REPORT A PROBLEM
Okay, so who wants to come over this afternoon to watch "The Owl and the Pussycat" with me and Lola, while eating homemade crackers (they're baking as we speak!) and curried chickpea salad (made yesterday!) on the sofa, even though it's going to be 84 degrees today and that means the virus has gone away and it'd be totally fine and/or dandy to have a big picnic in the park for at least four hours with everyone and their mother and their father and their brother and their sister but not their grandmother or grandfather because that's just too risky?
Everyone crying about their "freedoms" and defiantly disregarding the directives, literally taking to the streets, armed and often maskless, needs to be rounded up into one state -- after those abiding by the directives, who clearly have a will to live and aren't selfish twats, are evacuated and relocated in other states -- around which a wall will be built, since no doubt they're MAGA-hatted "Build that wall!" chanters/shriekers, where they can be free to do whatever they want, never to leave their new community devoid of medical care because this is a hoax, free to infect each other, and eventually perish.
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY to anyone who "identifies" as a mother. Even the fathers. And those without offspring but who tend to other people as if they were. And those who call themselves the mother of their non-human companions.
Hey, if you have a plant and call yourself the plant's mom, Happy Mother's Day to you. If you don't have your own children but are taking care of your mom as if she's your kid, Happy Mother's Day to you too. If you've named your tits and call yourself their mother -- well, no, that's taking it a bit too far.
This evening I received a rather comprehensive email from Equinox ("It's not fitness. It's life.") about how the gym will be operating upon reopening. My initial reaction, which will probably be my ultimate one too, is that I'll be taking my "show" to the streets and parks, including the reservoir, instead, using my own dumbbells, kettlebell, and other stuff at home. The cost of two months of membership can go toward the replenishment of running shoes that'll get worn out faster on pavement than on the treadmill, and I'll still save shekels in the long run. No hilarious pun intended.
When this horror is in the rear-view mirror, I can't wait to wear clothes that aren't squishy or insanely comfortable, to feel my waist against a belt, my feet against shoes, my legs against a dress, my entire body against the bulk of a coat (because as much as I hate the thought, I do think it'll be coat weather by the time I leave the house). I can't wait for the jangle of my keys in my hand, the checking and re-checking of "phone/wallet/keys" before striding toward Broadway on my way to do nothing in particular, anywhere in general.
My pledge to you vis-à-vis my Facebook page: No graphs, no statistics, no charts about the virus. No images of Tr*mp's hideous mottled face, neck, hair, hands, bloated corpse of a body and/or sounds of the polluted babbling bullshit brook that is his voice. No "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE" hyperbole. No "We're all in this together". No "prayers". Ever. But plenty of food, outfits (if/when I wear them), and animals doing cute things, even if it's just sleeping, including, of course, my cat.
Also: Any and all filthy language welcome, but calling it "potty mouth" will make me hate you.
As much as I'd love to visit once this horror has been beaten to a pulp and I leave home again, no way in fucking hell will I use any mode of transportation other than my own feet for the foreseeable future. As much as I love strutting, strolling, striding, and many other modes of walking, I won't be crossing state borders. But here, within NYC, I'll gladly slip my feet into one of my many pairs of shoes or boots and self-propel toward a face-to-face meeting in the fabulous flesh, thrilled, as always, for the magnificent freedom of legs.
This afternoon I put together a half batch of oatmeal raisin cookies. I use metric measurements when baking. I didn't realize until it was too late that for some reason the conversion for the oats, from cups to grams, was way off, so instead of using 1-1/2 cups I'd used 3. I baked some anyway, trying to convince myself they were fine, but they weren't. I tossed everything. I wrote to the person on whose blog/site I found the recipe. Nobody else mentioned this error in comments. I detest waste, especially of food, so this saddens the fuck outta me.
Sometimes I go to friends' pages and see some truly moronic shit about the virus, including comments, often long-winded, about cockamamie conspiracy crap, and I hightail it back here like a bat out of hell to my own page where I know it's safe because I don't have patience for imbeciles and don't associate with them, either online or off. But on the off chance you're still a Facebook friend and secretly believe any of that jive bullshit, and find yourself nodding along thinking, "Yeah, Bill Gates ... " or "I knew Hillary was ..." you've gotta hit the road, jackass.
Listen, I'm as vain as they come. And although I'm sociable and polite and enjoy people on a case by case basis and often engage strangers while out and about, I'm a lifelong misanthrope. As of this writing, I haven't left home in seven weeks. But when I eventually do, when I know there will be people around, I'll wear a mask or scarf as directed. As is my fucking duty because as much as people annoy me, they still deserve to live (with a few exceptions).
So, no mask? No friend. I don't care how long I've known you.
Pretend there is a link to a clip of today's meltdown in response to an Asian female reporter, whose question was deemed unfit by the orange imbecile, and who summarily dismissed the next female reporter. I won't post a link because it would contain an image of that misshapen blob of rancid, mottled Play-Doh masquerading as his face, and I vowed never to show that mess here again.
It should be the unwritten/unspoken protocol that whenever this craven, cowardly ogre pulls this obnoxious shit, each successive reporter asks the same question, even if the last one doesn't get an answer.
Inevitable glut of COVID-19-related lawsuits when this horror is behind us = Deluge of work = I still won't be leaving the house. But at least then it will be my choice.
And yes, I know it's my choice now, but the best choice. There's no reason for me to be out and about acting like it's February. Now is not the time for me to be dressing to the twelves or even just the nines for a casual neighborhood stroll. If I did, it'd be for essential errands. But right now nothing is more essential than staying super-fucking-duper safe.
I am not much of a "woowoo" person. There are a few exceptions, which I won't go into here, but I regard astrology, horoscopes, tarot cards, and any other sundry stuff as poppycock best left to "parlor games", to be taken with a grain of salt the size of Mount Rushmore. But I do have a sort of mantra, "This too will pass," which yes, I created and is original, and I get through "these trying times" by making a small adjustment, as follows:
"This [sack of useless festering offal] too will pass [away, hopefully after long and excruciating suffering]."
"I'm not living in fear." Ahhh, yes, the battle cry of those "God-fearing folks" who think their "freedoms" have been trampled upon, who, while proudly clutching firearms, refuse to grasp that their red-faced shouts of "My body, my choice" have nothing to do with their bodies and everything to do with others'. Stop conflating vigilance, prudence, and compassion for others with fear.
A response of "So don't go" to someone who thinks reopening beaches by Memorial Day is beyond foolhardy is about as reasonable, logical, and adult as saying, "Am not/am too!" by the swing set. Grow the fuck up.
"I'm not living in fear." Ahhh, yes, the battle cry of those who think their "freedoms" have been trampled upon, who, while proudly clutching firearms steadfastly refuse to grasp that their rabid, red-faced shouts of "My body, my choice" has nothing to do with their bodies and everything to do with others'. Stop conflating vigilance, prudence, and compassion for others as fear.
A response of "So don't go" to someone who thinks reopening beaches by Memorial Day is beyond foolhardy is about as intelligent, responsible, and adult as saying, "Am not/am too!" by the swing set. Grow the fuck up.
Yesterday evening and this morning, I cleaned up my patio even more, clearing out one area that's been cluttered with stuff I should have discarded eons ago. Now I can jump rope and hula hoop out there like it's 1974. Next up: I turn my yoga mat into a hopskotch grid/board/whatever it's called and affix a detachable handle to my Swiss ball to convert it into a Hippity-Hop. Although the patio is a good size (roughly 10 x 15), it's still not enough room to use my Britney Spears quad skates with the glittery red wheels. But I will survive.
But -- but -- but Jodi, what if when this thing is behind us, we learn from credible sources and not some hokey idiot on YouTube that the social distancing and masks and staying home and all that stuff was for naught and we could've all been having a big circle jerk cuddle "sesh" sleepover party for the duration?
Well, then, fine. But better safe then sorry, right? Just like if we eventually find out that, nope, Xylitol isn't deadly for dogs and, nope, the second Darin on Bewitched was better than the original. But I'm not holding my breath.
If you're ever having a day where you've feeling okay about yourself, thinking you've got stuff relatively under control, (notwithstanding the pandemic, natch), but all that newfound positivity and self-respect just doesn't feel right, and you need to bring yourself back down, I suggest shaking out your keyboard and, if possible, prying off all of the keys, one by one, to see why it's been acting up, particularly with respect to that recalcitrant space bar that's making you typelikethisfuckdamnit.
Nothing will bring back your self-loathing with more expediency and urgency, and perhaps even spike it above your baseline. Trust me.
I cleaned it up a bit and popped the keys back on, even though the bright light I'd trained on the whole shebang for a few horrifying seconds revealed that it would never pass any white glove test. I recommend this bright light thing as much as I recommend observing your skin in a magnifying mirror under fluorescent light.
I was tempted to share a photo of what lurked beneath the keys but tossed the dusty, goopy, what-the-hell-IS-that mess in the trash before I could do so. I figured one of us thinking I'm a slob is more than enough.
I cannot even watch him (I don't even have to say his name for anyone to know who I mean). The few clips I've seen recently *literally* nauseate me, and I feel like a hand is gripping my viscera and twisting it in ways I thought only possible by the most wrenching of physical illnesses. When he is finally gone, either voted out in November (and thus really gone in January) or by breath leaving his bloated, heartless husk, I will dash out into the street and let out a scream *most* primal. I get giddy just thinking about it.
The so-called President didn't wear a mask when touring the Ford facility today. He "joked" that he think he looks better with it on, that he wore it "over there" (off-camera) but was now "giving a speech", and walked off. When a reporter asked Mr. Ford if he could confirm that he doesn't have to wear a mask, Ford said, "It's up to him."
Really? Okay. Got it. I'm going to start saying "Ford you" now any time I would have used my usual favorite four-letter F-word, since that's what this response is from Ford. A big fat "Ford you."
I won't be going to a restaurant any time soon, but once we can congregate more freely with friends, I may break "protocol" of not having more than two people at a time in my home and invite several over for food 'n' stuff on the patio. It'd be potluck, vegan food only, although of course non-vegans would be welcome. I can comfortably seat six outside and uncomfortably seat 6,000. If you were one of the five (I'm not giving up my seat for anyone; I only do that on the subway I won't be riding), what would you bring?
Status check/update, 23 May 2020:
1. He's still alive. (Boo)
2. I still hate all of your avatars. ("Sorry")
3. I have not left the premises since 22 March and am still not "bored" or stir crazy. (Yay)
4. I have delicious chickpea salad in the refrigerator for lunch. (Yum)
5. I am on the last season of The Dick Van Dyke Show and am already anticipating missing it. (Waaah)
6. Lola is still made of Velcro and still loves me. (???)
7. I highly recommend PEN15. (Hahahahaha/LOL)
8. I knew it was Saturday without having to ask Alexa. (Wahoo)
Does the shit have to hit your own personal fan before you start to give one? If that's the way you conduct your life, if that's your belief system, if that's the way you wake up, face yourself in the mirror, and then face the world as you're out and about, then fuck you to hell and about. You've heard of "Don't ask, don't tell", right? Well, no mask, go to hell.
This isn't about you. The world does not revolve around you. But what you during this pandemic has an impact on the entire world. Wake the fuck up.
Today is Memorial Day. No one in my family, that I know of, was enlisted, drafted, or fought in any way, so none of them need memorializing today. But for those who were, were, and did, who fought for our freedom, I have the utmost respect even if I'm a pacifist.
Think of those people who fought for our lives, often losing theirs, when you refuse to wear a mask, claiming your freedoms are being trampled upon. Think of those people who did this so YOU could be safe. And wear a mask for that reason as well. No excuses.
"My house, my rules." How hard is that for people to understand? If you belong to a Facebook group and don't like the rules and don't want to follow them, there's the so-called door and don't let it hit you in the virtual ass.
I have several friends who require the removal of shoes when entering their homes. I don't love it, because footwear is an important outfit component. So what do I do when invited to their homes? I remove my shoes. And when I leave, I put them back on and admire the fuck out of my footwear.
Gotta love how the mottled mess of molecules masquerading as a President cites "perfect weather" as one of the reasons why the Bidens wouldn't need to wear masks outdoors on Memorial Day when they were out doing the sort of things a President should do in honor of the occasion instead of playing golf, maskless, natch, like a degenerate. They didn't wear masks inside their home, he said, so why do so outside? What fools!
Because the virus is lovely that way, you see, and when faced with sunshine and blue skies says, "Nah, I'm good. Have a nice day."
An easy way to show you're not a hateful, virulent, racist fuck that requires almost zero effort, costs you absolutely nothing, doesn't need you to draw a sign and hold it above your head, but still makes an enormous statement, loud and clear, is to call out and shut down racist "jokes" as soon as they show they rear their ugly heads and open their filthy mouths or come from what I call the "finger-breath" of typed form. These jokes are never funny, always offensive, and without a doubt damaging, horrifying, imbecilic, and cause nothing but humiliation, pain, and suffering.
If you can truly manage to still be offended by the word "fuck", especially in these recent horrific days, you need to ease the fuck up on clutching your pearls so hard lest they snap clear from your neck, fall to the floor, and you trip on them and fall to the floor as well, really fucking yourself up. If "fuck" can get your tits in a tizzy that easily, please, for the love of fuck, get a grip, on those pearls and beyond.
(Note to the "Tell me how you really feel" brigade: Zip it. Fuck off. Etc., etc.)
Little Donny Dipshit scurries down to his bunker, earning himself the nickname Bunker Bitch in addition to Bunker Boy, lights are off in the White House, while the dimwit's bulb has been out for decades. Hiding his face from daylight so when he emerges it'll be even whiter than the house in which he lives (but hopefully not past mid-January). It's like Hallow'en and the douchefuck has devoured all the Kit Kats, has whispered for someone to turn out the lights so he can pretend he's not home. We see you, though, asshole. And soon you'll be seen in hell.
A police horse was injured during a riot in Dallas. That that angers, saddens, and disgusts me doesn't mean the rest of the horror doesn't do the same. I can be incensed and horrified and other words too numerous to include about George Floyd and still be incensed, horrified, and more about a horse too. It's not one OR the other. No "Yeah, but ...". Don't debate me on this. Yes, I like all animals more than most people, but that doesn't mean I want people suffering. Ever. (Unless it's 45. But that stack of shit is subhuman, so ...)
The Tip Jar