Sheltering, Week Two

Sheltering in Place 2020, Week Two

It’s amazing how quickly we can go from looking like fairly well coiffed citizens of the milleneum-  gingerly stepping our way through the twenty-first century with our smarty pants smart phones tucked into our pockets- to becoming characters from the once wildly popular Clan of the Cave Bear- you get the point even if you're not familiar with the text: proto-Neanderthals.

The preponderance of really bad hair days for just about everyone over the age of fourteen that I pass on the streets these days is astonishing. It’s like those fairy tales we love but in horrible reverse: princes quickly turning into frogs, princesses to unruly-mopped hags, not the other way around, the way it's supposed to end. . . . My shocked, hopeless sense of diminishing beauty at these dishevelments helps me deal with my own hair issues, since these pauvre miserables are nothing more than mirrors. I try not to obsessively check myself out in store windows. Without our regular trims, cuts and restylings, it’s a jungle of flying feathers out there, to say nothing of those blatantly naked roots that are making a sizable portion of the population seem a tad more "mature." Oh, the things we took for granted!

I’ve also began considering with riveting interest my increasingly frightening looking toenails, and the therapeutic effects of podiatry that we carelessly assumed would always be there. And while we’re at it, if we cannot shop (even if we don’t always buy), why live? I mean, what does this say about us as a people??

On the other hand, families of all ages, locked together in irreversible quarantine, are taking quaint, afternoon strolls together, acting a tad awkwardly as if they’ve just met. There are so many parking spots available on the avenue that it looks like a scene from the 1940’s. And once people have gotten used to conducting all their daily business, working, learning, teaching, shopping, banking, agonizing, leisuring and worrying online, they actually look a lot less crazed (screen over exposure notwithstanding). No getting up at the crack of dawn and fighting traffic. No waiting in line at the post office. Time for a second cup of coffee, even if you don’t drink the stuff; it’s the idea of it.

And if the news becomes too much, you can say “no” to the media!!! Well, maybe it does require some professional help. . . . Their egregious exploitation of the situation (like that Amazon price gouging for generic, bad smelling hand sanitizer of spurious origin) the cable  fear mongering is plain shameless. A daily and nightly horror show about truck morgues, tents outside hospitals and pleas for sanctuary in churches, scenes you can switch off with the right kind of therapeutic intervention.  

My favorite headline today had to do with the police making fewer arrests, along with another ominous story alerting readers to the fact that “jailhouse doors are open.” So far though, I have not encountered any psychopaths in prison suits rampaging through the streets.

Unfortunately, I can’t even seem to read. Those slick, Brit sleuths with the clever intonations do provide a modicum of relief, but the hypnotic, soothing effect of gorging on BBC mysteries doesn’t endure. At the moment my husband is “relaxing,” watching a series about the French resistance and the Nazis. Amid the sounds of machine gun fire, summary executions and brutal interrogations from the next room, all I can think about are microbes.  And a line from Macbeth, “Nature seems dead;” I’ve updated this thought to “the neighborhood seems dead.” Nature on the other hand is much too alive, especially in the realm of microbiology. . . .

Whole days are spent strategizing about what tasteless, non-perishable meals to assemble in order to boost the immune system while conserving the nutrition stash.  I’ve taken to purchasing profuse amounts of broccoli so this oft maligned (though strangely long lasting) veggie can now while away its days in my fridge instead of hopelessly lingering on market shelves, daring you to cook its sorry looking "flowerettes." Five or six previously vigorous red peppers are aging and withering before my eyes because I felt compelled to remove them from their shiny, colorful shangri’las in the produce section and throw them into that dark place at the back of the fridge. 

There is one encouraging blip of salvation on the horizon. Although the first batch of brownies (after decades of forgoing baking) was indeed a rock hard disaster, the second try was sincerely edible. Now I'm planning a third attempt, just to see if I can perfect the recipe. And if I have to sample a few to make this pronouncement, well, then so be it.

Sheltering in Place

Sheltering in Place, a 2020 Survival Guide

The streets are empty, 

the stores full,

though not with the kind of “paper”-

you pull.

As the days wear on

sidewalks are crowded,

but you’re eyed with suspicion,

(and please don’t doubt it).

Is it me? Is it him?

Did someone clear a throat?!?

Oh to live in a castle

and pull up that moat!

The news, the news will certainly tire us

as surely as that nasty virus.
With stores and gyms and salons in fear
looks like it might be a bad hair year.

Predictions are dire-

don’t wanna expire!

No handshake, no kiss,

my fantasy is this:

To sail away from all those germs

and do it on my own sweet terms.

But I’m not from the royal classes,

And so must suffer with the masses.

Suggestions and ideas abound

of ways this boredom to get ‘round:

An online class in history?

Or better, Masterpiece Mystery!!!

A glut of murders and Inspector Detectives

just may quell these sad invectives-

a crime, a victim, a hero, a rogue,

all with that lilting British brogue.

So before you think of object touching,

Skip the tactile, and happy watching!

(and if these lines seem somewhat lazy,
like you, I'm slowly going crazy. . . ).

State House Blues

I just found out- while innocently checking my phone messages- that my “social security number has been used for fraudulent activity;” They are contacting me from "The Department” as in this is The Department calling (which department? Is it a department store??) to let me know I “could be arrested” and need to get back to them (presumably with all my personal identity information) before it all “goes to the state house. . . .”

The state house???  Sounds like something from a mid-century noir in black and white about “the Big House,” visions of George Raft arduously, frantically swimming away from Alcatraz as he takes a bullet smack between the eyes. Is this truly to be my fate??? Is this what shopping at Bloomingdale’s has wrought?? I’ll admit retail therapy has its downside, but prison???  I’ll say this for the phishers, they know their movie history alright, regular film buffs they are!

The day before that I was cautioned about my “auto service contract;” apparently it was up for renewal, and I’d better see to it faaaast- even though I cannot recall ever having signed on for such a service.

Earlier in the week the important message of the day was relayed in a language I do not speak, perhaps Chinese, and there was loud music playing in the background that I similarly did not recognize; these I have gotten on a regular basis, ironically reminiscent of the entertainments of a century past, specifically a game show called “Name That Tune.” In truth, I was completely stumped, had no idea what the song was called, though no doubt I will be given the opportunity to try again. Apparently I am a favored contestant.

I suppose one of the benefits of “going to the Big House” (after a brief trip to the “state house”) will be that I no longer have access to a phone and therefore cannot receive, check for or listen to these messages.

What I really want to know though, is how come these guys on the other end of the line are not in “the Big House” themselves. . . .

Yup, we gotta send these punks right up the river to the hoosegow before they get their hands on another rube or put some patsy behind the eight ball. Listen sister, I’m knackered from these calls, so maybe we just collar some stoolie, get the canary to sing, and make sure these hooligans never get outta the stir! They’re a bunch of dirty, double crossing rats.

I’ll “state house” ‘em. . . .

Say your prayers, mugs.