. I collect her bowls and bring them into the kitchen (she's been eating in the main room, where it's warmer) and she follows (or often precedes) me and asks, "What's for breakfast?" which she occasionally mispronounces. Here is an example of how it plays out.
Me: Hash browns. And French toast with maple syrup.
Me: We don't do sausage here.
Her: Real maple syrup?
Me: Of course. Is that okay?
Her: Sausage would've been nice.
Her: Is it sourdough?
Her: Is it --
I occasionally get a little dizzy and feel like I'm sort of not "in myself", like I'm floating around inside the skin suit, trying to fill in nooks and crannies, to tuck myself into toes and fingers, but am bouncing around inside my chest, stomach, and throat before settling in completely. It's rather unsettling, because of course I instantly think something dire is wrong with me instead of maybe a crash in blood sugar because I forget to eat. Let's see how I feel after I eat the pasta and homemade "sausage" and sauce. The pasta can't boil fast enough.
(continued from 4/25)
... the rear-view mirror.
I have not left my apartment here on the UWS since 22 March except to step out onto my private patio that has NO ONE ELSE NEAR IT. It's been 40 days, and I'll stay inside another 40 and then another 40 and then, guess what, yup, another 40 before I even THINK about leaving for someone as nonsensical as a fucking haircut or a manicure. This coming from someone who "lives for" strutting around the city all dressed up in vintage outfits. Do I miss that? Hell, yes. But hey, I kind of value life more.
It truly boggles my fucking mind that anyone gives a damn about haircuts or hair color or manicures or any of the trappings of vanity now, when all we should be giving a damn about is MAKING SURE WE ARE SAFE and that everyone else is too.
For over two decades, I've been going to the gym six to seven days a week, first thing in the morning. But if tomorrow Cuomo said, "Hey, guys! Let's reopen the gym! It's fine now!" no way in hell would I ever consider going back until this goddamned horror was way, way in ...
Hey, guess what? The virus, that pesky little bugger, doesn't care if it's a "beautiful day" outside. If you absolutely must leave home for a little exercise, fine, okay, do so within the same suggestions/directives indicated waaaay back in March (gosh, it was so long ago!), but what the hell is this clusterfucking crap, with all kinds of myopic nimrods hanging out on blankets in Central Park or on Christopher Street Pier, like all of a sudden the deadly virus that is shrugging its silly shoulders, like, "Nah, I'm good. Never mind, everybody. Oh, and um, Happy April Fool's! LOL!!!"
Stop kidding yourselves. Post-pandemic, people won't improve. The same jackasses who think the world revolves around them will still stomp and shuffle along the sidewalks as if they own them and not move aside to allow others to pass. The same slobs who think those same sidewalks make for a great substitute for trashcans will still blithely discard anything in their hands. People aren't moving aside even now with "social distancing" and tossing used gloves and masks onto the ground and being ruder than ever online, so why does anyone think these assholes are going to care, regardless of situation?
The people who have always been considerate and realized they're not the only people on the planet will still stay to the right when passing others on the sidewalk, stairs, or wherever they happen to be walking. Those who would never even dream of dumping garbage out of their car windows in the Target parking lot will still dispose of it properly. But the people who have never given a shit, who no matter still think the planet is their personal playground and they have the "freedom" to do whatever they want without repercussion, nope, they're staying the same too.
You can post all the inspirational memes written in italicized fonts, the "beautiful" essays, the treacly poems embracing "kumbaya", talking about how we're all in this together and how this is the wake-up call we've needed, but the awful, cough-syrupy, hideous reality is that people aren't going to change. Indeed, this pandemic is bringing out even more ugliness, even more selfish behavior, even more holier-than-thou horror than before, peeling off rubber masks revealing something even more stupendously ghoulish and self-centered. The people who need to change will never just don't think they have to and will be proud of it.
Last night, fearing the two sweet potatoes from my recent Misfits Market box were going to spoil, I microwaved them and refrigerated them to use today. This morning when I sliced into them, I found they weren't fit for human consumption, so I Googled to see if they're okay for birds, found they are, diced half of each, and set that out on the patio table in a pet food bowl, because I detest food waste. I just hope the birds don't care that they weren't baked in a casserole with mini-marshmallows and cinnamon. I mean, it's May, not November.
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